“Had a phone call just as I was leaving,” I say nonchalantly. “Told me I could find my own way out.”
I step into the foyer, but the security guy blocks my path, so before he can say anything, I knee him in the thigh before I grab him by the shoulders and ram his head into the wall, knocking him out and sending him tumbling to the floor. I scoot his body out of the way and open the outer door, walking out like nothing happened.
Outside, the valet sees me and I wave him off. “I took a taxi tonight. They're picking me up a couple of blocks off. You know how it is.”
The valet gives me a nod and I head off at a fast walk, turning the corner before I break into a jog. I don't know how much time I have, and I need to get back to Stanford.
Hopefully, Mr. Robinson takes the hint and leaves Shawnie alone. Still, I need to watch out for her and make sure she's protected. That's going to be hard . . . but then again, I guess I've got the brains and skills to do it.
Chapter 19
Shawnie
“So you can see, one of the biggest constraints that you have to address when you are looking at the design of the cabin of the next generation of airliner is not all that different from the same constraints that have affected designers since the Trimotor rumbled across the skies,” the instructor, a teacher's assistant I haven't taken the time to learn the name of, says up front. Even if I didn’t have a whirlwind of emotions going on inside me, this class is a cake walk and pretty much boring as hell.
“What constraints are those?” Someone else, who obviously didn't read the course notes before class today, speaks up. For fuck's sake, you idiot, it's the next series of slides. Still, the TA, who is obviously happy to get a chance to show off a little from the look on his face, turns and points with a laser pointer to the projector screen up front.
“The first is that you have to make your design stand out. Airlines want to have something that they can point to in order to draw in customers. Your airliner has to fly faster, farther, cheaper, more comfortably . . . something. And if you can somehow make it look cool, that's helpful too. You’d be surprised at how long the Boeing 727 and the 747 have stayed in the skies with customers insisting on flying in their outdated airframes simply because of their iconic looks.”
Class continues, and I tune it out, waiting for the hour to finish up. Thankfully, it does on time, and I get my stuff together, surprised when the TA calls my name. “Shawnie Holliday?”
“Yeah?” I ask, going up to the front of the lecture hall. There's another girl there, a girl named Sally who isn’t someone I've talked a lot with, mainly because she's too busy trying to rail against the evils of the world and bitching about it instead of actually doing anything meaningful. She looks like she's about ready to bitch about the test we got back last time, probably trying to whine her way up a few points to a B.
“Professor told me to give this to you after class,” the TA says, handing over a brown envelope. “He says he got it in the department mail this morning.”
“What is it?” I ask, but the TA shrugs.
“Haven’t the slightest idea. I figured you were expecting something.”
“Nope.” I pick up the sealed envelope, feeling the thickness and the stiffness, wondering what it could be. I slide a finger underneath the flap on the envelope and rip, seeing that inside are a couple of photographs and a sheet of paper. I pull up the first photograph, a small shriek coming from me as I see what it is.
The photograph is perversely beautiful in its own way. Whoever shot it is a skilled photographer. I remember the incident. I'm trussed up on a steel pipe, the ropes digging under my breasts and crucifying me, a spreader bar between my ankles forcing me into a splayed position, unable to even fully support my own body weight. You can see the legs of the man behind me, and you can tell from the way that he's positioned that he's fucking me.
“What's wrong?” the TA asks, and I drop the envelope in horror, the rest of the photos spilling out. Thankfully, in each one I can see that my head's been covered with a black box and you can't get a decent view of the scars on my arms, although in a few, the scars on my legs and body are clearly visible. The TA picks one up and drops it himself as if it were burning hot. “Oh my . . . Shawnie, I'm sorry.”
I can remember the night perfectly, as much as I don't want to, the demon snarling and laughing as it gets unexpectedly freed to run around in my brain a little. It sends me back to that horror, the way the ropes bit in so tightly, and closing my eyes, I can feel them now, the way they squeezed my chest until I could barely breathe. My shoulders ached, my left shoulder on fire from the way I was tied. I couldn’t even lift my arms for two days afterward.
