by Kate Stewart
“Then don’t stand by and don’t give in.” A touch of the pride I’ve always known my mother to hold gleams in the glance she gives me. “I may not have been baking brownies for your class or braiding your hair, but surely I taught you how to fight.”
“I can’t.” Tears scald my throat and blur my vision. “I’ve been around and around this, over and over, and I don’t see another way. I don’t want to give in to his demands, but—”
“Then don’t.”
“But I have to help Grip. Leaving him there is not an option.”
My mother’s eyes soften some, and her stern mouth relaxes.
“Then let me help you.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Bristol
“WHERE ARE YOUR bags?” Lust and impatience and arrogance ménage in the glance Parker gives me. “Why aren’t you dressed? I thought I was very clear that I’m in a hurry.”
Parker stands in my living room, outfitted in power and his Gucci suit.
“I’ve decided against it.” I slump on the love seat, a study in lassitude, wearing distressed denim shorts and my Columbia T-shirt. “You go on without me.”
Violence flares in Parker’s eyes before he tamps it down. He’s one of those careful monsters who won’t show his true form until absolutely necessary.
“I’m sure Grip will be sorry to hear that.”
“So you do know his name.” I grin at him, crossing my legs. “He’ll be glad to know. I’ll make sure to tell him once he’s back home.”
“You seem to forget who holds the cards here.” Parker thins his already thin lips.
"I started thinking." I study my manicure before looking back to him. "Maybe I gave in too easily. It's a little cocaine. Grip has no previous convictions. We have the best lawyers. Why should I let a few dead ends stop us?"
"Do you have any idea how easy it was to have those drugs planted during your boyfriend's photo shoot?" Laughter lights his glassy blues. "And if you think I only have one judge in my pocket, you sorely underestimate me."
"Is that so?" I ask noncommittally.
At my lackluster response, frustration flares his nostrils, anger mottles his cheeks. The smug smile dissolves into petulant slackness.
"Don't make me do it." His voice is practically a hiss. "I'll ruin him. Completely."
My heart tailspins behind my ribs at the certainty his words carry. He could do it. There's no doubt. I just watch him, knowing my stoic silence will provoke him. He feeds off fear, and I've turned over his plate. Even seeing his composure fraying, I'm unprepared when he grabs my arm and jerks me to my feet. He seizes my ass, pressing me into his erection.
"This is how I've felt every time we were in a room together for the last ten years.” He narrows his eyes. "I get what I want, and I'm finally going to fuck you again. I'm done waiting."
My mother didn't raise a fool, but I realize in this instant that I have been a fool. I allowed this man to deceive me.
"We didn't have sex." I lean into him, breathing the words over him. "You just said you've been waiting ten years, even though we supposedly slept together that night in Vegas."
That black hole in my memory always felt deeper and darker than a drunken lapse, and I just figured out why.
He blinks, mouth falling open. The prey fights back. He wasn't expecting that.
"You were so determined to get drunk that night." He shrugs. "Adding a little something to one of the Parks’ famous martinis was merely expeditious. You would have passed out anyway. I just helped you along, and you bought the story.”
I snatch my arm from his grasp, indignation rising in me as I recall my confusion, my frustration, my shame that morning.
"You should have fucked me while I was unconscious." I hurl the words at him. "That was your best shot.”
“Really?” He embeds slivers of glass in that one world. “We’ll see about that.”
He shoves me back onto the couch so hard my head bangs against the armrest, and for a second, the pain is celestial, inspiring stars in front my eyes.
He gathers my wrists above my head, one knee thrust between my legs. His face distorts, florid with his rage. Panic takes flight in my chest, flapping wildly around my heart.
“You thought you could give him what was mine?” The words are projectiles, the force behind them throwing spittle in my face. “Let him have you, fuck you and get away with it?”
He balls the collar of my T-shirt in his hands and jerks, ripping the shirt and exposing the wire taped to my bra. His shock-stretched eyes find mine beneath him.
