by L V Chase
There aren't any windows, and the walls seem thick enough to block any sound from outside. So, I don't hear anything else before the door to my cell finally opens. Dad appears at the open doorway.
"Come on." He jerks his head down the hallway. His face is tight, his jaws clenched.
I'm surprised he showed up himself. I stare at him for a moment, trying to figure out why he'd come to the county jail. Even now, he's glancing about the cell with a sharp frown. He steps backward, as if afraid that he'll get contaminated.
"Grayson," he says.
I shrug and stand before following him out of the cell. A uniformed officer waits for us.
"Chief," Dad says with a tilt of us his head.
"Follow me," the pot-bellied officer with balding, gray hair replies.
We make our way through the corridors. I can sense the eyes watching us. It's not the usual crowd. Mostly other cops. A couple other men in street clothes getting locked up, from the looks of it. I realize that they're watching Dad, not me. His posh business suit, probably worth more than what anyone here makes in a year, is out of place.
We finally make our way to the front exit. Dad pauses and turns his head to me.
"Don't say anything to them," he says.
I raise an eyebrow. When the doors open, I understand what he meant. There's a wide set of stairs that lead from the doors to the street level. A horde of reporters and cameramen greet us with shouts and flashes of bright light.
"Lawrence Voss!"
"Mr. Voss!"
"Grayson Voss!"
The cries and questions blur in the background. I walk straight ahead, next to Dad, to the waiting black Range Rover. I recognize the driver, Hank, who opens the back door for us. I go in first, and Dad turns to address the swarm of microphones and cameras behind him. He raises his hands to quiet them down.
"My son is an innocent scapegoat, nothing more," Dad says. "Any and all false accusations will be met with the full force of legal retribution. That is all."
The shouts rise up quickly, but Dad gets inside and shuts the door. Hank swiftly rounds the car to get into the driver's seat. We leave the county jail.
"Took you long enough," I say while looking out the window.
I already know that Dad's going to bitch at me. I can practically smell the fury seeping off of him. Dad takes a moment to close the privacy partition between us and Hank, which is surprising. Usually he doesn't give a damn what his personal staff sees.
"You fucking idiot!" Dad snarls as he whips his head towards my direction. "A murder charge? A fucking murder charge? Do you realize how much this is going to damage our name?"
I scroll through my phone for new messages now that I have a network signal again. "You and I both know that I'm not the one who touched Diana."
"Who?" Dad asks, his anger momentarily flustered with confusion.
"The girl that died. Her name was Diana." I continue looking through my phone.
"Give me that!" Dad snatches the phone out of my hands. "I don't give a damn what her name was. You need to focus on what's important, not trailer trash whores. All you do is think about those bitches? What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"With me?" I frown. "You're asking what's wrong with me here?"
"You little bitch—"
Dad tries to smack me, but I catch his arm by the wrist. I let him feel my strength for once. He scowls and rips his arm away.
I turn to face Dad. "You're the one that gave me the school project in the first place." I pause, not sure if I want to go further. Fuck it. "And, by the way, do I need to point out who's the one who ended up marrying your so-called trailer trash? After you already had Mom?" I shake my head. "You're the one that's always been obsessed with those types of girls."
Dad's face turns dark red. His eyes blaze with anger, but he bites down hard.
"Fine," he says. "I'm man enough to admit it. I made a mistake. I left your mother because I thought I was in love with Trisha."
I make a half-hearted laughing sound.
"I already told you I made a mistake. That...neurological disorder blinded me." Dad's voice isn't as harsh as it just was. "Look, Grayson. I'm trying to spare you a world of pain and regret. I didn't know back then what I do now. It's not just about us. It's about them."
"Them?"
"Yes, them. Women from poverty. They don't ever change. They keep the same mindset—that they're victims, that they have to claw their way for something better, that they can never be satisfied no matter how much they have. I couldn't accept this, that I, a Voss, would never be enough, as ridiculous as that sounds. Grayson. Think about it. You'll never be enough for their desperate greed. It's why you have to cut them off sooner rather than later."
