Release Me If You Can

by Christina C Jones

  There was a brief moment of clarity, while she was still weak from her orgasm, when a little voice told her to try to get out while she could. But… then Kendall stood in front of the bed, moving with that silent, lethal confidence that Inez revered as he stripped off his clothes. And… dios mío, he had plenty to be confident about.

  Instead of kicking him out, like she wanted — but didn’t want — to do, she scooted up, retrieving a fistful of condoms from her bedside table. He chose one, and Inez watched as he opened and put it on. She expected him to join her again on the bed, but instead he pulled her up, then picked her up, wrapping her legs around his waist to carry her to the edge of her dresser.

  He pushed inside of her just as a new objection formed in her mind. The protest was buried under the exquisite pleasure of being filled with him, in a swift, sure stroke that took her breath away. He plunged into her again, and tears formed in her eyes, for no reason other than it felt so good, and it had been so long, and really… really, she wanted Kendall so bad.

  “What are we doing, Ken?” she asked, choking out the words between strokes.

  Kendall chuckled, hooking her legs over his shoulders. “Exactly what we’ve been wanting to do for the last five months.” He leaned in to kiss her then, devouring her mouth with a hunger and passion that she gave right back. She slipped her tongue into his mouth, starving for his, ravenous for him. Inez pressed herself against his chest, not caring about the perfume bottles and other knick-knacks that fell as they shook the dresser. If they were doing this, they were doing it, and she drew back, pressing against the mirror as she scooted herself closer to the edge. She didn’t care about falling, only cared that he went deeper.

  When he finally released her legs, he wrapped his arms around her waist, tugging her close so that they were skin to skin, both slick with sweat. Inez draped her arms over his shoulders, burying her face in his neck as pressure began to mount between her legs.

  “So this is just sex, right?” she whimpered in his ear as he gripped her butt, lifting her off the dresser.

  “You want me to lie to you?”

  Inez squeezed her eyes shut tight, digging her nails in his back as he stroked her deeper, faster, harder… “Yes.”

  “Okay,” he muttered, carrying her back to the bed. He laid her down, giving her an unexpectedly sweet, passionate kiss before moving inside her again. “Then yeah. It’s just sex.”

  — & —

  These people are completely crazy.

  Renata pushed her laptop away from the edge of the table, then crossed her arms, laying her head there instead. She had headphones on, and the sounds of Terry King and his illicit deeds played in her ears. The recordings Quentin had found were proving to be a gift and a curse.

  A gift, because the worst of King’s misdeeds weren’t in any of the emails they’d found, and apparently, Wolfe was smart enough not to put his crimes in writing — unlike some of the smaller, less organized criminals they’d uncovered through those correspondences. Wolfe’s most major things were chronicled in the recordings. It was obvious that he really thought he and King were friends, because many of the things he spoke to him about were very personal.

  And therein lied the curse.

  Renata, Quentin, and Naomi had spent days listening to those recordings, and each mention of her mother fueled Naomi’s belief that Noelle may still be alive. She kept emphasizing that she never saw her mother’s body, and that the funeral had been closed casket, that Wolfe had referred to her in that video as if she were still alive.

  And Wolfe himself wasn’t helping anything.

  Since that video of him killing Tomiko, he hadn’t insisted on another video call, and he’d only briefly spoken to Renata. The calls were suddenly limited to her speaking with Taylor, and Renata strongly suspected that he knew he’d messed up by mentioning her mother, and was trying to avoid being trapped into speaking to her on the phone.

  In any case, the more they listened to those recordings, the more evident it became that — at least in his mind — Damien Wolfe was very much in love with Noelle Prescott, and very much hated his half-brother, Nelson. More than once, there was mention of having him “taken care of”, but apparently, Noelle’s insistence always made him call it off.

