Muscle

by Lexi Whitlow

  “So entered,” the judge says. “Bailiff, please take possession of the items and tag them.”

  “Prosecution rests,” the DA says, returning to his seat in front of us.

  The judge peers over her glasses at Bolton and his team of attorneys, who are whispering among themselves.

  “Mr. Bolton, would you like time to prepare a cross? Or are you ready to do it now?”

  Bolton stands to address the judge. “Your honor, we’d like to call a brief recess to confer with our client.”

  The judge produces an almost cruel smile. “Why not?” she asks. She slams her gavel down on the desk. “One hour.”

  The district attorney immediately turns back to Winter and me. “They’re going to try to negotiate a plea deal. What do you think?”

  “What does that even mean?” Winter asks, watching her mother as she walks past us, down the center isle of the courtroom.

  “They’re going to try to plead guilty to a lesser charge in exchange for ending the trial.”

  “No,” Winter says. “No way.”

  That’s my girl.

  “If you press ahead, and the jury is sympathetic to him, he could walk away,” the DA warns. “This way we at least get something.”

  “Absolutely not!” Winter insists. “No!”

  The DA shrugs. “Okay,” he says, gathering his files, placing everything inside a leather folio on top of the desk. “I’m going to go make some calls. I’ll see you back in an hour.”

  Winter turns to me, question in her eyes. “Should I… should I go talk to her?”

  I squeeze her hand, “Do you want to?”

  She swallows, and I see her eyes begin to pool with long held tears. She nods.

  “Come on then,” I say, standing, helping her to her feet. “Let’s go find her.”

  Chapter 27

  Winter

  I look like her.

  My father never talked about her, except when he was angry with me, saying I was just like her—and not in a good way.

  She’s standing by the window on the other end of the corridor, speaking with a man who I’m guessing is her husband. He’s got his hand on her elbow, as if he’s trying to comfort her. He looks up and see’s us. His eyes warm. He smiles, then says something to her.

  She turns toward us.

  Her eyes say more than words ever will. She’s stricken with grief and guilt. The regrets she carries are chiseled into her face. Deep worry lines plow her brow, turning her pale lips down.

  We exchange words but they’re meaningless and fleeting, lost in the overwhelming emotion unraveling between us. The sound of her voice rings like a memory of a dream. I know it, even if the words she speaks escape me.

  For a moment or two all I’m aware of is the way her embrace calls me back to my childhood. Her scent is the same. The touch of her hands on my back. The texture of her cheek against mine is familiar. I remember her carrying me to the pool and dressing me in a little yellow skirt for a birthday party. I remember her in sunglasses and floppy hats on the beach at the base of the cliffs below our house.

  I never ventured down to that beach again after she left. There was no one to take me.

  All the things I forgot, and all the things I missed come flooding back. I find myself crying into her arms, weeping uncontrollably.

  “It’s okay, honey. I’m so sorry. I’m here. It’s okay. I love you so much. I never stopped. Oh, my beautiful baby….”

  She holds me forever, smoothing my hair, soothing me with that same, sweet, sing-song voice she used to sing me to sleep with. I’d forgotten…

  “Oh, Mama…”

  Before we can even begin to gather ourselves, the hour has swept by like a flood and we have to go back into the courtroom.

  “Sit with us,” Gates says to her, sliding his arm around my waist to steady me. “When this is over, we’ll take more time. But for now, come sit with us.”

  The district attorney takes his place ahead of us, then turns back to update us. “Bolton offered a plea. I refused it. If they rest at this point, it goes straight to the jury, and I don’t expect it’ll take them long to arrive at a verdict.”

  When the judge comes back, and proceedings start again, the judge asks Bolton if he’d like to cross-examine my mother’s testimony.

  He stands. “No, your honor. However, I would like to request that the material entered into evidence by the prosecution following Mrs. Sayers testimony be excluded. One of those documents is sealed, and the rest are copies of unverified reports that have no direct bearing on this case, may not be complete, and were never followed up on by either the authorities or the accuser. They could be fabrications for all the court knows.”

  The Judge nods. “So ruled.” She peers over her glasses at Bolton, a wary expression animating her bright brown eyes. “Anything else?”

  He shakes his head. “Defense rests, your honor.”

  The jury is given their instructions. I see several of the members of the pool glance toward me on their way out of the courtroom. I hope that’s a good sign.

  While we’re in recess, my mother and I have a few more minutes to talk.

  I introduce her to Gates. She says she already knows him well, through his role in Hearthfires and other projects. “I started paying attention to you as soon as it came out you and Winter were together. I follow your Twitter and your Instagram accounts.”