Is he talking about divorcing Trisha? I'm not convinced that Dad isn’t just spouting bullshit to make himself look better. He could have cut off Trisha years ago. He just wants to make sure that she'll suffer the most when he does.
Yet I can't shake the feeling that there's some truth to what he said. Cin has that hunger, that drive to always go for what's beyond her reach. I'd admire her for her ambition, but what if that ambition has a dark side? No, Cin isn't like that. She isn't.
Dad slaps me on the shoulder, gently. "The past is the past. Focus on the future. We need to take care of this ugly little issue."
I nod. "I know I'm innocent. It shouldn't be hard for someone to take care of the case." Even if I was cleared in the end, a court case would drag the company's name through the mud for months or more. I doubt Dad wants that. "Can you take care of the charges?"
"I can." Dad smiles. It's a fake, predatorial expression. "I can make sure that you never see the inside of a courtroom. But..."
I hide my frown by looking away. Dad almost sounds like he's negotiating with me. "But it'll cost you," I finally say.
"Right. I'd have to pull in all the favors I can. That's a lot of political capital. Of course, I wouldn't hesitate to do this for you, Grayson."
Yeah right. He's doing it to save his company's name, not me. I just listen to his lies without replying.
Dad makes a small coughing sound. "You're eighteen. You're a legal adult now, so I'll just need you to sign something for me."
There it is. This is what Dad actually wants. "Sign what?" I ask.
"A company contract. Standard terms. Non-disclosure agreements. Non-compete. That sort of thing."
Non-compete? Is he afraid that I'll jump ship to Writing on the Wall? He's trying to shackle me, legally, like I'm one of this drone employees. The fuck? Is he going that far to cover his ass? Is he willing to cut me off?
"I don't work for you," I reply. "Why the hell would I sign a contract with you?"
"Because I asked you to." Dad smiles again. "It's Cinnamon Reeves, right?"
I turn to look at him again. "What?"
"See? I do keep track of the names when they matter. And I know that she's your weak spot. Am I right, Grayson?"
I turn away slowly, staring back out the tinted window. I don't bother replying.
"Just remember. I could make her life much more difficult."
It's his only real leverage on me. I clench a fist as I hold myself back. If he touches Cin, I would tear everything down. The company, him, everything. But I don't want to let on just how important she is.
We ride in silence for several more minutes. The Rover slows down. I look out but don't recognize where we are. Hank doesn't get out to open the door. Instead, a woman approaches on Dad's side. She opens the door and takes his place. Dad moves to the front passenger seat.
Dad lowers the privacy window. "She's your tutor. Nikki, was it?"
"Natasha," the woman on my right says. She has sleek blonde hair that reaches past the middle of her pack. Her face reminds me of a fox's. She's young, pretty, and dressed in a shimmering silver dress that's more suited for clubbing than teaching.
I assume that this means I won't be going back to Roman Academy until the whole legal mess is sorted ou
t. I ask anyways.
"I'm not going to school, then?"
"No," Dad replies. "Natasha will take care of your lessons from now on."
"Hi, Grayson. It's a pleasure to meet you." Natasha holds out a hand to me. Her smiling lips have a glossy pink sheen to them.
"Right." I don't shake her hand but that doesn't seem to bother Natasha.
The privacy window is still open, and I can see Dad glancing backwards furtively. Natasha hasn't bothered to buckle her seatbelt. She scoots over until she's nearly in my lap.
"You poor thing," Natasha says as she slides one arm behind my neck. "I heard you've had a rough night." Her other hand settles onto my thigh.
Tutor, my ass. It's so fucking obvious that Natasha is one of Dad's trained girls. She's what Dad would have had Cin turned into.
"Really?" I call out to Dad, but he pretends that he didn't hear me.