  Renata stopped listening to those. They made her feel badly for Wolfe, which disgusted her to no end. After what he’d done to her, sympathy was absolutely something he didn’t deserve, so she decided to listen to the ones not marked Wolfe, to see what — if anything — else she could uncover instead.

  Problem was, she was tired. Listening to these horrible people talk about horrible things was draining enough, but the night she’d had with Quentin just made her exhausted. Physically and emotionally.

  For the first time since that incredible first night they’d shared, their attempt at sex did not go well. She’d had one too many glasses of wine at dinner, and they all caught up to her at once, while they were in the act. It hit her hard, reminding her of the woozy, vulnerable, unable to say no feeling of the night Wolfe violated her, and she reacted badly.

  Very badly.

  So badly that she’d worn long sleeves today, to hide the bruises on her wrists from Quentin having to restrain her from hurting either of them. So badly that she didn’t even remember inflicting the ugly raised scratches across his chest, but she knew she was the only one that could have put them there.

  And still… when they woke up the following morning, there was no regret in his eyes. No signals that he wished he’d never gotten himself involved, that he was unwilling to deal with her “baggage”. He’d simply kissed her, morning breath and all, and asked her if she was hungry.

  She broke down and cried, and he held and rocked her through it, and shrugged when she told him she didn’t understand him. “You don’t have to understand,” he’d said. “Just accept it.”

  It being his seemingly steadfast dedication to loving her through the dark places. And apparently, feeding her through the hungry places, because he was upstairs now, fixing them lunch. Renata closed her eyes, allowing the sound of King speaking to someone who apparently handled some of his personal business to lull her to sleep.

  Her eyes shot open at the mention of the name Diana. And the word pregnant. She’d not heard him ever mention any women before, but the thought triggered a memory… King was rumored to have abandoned a pregnant wife! They’d never gotten anywhere with it, because they couldn’t find a marriage license, pictures, nothing to offer any clues, but Renata sat up, pulling her keyboard in front of her again.

  She typed in Diana Williams, setting her system to query her database for the name first, and then the internet. Renata drummed her fingers on the tabletop as she waited, and waited, and waited some more, and then finally, results began to pop up on her screen.

  Large monthly payments, deposited directly into a bank account, from Sean Williams to Diana Williams. The payments spanned eighteen years, then stopped. There was the marriage license, Diana Williams to Sean Williams, in the early eighties, and then a divorce decree, Sean Williams from Diana Williams, in the mid-eighties. There was nothing else, no pictures.

  Rubbing her chin, Renata tried to run over it in her mind. After a moment, she ran her search again, this time adding birth name, maiden name, and name change to her query. This time, she got a little bit more, and got excited, leaning toward the screen as her eyes pored over the information. She lifted an eyebrow at Diana William’s maiden surname, telling herself it was no big deal. She kept searching, sifting through data, and then, she found something with Diana’s middle name — Allison. That made her heart race.

  She ran a new search, and there everything was. Pictures, and newspaper clippings, and a birth certificate for a child, none of them mentioning Sean Williams. Renata sat back in her chair, a headache building at her temples as she processed the information in front of her. It didn’t make sense… but… it made perfect sense. Renata felt sick. So, so sick.

  Behind
her, the door opened, and she felt rather than heard Quentin come in. He sat a plate down on the table in front of her, then a drink, but the thought of consuming anything turned her stomach. Quentin was talking about… something, but Renata understood nothing he was saying. After a moment, he seemed to realize that her mind was elsewhere, because he kneeled in front of her, concern filling his eyes.

  “Ren? What’s wrong chérie?”

  Renata shook her head, unable to formulate words as tears sprang from her eyes.

  “Hey,” he said, cupping her face in his hands. “Baby, talk to me. Why are you crying?”

  His concern was almost too much to handle — made her discovery so much uglier than it already was. How was it that Quentin, who hadn’t even seen her face until three months ago could love and care for her this damn much when… “Terry King.”

  Quentin lifted an eyebrow as he cocked his head to the side. “Yeah… what about him?”