"Should we add rape to the things you've already confessed to?"
He snatches the wire from my bra and crushes it under his foot. Without a backward glance he rushes across the room. As soon as he hauls the door open, he comes face to face with Greg.
Greg looks past Parker long enough to find me, lifting his brows over anxious eyes, silently asking if I'm okay. I nod, gathering the ripped edges of my T-shirt to cover my breasts. Even though my knees are so weak it feels like they’re filled with méringue instead of cartilage.
Parker looks over his shoulder at me, his mouth distorted into a self-assured smile.
"You stupid bitch." He turns his back on Greg, pointing to him over his shoulder. "You think some beat cop can take me down? Even with what you think you have recorded, it won't be enough to keep me. Real power. That's what I have. You have no idea."
"I think I have an idea, son." Aunt Betsy says from the door leading to my bedroom.
All of this was worth it if only to see the consternation and shame briefly flash across Parker’s face.
“Mother, what are you doing here?” His eyes flick between Aunt Betsy and me like she caught us playing house or doctor. Like she caught him with his hands down my pants.
“I’m here to do what your father should have done years ago.” She hands him a manila envelope, her eyes sad and condemning. “I’m here to stop you.”
He doesn’t open the envelope immediately, caressing the seal instead.
“Whatever is in here, Mother, cannot touch me.”
“Your father is a fool who believes our money makes him invincible and above the law, and he raised you to believe the same. I should have intervened long ago.” Aunt Betsy nods her head to the envelope. “I didn’t know all the awful things you’ve done, but I know now, and it’s never too late.”
Parker’s eyes flicker from me to his mother before settling on the envelope still unopened in his hands. I have no idea what’s in there. My mother and Aunt Betsy do, though. It’s their plan, and since the only alternative involved me baring my nether parts for the world’s inspection, I’ve yielded to their infinite wisdom.
When Parker opens the envelope, he pales, his face a white flag of surrender before he’s said one word.
“Where did you get this?” he asks too softly. “Does Dad know you have it?”
“The combination of his safe is our anniversary date.” Aunt Betsy’s laughter is a peal of sarcasm. “He must have been feeling sentimental that day since this is the only way he’s chosen to honor our marriage.”
“When Dad finds out—”
“Then what, Charles?” Aunt Betsy draws up to her full height. “You and your father seem to forget half of everything is mine. More than half since the original hotels came from my great-grandfather. Renaming them ‘Park’ doesn’t change where they came from.”
“When he hears about this—”
“Oh, he’s already heard.” Aunt Betsy comes to join me on the love seat. “I believe there’s a note from him in there, too. Something about you still not learning your lesson and abusing girls. That one was a very costly mistake. It’d be such a waste of the money he spent covering it up if I were to bring it out myself.”
“You could actually leak it through Spotted,” I pipe up. “Parker has a guy on standby. He’s always got a guy.”
“I am deeply sorry I ever thought my son was good enough for you, Bristol.” Aunt
Betsy brushes the hair back from my face and drops a kiss on my forehead. “I’m glad you’ve found someone worth your time.”
“Worth her time?” Incredulous rage mottles Parker’s handsome face. “That thug? That . . . rapper? You would give Bristol to him over me? She humiliated me, and she should pay.”
“What am I paying for exactly, Parker?” I cross to stand in front of him, my anger propelling me just inches from his face. “Did I leak pictures of you drunk to the press? Did I drug you and lead you to believe we had sex when I was for all intents and purposes unconscious? Did I coerce you to have public sex to satisfy my own outsized ego? Did I plant drugs on an innocent man and blackmail judges to manipulate his case?”
“You chose him over me,” Parker says grimly. “With all I could give you, you wanted some rapper from Compton over me.”
“Even if it hadn’t been Grip, it would never have been you,” I hiss.
“I think this has gone long enough,” my mother says from the same entrance Aunt Betsy used. “We have enough to prosecute you, Parker. Not for life, but you’ll serve some time. We’re only giving Officer James what he has on tape, but we have a never-ending stream of evidence from your father's safe. We’ll just keep sending it to Officer James until enough sticks to keep you behind bars.”