Natasha's one hand on my shoulder starts massaging the muscles around my neck. "Here. Let me help you relax," she says.
I pull her arm off me and point to the empty seat on my right. "You sit over there. I'm fine by myself."
Natasha's face scrunches in confusion for a moment. "But..."
Dad growls something under his breath, and Natasha sits up straight for a second. She forces herself to smile.
"Oh, I get it. You need something a little more...?" She smiles suggestively as she leans over me until her head is on my lap. She tugs at my zipper with her fingers. The heat of her body against me awakens a hint of hunger, but the whole situation with Dad in front watching is so fucking messed up that I quickly lose whatever interest I might have had.
"Fucking hell. No! I'm not in the mood." I shove Natasha off me.
"Grayson," Dad says once.
Natasha leans closer, stopping before touching me when I glare at her. She whispers in a hurried breath. "I can swallow all of you. You can come down my throat. You can—"
"I told you to fuck off!" I shove her, harder this time, back into her seat.
"What's wrong with you?" Dad snaps. "You're still hung up on that bitch of yours? Grayson, Jesus, be a man. Don't be such a whipped little pussy."
I'm not interested in dealing with Dad or any of his bullshit right now, so I say the one thing I know will make him leave me alone.
"Fine, I'll sign your stupid contract," I say.
Dad turns to look at me, his face expressionless. "Good."
He turns away, then raises the privacy window. Natasha glances at me again, but I scowl at her, which scares her off.
We ride the rest of the way back home in silence.
3
Cin
Snow covers the campus like a blanket of dead ash. The mood here's changed since Grayson’s been gone. The same people who would have chosen to chop off their own hand rather than piss him off have found the courage to talk shit about him now that he isn’t here.
I sit across from Jay and Ally McCulloch, staring out the window at the snow-cloaked football field and fitness building. The pizzeria is across the road from the fitness building, only serving as a reminder of when I’d hated, doubted, and given over all of myself to Grayson. I don’t know which moment highlights my foolishness the most.
“Cin is more of an expert in that,” Jay says, knocking his knuckles against my arm.
I turn towards him.
“What?”
“Restaurant culture,” he prompts.
I rest my head on my hand. “Why would I be an expert at that?”
“You said you worked as a waitress when we were talking about still life food presentation,” he says. “Ally and I were just debating whether wait staff see themselves as comrades in arms or competitors.”
“We just want to get paid and not ripped off on tips,” I say.
I should contribute more to their conversation. Jay coaxed me out of my dorm room after a month of burying myself in classwork and my art to avoid the rumors about the impending murder trial for Diana. He probably thought immersing myself with people and being outside of campus would kindle some kind of enthusiasm in me, but I don’t feel anything.
Well, except for the rise and fall of adrenaline whenever I think I see Grayson, but it turns out to be a stranger. Suddenly, everyone has his same dark, disheveled hair. Everyone has the same broad body shape. Everyone looks like him, but once my heart rate falls back to a normal pace, I recognize that they look nothing like him. My head is so fucked up from everything.
“That makes sense,” he says, rearranging the fork and knife beside his plate. “How’s your project coming?”
I blow out air. “Well, it’s good that the competition’s deadline has been pushed back. If one good thing came out of this murder trial, it’s that it involves Trisha’s stepson.”
“What?” Ally asks. “Trisha Voss?”
“She’s one of the judges for the Daniel Comstock Art Award,” Jay says, his shoulders tensing. He’s waited so long for this competition, and it’s been pulled a little farther away from him. “Considering Grayson’s legal issues, they pushed back the date of the assessment. When you’re a Voss, they work around your schedule.”
I turn back to the window. The wooden bars separating the glass panes of the window cut through my reflection, remind me of prison bars. My brain reconstructs everything into reminders of jail now. I’m a warden of condemning men to jail—first, Damian, who wants nothing for me but pain, and, now, Grayson, too.