I'm horrified, I'm disgusted, but thank God for the black box over my head, or else who knows what might have happened?
I hear a rustle of the photographs, and I see the TA scoop them up and stuff them into the envelope, ready to throw them away, but I snatch them from him, embarrassed and angry. “No! I’ll get rid of them!”
“I . . . okay, maybe you want to take them to the cops,” the TA says. “Okay, sorry.”
He flees the room, and I stare at the envelope in my hand, at least thankful more people didn’t see the photos when I dropped them. They don’t know it’s of me, but by my reaction, it’s probably obvious.
“Hey, Shawnie,” Sally says, and I remember for some strange reason that she's from Idaho. “You should do something about that.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, turning to her. My legs are shaky, I still need a minute to get myself together, and I can't think of a way to explain why I'm still standing here otherwise.
“Someone used the University's mail system. They violated your safe space. You shouldn't sit back as that sort of disgusting, degrading violence against women is bandied about like a joke,” Sally says, and I can see she's shifting into preacher mode. “The way the misogynistic men who run this university see it, every woman is nothing more than a—”
“Will you please shut the fuck up?” I snap, not realizing what I’m saying and slamming my hand down on the lectern. I don’t mean to curse and yell at her, but I’m so scared and angry that I’m not thinking right.
Sally looks shocked, then indignant, like I ripped a fart in the room and she just caught a whiff. “Wha . . . I was just—”
“You're going to one of the best universities in the country, taking classes that could give you the tools to change the world, but you’re barely scraping by with Cs. Why don’t you fucking worry about yourself?”
I think it's the first time that I’m letting the other side of my life influence me here, the one area where I thought I could be safe, that I could take pride in.
“You bitch,” Sally grumbles, falling back on some of the oldest tricks in the book. “Not all of us can suck our advisor's dick for an A.”
Her words hit home. They aren’t true, but I am seeing a professor, even if I’m not in his class. I slam my hands down on the lectern again, looking into her cornflower blue eyes, ready to slap her.
But I know I’m wrong. I know it’s not her fault, so I leave, anger and frustration and shame and everything mixing together in a poisonous rocket fuel that could probably send me around the world twice. I hit the door leading out of the engineering building, my eyes blazing enough that the undergrad who is reaching for the handle backs up, fear written on his face as he trips over something and lands on his ass. Poor freshmen. Welcome to college.
I'm halfway down the block when I realize that I've still got the envelope in my hands, and I stop, forcing myself to look at it again. Inside, there's a piece of paper, and I take it out to see that it's a note, printed on plain white computer paper.
You embarrassed me, I embarrass you. The next time I give you an invitation to try and make your life better, I advise you to take it. And if you ever, ever try to make me look like a bitch again, you're going to find those photographs all over campus. I was nice this time. I put the box over your head. Next time,
there won't be. If your boyfriend comes by again, a Hi-Def video of him balls deep in your ass is going to be on the campus television station.
I feel like the world is crashing around me, and I look around, my tough words just a few minutes ago forgotten as I feel like everyone's staring at me even if they aren’t. The two guys over there, the one telling the other how much I can take at one time. The girl over there wondering if the rumors are true, that I’m sucking the professor’s cock. All the inner turmoil that I deal with comes flooding in at once, telling me how worthless I am.
I told you. Hide it all you want, but the fact is . . . you're broken.
I'm not.
You are. You're broken, and the only thing you're good for is being a worthless fuck toy for whoever wants to degrade you.
No. No. I'm an engineer. I'm smart!
Not for long. You think Rafe really likes your ideas? Ha ha. He just praised you to get in your pants.
NO!
Yes.
I half walk, half flee to my car, trying not to make a scene of myself, but I'm aware that I'm wearing a regular t-shirt today and my scars are visible, as much an advertisement to the world of what I am as the eponymous scarlet letter. I'm covering my scars as best I can, but they’re deeper than my skin. They go all the way to my soul.