  Renata closed her eyes, trying to stem the flow of tears as Quentin raised his hands to her face to brush them away.

  “He’s my father.”

  Those words hung in the air for a long time, seeming to resonate through the room. When Renata opened her eyes, Quentin was staring at her with open skepticism.

  “Ren… what? Why would you think that?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think it, Q. I know. It’s right here. Sean Williams, married to Diana Williams. Maiden name, Diana Parker. Middle name, Allison. After the divorce, while she was pregnant, she went back to her maiden name, and started going by her middle name. Making her Allison Parker. Allison Parker gave birth to a baby girl. Guess what her name is?”

  Quentin pushed out a breath, running a hand over his face as he scanned the information on the screen. “He… paid her. Every month, for eighteen years.”

  “Yeah, I never would have known, based on how she always swore she was broke. Only enough for the basics while she drove a Mercedes. Never enough for me to get nice clothes, while she wore designer. Because she hated me, because I reminded her of him. Because he left her.”

  Renata tore her eyes away the screen. Suddenly it made so much sense. The mental and emotional abuse, the constant disdain, the unexplained bitterness… Allison Parker had placed all that hurt, and anger, and abandonment at Renata’s feet. All of the emotions she wished she could take out on her deadbeat father…. In his absence, Renata had taken that abuse instead.

  Nausea swept her stomach, and tension built in her shoulders as the full weight of the realization that Terry King was her father hit her like a brick wall. He knew she existed — he’d paid her mother thousands of dollars every month for her care. And yet… there wasn’t a single picture. His name was absent from her birth certificate. She’d never gotten a call, or a birthday card, nothing from him. Did he know she was still alive? Did he know he had a grandchild? Did he—

  “Oh my God,” Renata cried, clapping a hand over her mouth as she broke into sobs. Quentin pulled her against his chest, trying to calm her down, but she shook her head, pushing him back. “This! This is why me! All this time, I’ve always wondered why Wolfe chose me. Why he did this to me. Why he raped me. This is why! It was no coincidence that he drugged me, and maybe not even that I was at the club that night. He knew who I was, knew who my father was. He was cleaning up shop, against the people who betrayed him. He knew where your dad and Naomi’s dad would be that night. They were trying to sell him out to the FBI, so Marcus’s dad was collateral damage. And… he couldn’t get to King, who screwed him out of millions of dollars… so he got to me. I asked Wolfe, why me? You know what he said? Insurance.” Renata stopped, taking a deep breath as tears spilled down her face.

  “Too bad my father didn’t actually give a shit, right? Maybe this would be over by now if he did. But… I get it now, you know? As fucked up as it is, I understand Wolfe. This… this shit is beautiful. This is poetic. He tries to hurt my father by hurting me, but it doesn’t work, because King doesn’t give a damn about me. So… he regroups. Bides his time. Ta-da, Renata grows up to be of use in a different way. Now, he uses the kid that King threw away like garbage to take his business down.” Renata shook her head, with a dry laugh. “I knew Wolfe was calculated, but… my God. Talk about poetic fucking justice.”

  She allowed Quentin to pull her into his arms again, stroking her back while she cried. She could feel from him that he didn’t know what to say, and really… she appreciated that he didn’t try. There was nothing to say. No words that would make any of this any better.

  Something occurred to her, and she shrugged out of Quentin’s arms, pulling herself into a stand. Pushing her chair back, she headed for the door, and Quentin caught her hand just as she reached for the handle.

  “Ren, wait a second. Where are you goin’?”

  Renata squared her shoulders, cleared her throat, then looked right at him. “I’m going to King Pharmaceuticals. I need to talk to my dad.”

  — & —

  This was a deathtrap.

  No matter how hard Quentin tried to think of something else, that thought kept running through his mind. Not only had he driven Renata to the King Pharmaceuticals corporate office, he’d come in with her, and now sat beside her in the reception area, waiting for King’s secretary to get off the phone.

