by J. A. Huss
“No, Paxton. You didn’t go to jail that night. How did that night end?”
“I don’t know, with… fuck. I don’t really remember. It’s been ten years and it’s all kind of a blur these days. I just remember waking up with people shouting at me. Jesus fuck, who cares? The only thing that mattered was I ended up in jail.”
“You don’t think your little game had anything to do with those charges?”
“Do you?” She stares at me with that cold, hard look I remember growing up. “Yeah, of course I think it’s related. How the fuck could it not be related? It was called Ransom, for fuck’s sake.”
“Language, Paxton,” my mother practically growls.
“Did you kidnap her?” Cindy asks.
“Stay out of this,” I say, irritated.
“Sorry,” Cindy says, putting both hands up like she’s surrendering.
“Did you kidnap her, Paxton?” my mother asks, her question devoid of emotion.
“It’s called Ransom. So yeah, I fucking took her. Like I was supposed to.”
“What did you do with her?” Cindy again.
Jesus fuck. “Does she really need to be here?”
“She really does. What did you do with that girl, Paxton?”
“I fucked her. OK? I tied her up, made my ransom demand, and then we fucked. We laughed and we fucked. I didn’t even know Perfect had taken her out that night. I didn’t know anything about what Romantic was doing with her. I didn’t know shit, other than I was playing the game.”
Long, loud exhale from both women as they sink back into their seats.
“Did you use a silver envelope?” my mother asks. “For this ransom demand?”
I feel very guilty right now. Very. Fucking. Guilty. “It was part of the game. They sent me the envelope and the card. They said make the ransom demand by cutting out letters from magazines. So I did. It was a game.” They both stare at me. “I didn’t rape her.”
Chapter Thirteen - Cindy
God, I feel awful being here for this. I shouldn’t be here for this. I stand up, walk the two paces that separates my chair from Paxton’s, and place my hand on his shoulder. “I don’t think you raped her, Pax.”
He looks up at me, eyes angry and red and hurt. “Who gives a fuck what you think?”
I recoil, stepping back on my heels. I’m just about to rip him a new one when he looks at his mother and he… deflates.
That’s whose opinion he gives a fuck about, I realize. Hers.
He’s right. I don’t matter. None of this is about me. He was the one accused of raping a girl ten years ago and he was the one who had to explain things to his mother after that happened. I can see they love each other. I can see they are very close. He respects her. She is tough and there is so much dignity spilling out of her blue blood, she practically smells like class.
“Thank you,” Mariel says. “for telling me the truth after all these years. And I’d like to say, Paxton, that never once—not even for a moment—did I ever think you were guilty of that crime.”
“So what?” Paxton yells. “The only thing that matters was the accusation, right? It’s enough, isn’t it? To ruin a guy. To take away all his chances. All his plans. Erase his future. Do you think I’d be doing what I do now if I had graduated from Brown?”
“That isn’t what matters—”
Pax slams his fist on the desk, scattering dust into the air. “It does matter, goddammit. It is what matters. I shouldn’t have had to make that fucking call. I shouldn’t have had to explain myself. I shouldn’t have had to do any of that. It was a fucking game. She was laughing. It was a joke. And those fucking bitches—”
“Who?” Mariel asks, standing up from her chair, both hands flat on the dirty desk as she leans forward. “Who were they? I need names, Paxton. I need names.”
Holy fuck. “I need to go,” I say, standing up and walking quickly towards the door. I unlock it, pull it open, and walk out before either of them can trap me there with their commands.
I’m somewhere on the backstretch of the Del Mar Racetrack. It’s dark now, we’ve been talking long enough for that to happen. The lights are on in the barns and there are a million people bustling around. Grooms and horses, trainers and owners. Just so many people it’s hard to reconcile the back room talk with the celebratory fun going on out here.
“Cindy,” Pax yells behind me. “Stop,” he says.
I keep walking, thankful I wore chunky-heeled shoes for this trip into the barn, because there is dust everywhere and the only thing between me and the filth are these platform sandals. I feel like I’m choking on it. Like this dirt represents all the disgusting things that happened to the Misters ten years ago. To my brother, I realize. Oliver was part of that. He made that same phone call. He had to explain himself too. He had to look my mother in the eyes and say, “They’re gonna say I raped her, Mom. And I just need you to be brave and tune it all out.”
And my parents had to call the lawyers, and Ronin. Fucking Ronin. And then Ford showed up, and Five. And…
“Cindy,” Pax says, his hand on my shoulder.
I realize I’m crying. Not like some little dribble, either. But a full-on waterfall of tears are streaming down my face.
“What’s wrong?” he asks. “Why are you crying? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell, I swear. And my mother can get a little intense. She’s sorry too. Stop,” he says, gripping my shoulder tightly now, making me halt. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?”
But I can’t even tell him, can I? Not without giving away who I am. And I’m not going to do that. I don’t think there’s a future for us after all. I think what’s happening here is me getting a big ol’ dose of reality. Of adulting. Or… coming to terms with a fantasy that will never be anything more than some teenager’s crush on a man she never really knew.