My phone buzzes again, and it's only by habit that I see that it's a text from Rafe.
Got an idea I want to go over with you in the lab this afternoon.
I get to my Miata and feel my stomach clench. This is impossible. I can't go to the lab. I'm not even sure I belong here at Stanford. I hit Reply on the message.
Can't. Sick today.
I send it and shut off my ringer before Rafe can reply, driving to my apartment in a swirling storm of panic and fear. I at least hold the tears back until I'm inside, safe behind my locked door, hugging my knees and sobbing.
Worthless.
Good for nothing.
The words run round and round in my head, and it starts to feel warm and muggy in my apartment. I know that's just my imagination. This is Stanford in late winter, but inside my apartment, it's starting to feel like summer. A hot, humid summer in Georgia . . .
No. I'm not that broken woman. I'm the woman who’s getting her degree in aeronautical engineering. I'm the woman who . . .
I'm the woman who agreed to fuck a group of strange masked men who treated me like a cum rag for nothing other than to sate that need inside me.
I sob, getting to my knees, then to my feet, and head toward my bedroom. I open the dresser drawers, where my club gear is waiting for me.
Stop, I think. Close this drawer, turn around, and tell Rafe. Tell him what happened, tell him what's running around in your head. He'll be able to find out who did this—who helped Mr. Robinson fuck with me.
But I can't. That note, it said something about my boyfriend. I haven't had a boyfriend since coming to California. Rafe’s the closest. And if that video exists, it could damage him too. If I go to him, he's going to try and be noble and maybe get us both in trouble.
I'm sorry, Rafe. I tried to be a good girl, but I'm not. Not anymore. And you're too good, even if you think you're a monster. You'd try and defend me when I'm not worthy of being defended.
My hands are trembling as I war within myself. The rational side of me is saying go to Rafe, that he'll understand, and even if he is angry, he'll at least comfort me. But the demon is saying that what I need right now isn't comfort, but pain. It's pain and a reminder that I'm a worthless woman who needs to be fucked as much as she can before it's all over.
For the first time since Georgia, I black out, and when I come to, I'm already in my club wear, my makeup on, and I'm getting into my Miata. I try to fight the need, but it can’t be denied.
Somehow, some way, I steer toward Club Paradise, but soon enough, I know that I’ll be back at The Club. Danger makes my pussy wet, after all.
I park outside Club Paradise, and I see that I've got a text from Rafe.
Call me. Heard about class. I'm worried about you.
Oh, Rafe. I'm worried about me too.
The door to Club Paradise beckons though, and I get out of my car, walking in the small, ass swaying steps that my stilettos force me into. The doorman greets me with a smile. “Miss Eagle.”
Chapter 20
Rafe
I'm trying my best to stay in control when I knock on Melanie Petersen's office door, knowing what Shawnie did last night. After my claiming of her and a talk with the manager where I wasn't being quite so stern, Club Paradise notified me when she came in yesterday. I didn’t get any details on what she did, but what other reason would she go?
I know a little bit more after Sally Brandeis, who I normally have on Tuesdays, came by my office this morning to complain about being, quote, 'verbally assaulted'. Sally's got her head so far up her own ass that I'm surprised she can even tell if the sun is out or not, but she’s a good enough girl. She just needs to learn how to buckle down and actually work instead of whine.
But now, I'm trying to find Melanie after Shawnie doesn’t pick up her phone. Melanie’s the one in charge of the inter-department mail, and I'm sure she's already had someone ask her about yesterday, but that doesn't mean that I don't want answers myself.
“Excuse me, Melanie?” I say, opening her door. She’s sitting at her desk, her face a grave mask, and when she sees who it is, her mask cracks and a tear trickles down her cheek. “Whoa, whoa, what's that bad?”