  To his credit, he was feeling rather shell-shocked. Those recordings had, so far, done nothing except wreak emotional havoc in the lives of two women he cared for deeply, and he almost wished he hadn’t found them. But… on the other side of that, Naomi and Renata were both struggling with their history, both paying — as children — for adult mistakes and misdeeds. Maybe… this was just part of moving forward, and getting past it. Just like Naomi deserved answers about who her parents really were, versus her childhood memories, Renata deserved some answers too. Difference was, her father was alive to ask.

  The receptionist finally hung up, and looked expectantly at Quentin and Renata. “Can I help you?”

  Hands shaking, Renata stood up, and Quentin stood as well, taking her hand to lead her to the desk. “We need to see Mr. King,” he said simply, hoping that confidence would, by some stroke of luck, be enough to carry them through.

  The receptionist lifted an eyebrow. “Mr. King doesn’t have any appointments this afternoon. He’s not available.”

  Quentin suppressed a scowl. He’d convinced Renata to slow down, so they could have at least a semblance of a plan. It was his handiwork that got them through security even though they were both armed, and neither had proper identification. But… getting into King’s office would be a different story.

  “You tell him someone is out here that he’s gonna want to see. That he’d better see.” Renata crossed her arms over her chest, staring the receptionist down, but the woman seemed unfazed.

  “As I said. Mr. King is busy. You’ll have to make an appointment.”

  Renata leaned forward over the desk, getting in the woman’s face. “And as I said: Tell his ass his daughter is here.”

  The receptionist laughed. “You think I’m crazy? This may only be my third day, but I know better. They showed us what his kids look like, and you are not his daughter.”

  Renata smirked. “I’m his other daughter. And I’m real close,” — she paused, removing the gun hidden at her waist, and brandishing it in the woman’s face — “to shooting some shit up around here. Tell him I wanna see him.”

  The receptionist looked down at the gun, back up at Renata, then over to the armed security guards, who were talking to each other instead of looking at her.

  “I can get a bullet through your head before you even get their attention. Just pick up the phone.” Renata smiled, and Quentin did too, moving his jacket back so she could see the gun at his waist as well.

  The woman looked between the two of them, then swallowed hard before she picked up the phone and pressed a few buttons.

  “On speaker,” Quentin said.

  A few seconds later, King’s voice came o
ver the line. “What is it Nicole?”

  “Um… sir, there are some people here to see you. One of them says she’s your daughter…”

  There was silence for a moment, then King asked, “Brooke is here?”

  “No, sorry,” Renata chimed in, her voice bitter. “It’s the other one.”

  Another few seconds of silence passed, then King said, “Send them in.”

  Renata wasted no time.

  Quentin rushed to catch up as she shoved her way through the door the receptionist pointed them to, into King’s office.

  He rose when they entered the modernly designed office, eyeing Renata with interest as she strode to stand in front of his desk. For a long time, they just looked at each other, and Quentin looked between them, noting a previously unnoticed similarity in their features — the same wide, expressive eyes.

  “I… I can’t believe it,” King said, his mouth spreading into a smile. “You are beautiful. You remind me so much of your mother. I never thought I’d get to see you, baby girl.”

  A coldness that Quentin had never seen swept over Renata, and her face twisted into a scowl. “You say that as if you ever tried.”

  “Sweetheart, I—”

  “Don’t you dare,” Renata said, aiming her gun at him. “Call me sweetheart as if I mean anything to you. You don’t get to call me that, you’ve never done anything for me.”

  “Now hold on.” King’s smile slipped away. “I sent your mother good money for you, every single month, before you were even born.”

  Renata snorted. “And I never saw a dime of it. You left, and she hated me, because she hated you. You never sent a birthday card, an email, nothing. You never even called!”

  “If you knew the people I was in business with, you would understand why. They would have used you and your mother against me. I had to leave, to protect you!”