  We talk about the baby, and living in Richmond, and my work. She tells me she owns a bunch of my prints that she’s bought online.

  I don’t know why, but it never occurred to me that she even knew I existed, much less that I was a photographer, or that she’d buy my prints. I thought she just walked away and forgot about me.

  “You had a good life as far as I could tell,” she said. “I knew if I showed up, it would complicate things with your father. I didn’t want to put you in that position. Then this happened. Then I found out you were pregnant, and I learned about all the other things he was involved in. I contacted Drew Ransom to learn when the court date was, so I could be here.”

  “Thank you.” That’s all I know how to say.

  She folds my hands inside hers. “I didn’t want to force myself on you if you didn’t want to know me, but I also wanted to back you up. I wanted the jury to hear it from me that he did this to me too, and that you’re not lying.”

  I start crying again and I don’t stop until it’s announced that the jury is returning. They’ve been out less than an hour.

  It goes just as we hoped. To a person, each jury member judges my father guilty. All that’s left is for the judge to impose sentencing. That will happen in a separate proceeding, and frankly I don’t care to be there when it happens. California has mandatory minimum sentences for felony assault. He’s going to jail. That’s all I care about.

  A couple of deputies take custody of my father, putting him in handcuffs, then escort him through a locked door at the front corner of the courtroom. He’s going to jail and I’m going home to Richmond to get the nursery ready for the baby. I have everything to look forward to, while my father’s life is falling apart, thanks to his selfishness, his sociopathic behavior, and his greed. He’s right where he belongs. If the FBI has anything to say about it, he’s going to be there a very long time.

  In one respect I’m almost grateful for how all this came about. I’ve got my mother back.

  I don’t know if I can forget that she left me with my father, but I can forgive her, I think, in time. She’s all I’ve got, and I need a touchstone as I learn how to be a wife—and a mother, myself.

  That may never have happened without this trial.

  Chapter 28

  Gates

  I feel my blood pounding in my temples. Every nerve in my body is on edge. My collar is too tight. My jacket is stretched across my back. I feel every thread of this tightly starched tux shirt biting into my flesh. Winter grips my hand so tight it almost hurts. She’s as anxious as I am.

  “And the wi
nner for best actor in a drama series is…”

  The tension in the auditorium is so thick you couldn’t cut it with a diamond blade saw.

  “… Gates Vaughan!! For his role as serial killer Anthony Peter Shade in the breakout hit Downfall!”

  Holy shit!

  The whole place comes down on my head. James Dennon, Downfall’s writer and director flings himself at me, as does Grace Flynn, my co-star, and all the rest of the cast and production crew who are here.

  I can’t believe I’ve won an Emmy. It seems impossible.

  Up on stage, under the lights, facing the huge crowd of famous faces, I’m grateful for prepared notes because I have no idea what to say.

  I’m sure I mumble. I’m sure I forgot something. The one thing I know I got right is the last, most important thing I have to say.

  “… And above all others, I need to thank my beautiful, brilliant wife Winter. She’s the best mother in the world to our precious daughter Eliza. She’s my best friend in the world. The best partner any man could ever have. I love you baby. I love you so much!”

  * * *

  I check the Hollywood Reporter website looking for news of the new film. It’s supposed to be announced today, but it hasn’t been posted yet.

  I’ve been cast to co-star in a new Ron Howard film about the Patty Hearst kidnapping, and her brief career with the Symbionese Liberation Army. I’m playing William Lawton Wolfe, one of the founding members of the terrorist group. It’s a great role with depth, and almost as much screen time as the two leads; Jessica Chastain as Patty Hearst, and Common as Russell Little, the leader of the SLA.

  It’s the second film I’ve been signed to this year. The first one is a Gulf War story set in Palmyra as it falls to the Taliban. I’m part of an ensemble cast of well-known Hollywood A-listers. I was lucky to get the role. It probably has something to do with the fact that I can double as a technical adviser on the film, as I was in Palmyra when it fell, and part of the SEAL team there evacuating westerners before the place blew up.

  It helps to know your part.

  While I scan the headlines, looking for news, I see one more thing I’ve been anticipating. Addison Productions has finally been put out of its misery. The catalog of films and television programs owned by the studio was bought by HBO for forty-six million dollars. The sale closed yesterday.

  That catalog is the last asset remaining that didn’t go down with Bill Addison’s ship.

  He was tried and convicted on twenty-odd counts of money-laundering, human-trafficking, racketeering, fraud, tax evasion, and the like. He’s serving a combined sentence of 173 years at San Quinten. He’ll be 106 years-old before he’s eligible for parole.

  Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.