"You've already given us enough to free Marlon and clear his name." The tears gathered at the corners of Aunt Betsy’s eyes leak down her face as she contemplates her only son. “And enough to prosecute you.”
My heart breaks for her. I can’t imagine how she wrestled with this decision before settling on the right course of action to set an innocent man free. I set all the soft feelings aside, though, to step right into Parker’s face, my lips curling with deliberate wrath.
“If you ever, and I mean ever, you cowardly asshole, come near me or Grip again,” I say. "More of that information will come out. Call it our insurance policy. If Grip even has a suspicious paper cut, I'm coming after your ass."
“So will I,” a deadly soft voice says from behind me.
I look back and almost collapse when I see Ms. James leaning against the doorjamb, arms folded, lips set in stone, eyes lit with fury and indignation.
“My son is a good man.” Her eyes drift from Parker for a moment to me. “And Bristol is a good woman. Just try to hurt them again. You find a way to slip from the law, I got some street justice for you. Bet you won't get out of that.”
Greg steps into the fray before Ms. James can say anymore about “street justice”, whatever that means, and pulls Parker’s arms behind his back.
“Charles Parker, you have the right to remain silent . . .”
The Miranda Rights, the other cops streaming into my home, the flurry of activity all fade to the peripheral as I look at the three mothers who made my escape possible.
“Aunt Betsy, I'm so sorry.” I pull her into a hug, and she sniffs softly in our embrace. She did what was right, but Parker is still her son. Without the information she took from her husband's safe, none of this would have worked.
“No, I'm sorry.” Aunt Betsy pulls back, shaking her head. “The things he’s done to other women, to so many people all these years, we failed him somewhere along the way. He has to pay. I just hope he heeds our warning and doesn’t come after you again.”
“Oh, he won’t,” my mother interjects. “What he did to Marlon is child’s play compared to the things in that safe and the things your husband has covered up for him through the years. We’ll make sure he doesn’t forget what we have.”
“Thank you, Mother.” I’m not sure what else to say as our eyes lock and hold and soften. I know everything won’t be repaired between us in a day, but today was a big step.
“I do love you, Bristol.” Her voice doesn't waver, but her eyes, so like mine, for maybe the first time show me a little of what's in her heart. “I’m sorry Marlon believed that more than you did, but I know I’m to blame.”
The flawless red line of her mouth pulls into a grimace.
“I think it’s past time you joined your father, Rhyson, and me in sessions with Dr. Ramirez,” she continues. “If we ever hope to be a real family, that is.”
Her words ripple emotion through me, a tectonic shift in my own heart. I’ve disciplined my emotions over the last twenty-four hours, held in so much because I knew Marlon’s freedom depended on it. The possibility that the relationship I’ve always wanted with her is something she might want, too, unravels me. The tears that have been bound behind a wall of control trickle down my cheeks. A sob unleashed in my chest takes me by surprise. Before I know it, I’m in my mother’s arms. It’s still awkward. She pats my back and holds me stiffly, unrelaxed, her walls not fully down, but all that matters is she doesn’t let go.
I’ve always wondered if she’d lavished all her devotion onto my talented brother; if she’d squandered her deepest love on my unfaithful father, and there was nothing left for me. I know what it’s like behind that wall. It’s cold and lonely. It’s barren with no sun. God, I’m so glad I finally let Grip in. And as my mother and I regard each other with new understanding, with new respect, I hope that someday soon, she’ll truly let me in, too.
Over her shoulder, I encounter a darkened caramel gaze that’s warmed and melted with sympathy, with compassion, maybe with understanding. Through my own tears, I offer Ms. James a tentative smile, and slowly, she returns it.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Grip
Bristol: I’m on my way.
I READ BRISTOL’S text and slip a soft cashmere sweater over my head. Freshly showered, I fall back on the bed and respond.