As a crowd of girls passes outside the window, I see him. My focus had jumped between campus and the window, but now he stands out like a shiv in a prison. The fact that I didn’t notice him before must mean something is wrong with my head.
It’s Eric. He’s leaning up against his car, watching me through the window.
Eric’s been following me around lately. He’d started carrying an unlit cigarette around, alternating between sucking on it and flipping it between his fingers. It was him, his cigarette, and those dead eyes tracking me everywhere I went.
He’s pissed. Grayson is his closest friend and his connection to power. He must blame me for Grayson being arrested. He wants to intimidate me. From the rumors that circulate around him, his MO is all about terrifying women.
I stand up. “Excuse me, Jay.”
“What?” He glances at me, taking in my tensed arms and cold eyes. “Uh, sure.”
He slides out of the booth, and I dart out. I barely notice my feet hitting the ground before I’m out the door. I intend to prove that I won’t be Eric’s next helpless victim.
He’s still standing in the same place when I reach him. I throw my hand up in frustration.
“Let me be clear,” I say, stopping when our shoes are nearly touching. “You’re not going to scare me away. You’re nobody compared to the people in my neighborhood. Just standing around, staring, isn’t going to do shit to my confidence. So, stop wasting your days and nights stalking me and find a goddamn hobby that doesn’t include your buddy.”
He surveys me carefully, tapping his cigarette against his thigh. “I’m not trying to scare you. I didn’t know just standing around was supposed to be threatening. Actually, that’s a lie. I knew you might get spooked. Funny, huh?”
“It’s a lie because you’re a liar,” I say. “Just stop following me around.”
“Can’t do that.”
“You will,” I say firmly.
“I’m not saying that I won’t stop—I’m telling you that I can’t,” he says. “Grayson told me to keep an eye on you, and he’s pissed enough lately that I’m not going to question him.”
Grayson’s name skewers me, sharp and searing.
“Why wouldn’t Grayson just tell me that?” I ask.
“Not my place to say,” he says. “Even if I knew. I’m not going to risk pissing him off, not with the way he is these days—"
He stops, something behind me catching his eye. His fingers fidget with the cigarette faster, and his jaw clenches. I look over my shoulder.
The Assistant
DA, Brady, is standing outside the pizzeria doors, talking on his phone. He turns, noticing me. He waves at me. I wave back.
I’d always seen Grayson and his entourage—especially Eric—as unfazed by anything, so assured by their status and money. But one of the most powerful people in law enforcement in this city causes Eric to shrivel with anxiety. I suppose I’d be pissing myself too if rumors were circulating that I’d committed sexual assault, I’d put somebody in the hospital, and the Assistant DA appeared while I was stalking a woman.
I turn back to him. “Nervous, Eric?”
“You need to go home, Cinnamon,” he says, looking back at me, but his fingers are still frantically playing with the cigarette.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Damn it,” he scowls, sticking the cigarette in his mouth. It bounces up and down as he talks. “The fact that you never listen isn’t cute. It’s annoying.”
“That’s rich, coming from you,” I say, crossing my hands over my arms. “You don’t seem like the type to take orders, either. Why follow Grayson?”
“Other than the fact that his family could murder me?” he asks. “Because of my tragic backstory.”
“Which is?”
He smirks. “I’m messing with you. Not everything needs a reason.”
He glances past me again. I follow his gaze. Brady is gone. I look through the window. I don’t see him inside.
“Go inside,” Eric says. “Have fun with your little friends while you can. A shitstorm is coming.”
He leans against his car again. I don’t want it to seem like I’m obeying him, but it’s getting cold, and his warning doesn’t sound like a lie to scare me into submission. It’s someone relaying a casual fact.
“Tell Grayson to fuck off,” I say.
He pulls the cigarette out of his mouth. “Tell him yourself.”
I turn away, returning to the pizzeria. As I step inside, the warmth slams into me, almost making it hard to breathe. I spread Eric’s words in my head, trying to decipher what it all means.