  There have been two positive outcomes to Bill Addison’s downfall. The first is that Winter and her mom have reconciled completely. Winter has two half-siblings and a step-father who love her as much as she’s always deserved. The other is that Hollywood has become a slightly better place to live and work in. Every male director, producer, agent, and actor is on notice. The girls are done taking our shit. All it took was Keira leading the charge against Addison, then a few thousand more women piling on, going after guys who were almost as bad as him and the studios that covered for them.

  Luckily no one has sued me. Given that I play a sexual predator and serial killer on one of the most popular shows made for the small screen, I tend to be very conscious of my behavior toward women and everyone else in real life. I take a lot less for granted about women’s experiences out in the world, now that I’ve gotten deep inside the head of a guy whose entire existence is rooted in victimization as a source of power and pleasure.

  It’s a dark place to go on a daily basis, but it’s fun too, and it pays damn well.

  “What are you doing?” Winter asks, coming up behind me. She slips her hands up my chest, resting her chin on my shoulder. “Are you reading your own press again?”

  I shake my head. “No, because it’s still not out. Sam said it would be out, but it’s not.”

  “Close that computer and come with me,” Winter says. “I’ve got something to show you.”

  She takes my hand in hers, walking me past Eliza’s room toward our bedroom. She keeps going, dragging me by the hand into the bathroom.

  That’s when I see it. The little pink stick laying on the counter.

  Wow.

  The sign in the window is +.

  We’re going to have another baby.

  “You knocked me up again,” Winter says, grinning slyly. “No morning sickness yet. But my period’s late. I figured I better check.”

  Another beautiful baby. My mom is going to be so happy. Winter’s mom is going to be so happy. Margot is going to be so happy. Hell, I’m so damn happy!

  I pull Winter to me, slipping my hands around her waist, leaning down to kiss her. Her lips are soft like summer peaches, and sweet. I nip her lips, teasing her tongue. I feel my cock stir with the near proximity of her and her scent in my nose. After two years of marriage and a baby, Winter still takes my breath away and make me hard at the hint of physical contact.

  “Eliza’s gone to the park with her nanny. They’ll be gone at least an hour,” she purrs. “What do you say we get in a little practice before they get back?”

  “What do you want to practice first?” I ask her, sweeping her off her feet, into my arms, moving toward the bedroom.

  “Practice getting me pregnant,” she giggles. “After I come at least three or four times.”

  I toss her on the bed, crawling in on top of her. “That’ll be my distinct pleasure, ma’am,” I say, peeling her shirt over her head. “Let’s warm up first.”

  I love Winter; she’s my favorite season. I love making her hot and listening to her moan my name between clenched teeth as she comes underneath me. We practice those moves a lot, but I never get tired of the drills, and she never gets tired of digging her heels into my ass, scraping my shoulders with her nails every chance we get.

  I’ll never cool to the way we make one another feel. I’ll never get over falling in love with her again, every single day we’re together.

  Epilogue

  Gates’ Mom is crushing it as birthday party entertainment. Watching her make animal balloons with the kids, I understand how he turned out like he did—so generous, so earnest, and so damn self-assured. She’s probably the coolest grandma in the city, with her purple hair and colorful bangles, her bell-bottom jeans and clingy, custom embroidered t-shirts. Her smile lights up the room.

  She gave Gates her smile and her warm, confident attitude, and Gates has given those same traits to our kids, in spades.

  Today is Eliza’s tenth birthday, and every kid from her school’s entire fourth grade is here, along with half the third and fifth graders. Eliza’s a popular girl. It helps that her daddy’s famous, and that every other mom at the school along with most of the teachers and staff, harbor not-so-secret crushes on him.

  Who can blame them?

  I’ve got the sexiest husband in Richmond, and in Hollywood. He plays war heroes, criminal geniuses, spies, super heroes, and sometimes he even plays sexy dads. No matter what he plays at work, he always comes home to me, Eliza, and Drew. At the end of every day, he’s here to play for us.

  Gates is still my hero, after more than ten years together, two kids, a television series and eleven successful films. No matter what he’s working on, no matter how long the days, he always manages to end his with me, asking me how my day went, what I’m working on, and what’s on my mind.

  When he’s working in LA or on location somewhere distant, he still flies home every weekend to be with us. When Eliza and Drew are on summer break, we’re with him wherever he is. We’ve turned the Gates and Winter Show into a family enterprise. He shows up at my gallery openings to draw the crowds, and I’m his biggest cheerleader on Twitter and Instagram. He posts my photos on his account. I post my photos of him on mine.

&nbs
p; We’re a celebrity couple, I guess. I never really wanted to be in one those. But being in a couple with Gates makes everything different—and better.

  We have a lot of crossover fans. My father might even approve of how we’ve managed to cultivate that.