Me: I’m home. Upstairs.
Our exchange is brief, but the air buzzes with anticipation. The last time I saw Bristol, she was on her way to Parker. I wasn’t happy with her. I’m sure when I took matters into my own hands and had Ma call Mrs. Gray, Bristol wasn’t happy with me. This morning, I woke up in County, ate powered eggs, and wore jail scrubs that scratched my skin. Tonight, I’m in my luxury loft, wearing a cashmere sweater and chilling a bottle of wine that costs more than I used to pay in rent. An astounding turn of events.
I’ve never been angry enough to actually kill someone, but if Parker were standing in front of me right now, I might toss him on my rooftop grill and watch the flames consume his carcass. Maybe I would drink my two thousand dollar bottle of wine with the aroma of his charred flesh wafting in the air. There is some base level of my soul that would prefer primitive justice over the legal route we’ve taken.
We’ll have to depend on the bounty of "insurance" Mrs. Parker found in that safe to keep her son on a leash. Though, I hope my conversation with him earlier dissuades him from bothering us, from bothering Bristol, again.
I wrestled with what to do about this menace. Street justice calls for me to use Corpse or any means available to protect myself, to protect my girl. I won't pretend I wasn't tempted to use Corpse. I was, but I wanted a better way. Greg and Mrs. Gray came up with a legal option, for which I'm grateful. If Parker ever tries to hurt Bristol again, directly or through someone she loves, I can’t promise them, or myself, that I won't find another means. I wanted to tell him that to his face.
It pays to have a family on the force, connections of my own. Greg managed to get me into the "special" private holding cell where Charles Parker is being kept, separate from general pop, of course.
He was taking a piss when I entered his cell. He studied me warily over his shoulder, and I smelled his fear. It curled around my leg like an anxious cat.
“There are cameras everywhere,” he warned. “Hurt me and you’ll be caught.”
“Just one for this room. It's looping for two minutes. That’s all the time I need."
“What do you want?” He managed a sneer, even though I could see the terror in his eyes. “Money? I can give you that.”
“You dumb shit bastard,” I snapped. “I don’t need your money. I have my own money.”
“Not as much as I ha
ve.”
He sounded like a spoiled little boy grasping for a leg up. I glanced down to his tiny dick still hung over his pants.
“Put your dick away.” I injected pity in my voice. “How you ever thought that little bit of twig and berries would satisfy my girl, I don’t know.”
His eyes went reptilian, slitted, and a growl rumbled in his throat. He’s used to being the one with all the power. I had a tenuous hold on my temper. The illusion of flippancy cracked the longer I was around that asshole. The longer I had to look into his fucking blue eyes, his entitlement and superiority still bleeding through jail scrubs. I prowled over, crowding him until he was forced to the porcelain behind him. With a handful of the rough scrubs gathered in my fist, I brought his chest to mine, slamming him into the urinal. His head banged against the wall with a satisfying thud.
“Don’t think that all your money and power and fucking hotels will protect you from me if you ever touch her again,” I said through my teeth.
The façade of his false calm cracked at the ferocity in my voice, and I saw his fear.
"And you sent me a note asking if Bristol was your queen or mine,” I continued. “I came to answer your question.”
I ran him through with a look, and slammed the wadded up, half-destroyed note against his chest.
“She’s mine.”
The sound of the door opening downstairs jars me back to the present and the comfort of my home. I banish all thoughts of Parker, and brace for the rush of seeing Bristol safe and unharmed. I’d like to make a GIF of the moment when she walks into my bedroom. Just replay these few seconds over and over again.
Bristol is wearing almost no makeup. Her hair streams loose down her back, dark and wild and streaked with copper. Her clothes are simple—white tank top, leather jacket, and ripped-knee jeans. She looks so much like the girl I picked up at the airport that day, the one I kissed on top of the world and chased into the tide. In her eyes, though, the color of smelted silver, something tried by fire, I see a woman who would walk through flames for me. Someone who would sacrifice anything to protect me.