I never understood. But I do now. I understand what that accusation did to them. To Oliver, who hasn’t had a real relationship with a woman since. To my mother and father, who already had so much sadness to deal with over the years, and who had to put on their brave faces and say, “No! Our son did not do this.” And probably all my sisters as well. I was too young, I realize. Too fucking young and stupid to comprehend what that word really meant.
Rape.
“I need to go home,” I say quietly, unable to look him in the face.
“You can’t drive home tonight. It’s far, Cindy. Almost four hours away.”
No. Home is more than a thousand miles away and that’s where I want to be right now. With Oliver. And my sisters. I want to see my brother and sisters and my mom and dad. And give them all a huge hug. Say, “I’m sorry this happened. I’m fucking sorry I didn’t understand. And most of all, I’m sorry I ran away chasing some phantom man named Paxton Vance.”
I should’ve been concerned with Oliver. Why wasn’t I focused on what really matters? Him. His innocence. His reputation and good name. Especially after all the bullshit they went through when I was little
Oliver. My sweet, sweet brother. My only brother.
I should be looking for who set him up. I should give up on Paxton Vance and concentrate on the only Mister who matters. Match.
“Cindy?” Pax has been talking this entire time. I am wiping my tears away, trying not to draw too much attention to myself. But it’s dark where we’re standing. On the edge of the barn and the paddock area. There are a ton of people. Trainers, jockeys, owners all dressed up in their special clothes as they drink champagne and laugh and hope for their horses to come back winners.
“I’ll take you home,” Pax says, finally understanding that I’m not going to talk to him anymore. “But my mother will be very disappointed if we don’t at least stay for the race. It’s up next, then the day is over and I’ll take you home if you want.”
I nod, still silent, and let him lead me through the paddock, down the aisle towards the stands, and then back up into the clubhouse.
This time when we get to the Turf Club, every tabl
e is full except the five Paxton leads me towards. We stop at the one centered between two more empty tables on either side and Pax sighs, reading my mind. “These are reserved for groups of twenty. My mother hates crowds, so she buys all four seats at each of the five tables and then watches the race alone.”
I feel like I’m maybe under control again. My face is dry, the tears have stopped. “I guess she won’t be here alone tonight, will she?”
Pax smiles. I think it might be the first real smile I’ve ever seen from him. It’s not a grin, like the ones he used on me in Malibu. Or a smirk, his default setting. Just small, and warm, and kind. “No,” he says. “She won’t be alone tonight.”
The golden filly’s name is Aladdin’s Cinderella. Full sister to Aladdin’s Prince Charming, last year’s Triple Crown winner. The first such winner in almost thirty years, I figure out through conversation. When Mariel and her friend, William, start shouting her name as they come down the homestretch, Pax shoots me a weird look.
And when the race is over and Pax leans in to kiss his mother, saying, “Congratulations, Mother. You did it again. She won,” Mariel Hawthorne looks straight at me and deadpans, “Of course she did.”
I think about those words as Pax and I walk to his car. He is insisting on taking me home. Saying he will take care of my car, but there is no way in hell I’m driving home alone tonight. I think about all the things those words could’ve meant but only come up with one that makes sense.
Of course she did.
Like it was ordained.
Chapter Fourteen - Paxton
“Hey,” Cindy says in a low voice. “Where are we going? The 5 freeway is right there.”
“I’ve got a house here in Del Mar. We’re staying there tonight.”
“You have a house in Del Mar?” I can’t tell for sure in the low light of the street lamps, but when I glance over at Cindy, she appears confused.
She’s definitely been spying on me. Looking me up. I’m sure she’s got all my public assets catalogued in that head of hers. And this house in Del Mar isn’t one of them. For good reason. Reasons like this.
“Yeah, right at the top of the hill, actually.” I pull into the driveway that leads to the gated community in the cliffs above the Del Mar Racetrack and flash my ID at the guards when the window rolls down.
They know me.
“Hey, Pax. Twice in one week, huh? Maybe you should just move down here?”
“Maybe I should,” I tell the guard. “Just the night though. Going back up to LA in the morning.”
“Day at the races? Win anything?”
“Just this girl.”
Cindy huffs out an objection, but the guard and I just chuckle.
“She looks like a keeper,” he says.
“We’ll see. Have a good night.”
“You too,” the guard says, winking.
“That was rude,” Cindy says once my window is up. “Keeping me?”
“He said it, not me. What do you want me to do? Get out of the car and beat the shit out of him for insulting you?”
She crosses her arms and turns her head.
“I can,” I snarl. “If you want. And I won’t even think twice about it. Just say the word.”
She’s silent, but I don’t give a fuck what she thinks about that offer. She needs to understand who I am. What I am. What I do. She needs to be afraid of me.
“You don’t scare me,” she finally says, like she’s reading my mind.
Whatever. She’s been weird since that night she followed me up to my bedroom. Everything about her is off. I’m giving it one night, I decided. One night to crack her secrets, then I’m tossing her back. Plenty of fish in that sea out there.
I wind my way up the streets of the high-end neighborhood leading to my house—well, technically, it’s Mr. Romantic’s house now. I sold it to him a few years back. But he and I both know this is still my place.