“They . . . the Dean said they're launching an investigation into yesterday's mail thing,” Melanie says, dabbing at her eyes. “I think they're going to scapegoat me.”
“Hold on,” I reply, closing the door behind me before going over and sitting down. “Tell me what happened.”
“This morning, the Dean and Professor Tratham called me into the Dean's office. They asked me about the envelope. I told them the truth, that I have no idea what envelope they're talking about. When I went around yesterday morning with the departmental office mail, I didn't even have anything for Tratham. I told them as much, and Tratham goes off on this prepared speech about how he couldn't have done it, that obviously, I must have overlooked something in my duties yesterday . . . I could tell he's trying to put the blame all on me.”
“That's exactly what he’s trying to do,” I reassure her. “You know that old windbag is just trying to cover his ass. He's got six years to retirement and hasn't produced anything worthwhile since before I was born.”
“Yeah, well, he's not the one with two kids and a mortgage,” Melanie says, wiping her eyes. “I'm serious. I didn't do that to Shawnie. I like her a lot.”
“I know you do,” I tell her. “I came by to ask what happened, but Jesus . . . okay, let me talk to the Dean and old Tratham. There has to be a reason behind all of this, and I want to find out what. You know, Shawnie's pretty important to me too.”
Melanie nods, wiping at her eyes. “Thanks, Professor Meyers.”
I get up and go to her door, turning. “Melanie?”
“Yeah?” she asks miserably. She's probably heard people saying they'll help her before, but she knows the deal. She's an admin assistant, and sadly, in the hierarchy of the university, that means she gets shit on a lot, regardless of how much more useful she is than half of the professors.
“Don't worry. I'll get this straightened out. We need you around here.”
I leave her office, my mind whirling at how strong and how visceral my reaction is right now. It worries me, honestly. I told Shawnie that I've struggled to overcome the psychological conditioning that I underwent. But have I really overcome it all? I still don't eat breakfast except for a nutritional shake just like they made me. I still work out like someone preparing for a life of a professional athlete, and I have to intentionally avoid training in the martial arts because I have problems holding back and not dominating the way I know I could.
Years of having my manner and dress drilled into me with military force mea
ns that my shoes are almost always clean, my jeans are spotless, and my dress shirts are pressed and form-fitting. Thankfully, current fashion makes so-called skinny jeans and button down shirts supposedly cool, which I’m very grateful for. But it was drilled into me, and unconsciously, I still do some things the same, so I can’t help but have doubts.
What if the way that I've been with Shawnie is nothing more than a scrap of my breeding program? What if my possessiveness, my desire to find and destroy whoever sent this to her is just part of my conditioning, an instinctual reaction to someone threatening what's mine?
I dismiss the idea. Program or not, it’s just the right fucking thing to do.
The Dean is out of his office, which I'm not too worried about. I want to see Tratham anyway. Having been at Stanford for thirty years now, his office is prime real estate, with a view of the quad across the street and a lot bigger space than what I have. Not that I care, but it feels strange for a man whose greatest accomplishment was before I was born, to have one of the best offices.
“Gene?” I greet after I knock on his door. “Got a minute?”
He looks up, his face immediately clouding. “I figured you'd be coming by at some point.”
“You figured right,” I say, closing the door. “She's on my project team, and she was my TA.”
“Well, the Dean and I are looking into it. In my opinion, I think it was Melanie who just screwed up.”
I roll my eyes, sitting down. “Bullshit, Gene. You know Melanie. She's a pro. She's better at her job than three-quarters of the professors around here.”
“Then who do you think?” Gene shoots back testily. He's never been the type who enjoys having his pet theories questioned. “Don't even start with my TA. Ben's a good assistant, and he was mortified about what he saw.”
“I'm sure,” I reply, trying not to get too sarcastic about it. The story of the photos was already spreading, and there are only two people besides Shawnie who saw them, Sally and Gene's TA. “Who else came by your office yesterday?”
Crossing the Line Page 33