I sort of consider all of Nolan’s houses mine, I realize. I use that monstrosity out on Martha’s Vineyard for business every time I’m on the East Coast. Which isn’t that often, I admit. But it’s nice to have a place to crash when I’m there.
The palm trees in front of the house are all lit up—everything is on a timer here—and Cindy says, “Whoa. This is kinda nice.”
“Not used to nice things, Miss Vaughn?”
She says nothing.
“It is nice. This was the first house I bought out of college. For my mother, really. She was cruising the real estate listings and texted this one to me, gushing about how nice it would be to live next to the track. Well, to live in luxury next to the track. So I bought it.”
“For your mother?”
“For me. But her too. So she can stay here when she wants.”
“Is she staying here tonight?”
“Nah. She wouldn’t stay when I have a girl with me.”
“I’m not with you, you know.”
“I know.” I stop the car in front of the door and turn it off. “Let’s go. I’m tired.”
Cindy gets out of the car and follows me up to the entry, leaning on the stucco wall as I key in the code to unlock the door.
The alarm pad beeps and flashes red at me.
I smile over at Cindy, key in the numbers again. Get a longer beep and more emphatic flashing lights.
“Problems?” Cindy asks.
Fucking Nolan. He must have changed the code after I admitted to pinching his house back east whenever I wanted. Asshole. After everything I just did for him, this is how he repays me?
I huff out a breath of air, ready to punch in the numbers in again, but Cindy’s hand on my arm makes me stop and look at her. “If you get it wrong three times they’ll call the cops.” She nods her head to the sign in front of the lit-up palm tree. “I know that company. They don’t mess around.”
We stare at each other.
“This isn’t your house.”
“It’s mine.”
“So why don’t you know the code?”
“I share it with another Mister. Like we share the jet.”
“Hmmm,” she says, like she knows I’m lying. “Shall we get a hotel? Or take our chances with jail?”
“We’re not going to jail. Don’t be dramatic.”
“So call him up and ask him for the code.”
I hesitate.
“Problem?”
“He’s not home.”
“He has a cell phone, right?”
I look behind me, wonder if any of the boutique hotels here in Del Mar will have openings, but then look back at Cindy when she pulls a cord out of her purse and hooks it up to her phone.
“They have ports in them.” She smiles at me, plugging the other end into the bottom of the security pad. “Backdoor access, so to speak.”
“Well, that’s not very secure.”
“No one knows about it.”
“Except you?” I laugh.
“I know someone high up in this company. An old friend.”
“Really.” Hmmm. “A friend of a friend of mine owns this company.”
“What’s his name?” she asks with a smirk. “Maybe he’s my contact.”
She’s fishing for more information. I bet she already knows that one of Match’s sisters owns this security company and she’s trying to get me to cough up more information.
“It’s a woman,” I say. “Can you get it to open or not?”
Her thumbs are already flying across the keypad of her phone and a few seconds later, there’s a cheery ping and the pad flashes green as the locks disengage.
She reaches forward and opens the glass doors, pushing them inward. Then waves a hand. “After you.”
“I insist,” I say, faking a smile and stepping back to make her enter first. “Who says chivalry is dead?”
She enters, I follow, and flick on the lights to the living room from the master panel near the door.
“Well, this is quite nice. Is that the track down there?” She’s at the terrace doors
, already sliding them open, and the sea breeze blows her hair softly around her shoulders.
Who is this girl?
I walk over to the bar, calling out, “Drink?” as I go.
“Sure.”
I grab two crystal tumblers from a shelf, then reach for the booze. “Bourbon?” I ask. “There’s no way in hell we’ve got powdered sugar for a mint julep.”
“Bourbon straight?”
“Rocks?” I suggest.
“No. That’s gross. How about a margarita?”
“Margarita?” I practically snort. “What kind of drink is that?”
“A fun one,” she says, frowning.
I’m twisting the cap of the bottle when I stop and take her in again. The light is low in here and it bathes her in a softness that makes me wonder again. Who is this girl?
“Want me to make them?”
“What?”
“The margaritas. It’s that or nothing for me.”
“I can make them,” I say. “Blended?”
“Of course.”
Of course. “Lemon or triple sec?” I ask.
“Strawberry,” she says back.
I laugh. “We don’t have strawberry.”
She shrugs. “Then forget it. I’m not thirsty.”
“We don’t drink because we’re thirsty.”
“Then why are we drinking?”
“Because I really fucking need one.”
“Too much talk about silver envelopes today?”
“Who are you?”
She shrugs. “Cinderella, that’s who.”
I can’t stop looking at her. She’s so fucking… mysterious. I almost laugh when that word pops into my head.
A hand goes to my chin as I consider what to do. Then I walk towards the door, pulling my keys out of my pocket.
“Where are you going?”
“To get you some fucking strawberries.”
“Don’t forget the salt,” she yells after me. “And some powdered sugar!”
I try to slam the door closed on my way out of the house, but Nolan put a soft close mechanism on the hinges so the glass won’t break by accident, and it’s about as anticlimactic as this whole fucking day.