by Bromberg, K.
There’s a bit more of my girl back.
“I’d like to see anyone try.” I laugh. “We both know kept isn’t a word anyone would ever use to describe you.”
“I—you can’t—this isn’t—you don’t understand what this looks like—” She huffs in frustration. It takes a lot to make Vaughn Sanders speechless, and I’ve succeeded.
“What does this look like?” I ask.
“I can’t accept this.” But this time instead of defiance and anger in her voice, there’s a waver and then a break on the last word. Then a sniffle.
“Vaughn? What’s wrong?”
“It’s just too much. This is all too much.” I can’t tell if she’s crying, and I’m pretty sure if she is, she’ll just deny it if I ask.
“I just wanted to give you something no one has ever given you before.”
“Money?” The word is two drawn-out syllables.
“Yes, but it’s so much more than that. It’s me telling you I believe in you. It’s me telling you that you’re worth it. It’s me wanting you to know that I think you’re going to be an incredible mother to Lucy. It’s me wanting you to look in the mirror every day and instead of trying to figure out if you’re Vee or Vaughn or a server at Apropos or a madam, you know that you’re you—a little bit of all those people mixed together to make up one incredible woman.” Her hiccupped sob fills the line. “Oh baby, please don’t cry.”
“I don’t deserve this.”
“But you do. I’m sick of watching you work yourself to death. Sick of seeing you worry over what will come of it. Wonder what it will be like after you get it all paid off. Well, now it’s the after. Now it’s your turn to do and be and live for yourself.”
“Ryker.”
“There’s nothing to say.”
“I’ll pay you back.”
“I won’t accept it.”
“I’ll find a way.”
“I want—no, need—you to know something. I pulled the trigger on this way before whatever happened the past week or two happened.” Spit it out, Lockhart. “Yes, I was worried that you were going to break up with me, but I don’t want you to think that I did this to buy you into staying.”
There’s silence on the line, and I immediately feel like a dumbass for making the comment.
“You have no idea how much I needed to hear that.” She laughs. “Did you hear that, everyone?” she shouts out and laughs again. “He did it a while ago.”
“Um . . . am I missing something?” I ask, thoroughly confused.
“Nothing and everything.” A giggle that sounds part hysterical. “Ryker Lockhart?”
“Yes?”
“I love you.” Her voice is barely a whisper, but those three words hit me as if they were spoken through a megaphone. Loud. Unapologetic. Genuine.
And after the events, her actions, and everything that I don’t understand, I sure as hell didn’t expect to hear that.
I clear my throat. It’s all I can do, because it feels like something is stuck there momentarily. “Vaughn.” Her name is a murmur on my lips. “You surprise me at every turn. Please don’t ever change that.”
“I promise. And I didn’t tell you that because you paid off my bills, because I have every intention of paying you back.”
“If you believing that is the only way you’ll accept the funds, then yeah, sure. Whatever you say, dear.” I laugh, and fuck if it doesn’t feel like a huge weight has been lifted off my shoulders I didn’t even know was there.
“Don’t mock me, Lockhart.”
“Yes, madam.”
“Ah, so very clever.”
“I try.” I glance up to the house in front of me. “Was this what you wanted to talk to me about when I get home?”
“Yes and no. There’s just . . . we’ll talk when you get here.”
“Sounds good.”
“Oh, hey. Tell me something,” she says.
“What?”
“Are you still representing Carter Preston’s wife?”
Her question completely throws me for reasons she couldn’t even know.
I think of the drama this week at work. Bianca revoking my representation in the oddest conversation ever.
“No. I’m no longer representing her. Why?”
“No reason.” Her tone is indifferent when mine is anything but.
“Why did you ask? Is Carter causing problems for you? I can cancel this meeting and be back—”
“Carter’s always causing problems,” she says with a laugh. “It would be stupid for you to jump to my rescue every time he did.”
“Is he bugging you? I can have Stuart—”
“I’m fine, Ryker. Better now that I talked to you. I promise.”
“You sure you’re okay?”
“Goodbye,” she sings the word out.
And just like that, the woman who has had every part of my life in an uproar over the past week ends the call as easily as she owns my heart.
She loves me.
Whew.
I shake my head and smile, then pick my phone back up and dial.
“What’s up, boss? Need something?”
“Keep an eye out for Vaughn, will you?” I ask Stuart, her comment about Carter sticking in my head.
“Will do. My load is light. You want me following her or just checking in?” he asks.
“Whatever you think is best. He’s been too quiet for my liking.”
And she loves me. I have to protect her at all costs.
“Ten-four.”
He ends the call, and I’m left looking at the one thing left I have to do.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Ryker
James Dillinger’s house stands before me.
It’s quite the spread. There’s no masking the Dillinger money when it comes to this structure. And inside is even more impressive than the outside when the hired help lets me in and has me wait in the formidable foyer.
“Is he expecting you?” the woman dressed all in black asks.
“No. Just a quick visit, really. I was in the area waiting to catch up with his nephew, Chance, and thought I’d stop by to let him know about a little shared connection I discovered.”
“Oh, how sweet of you. He doesn’t get many visitors these days who aren’t here to try to pick that brilliant mind of his, so I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to see someone and not feel obligated to discuss complex dynamic systems or capital theory.”
“Hmm,” I murmur, not caring in the least. The fucker doesn’t deserve any visitors.
I look around the place as I wait. It’s stuffy and stately, and I have a hard time picturing Vaughn and Samantha here as young girls. There’s no way this cold place could have given them an ounce of the warmth children need. Not at all.
The help comes back out with a warm smile. “He’ll meet you in the library, Mr. Lockhart. Right this way.”
She leads me into a room lined with walls filled with all the literary greats. It smells like leather and wood and paper and is rather impressive, but I wonder if it’s all for show. Not a single thing in the room looks as if it’s been touched in years.
“Can I get you anything?” she asks. “Water, soda, wine?”
“I won’t be staying long. Thank you, though.”
“Just let me know if you change your mind.” She heads to the doorway. “He’ll be right in.”
Alone, I move toward the rows and rows of books. Each literary work looks like it’s an original, with spines bound in leather and creased from being used at some point.
I hear him when he enters the room. The hum of his motorized wheelchair. The rasp of his breath. The stop and start of the joystick controlling his movements. But I don’t turn around. I let him sit in his feeble state and wonder what this strange man is doing in his house. I let his curiosity build.
“Those are all first-print publications,” he finally says. His voice has a hint of New England with the lilt of aristocracy.
“I noticed.” I run my hands alo
ng them, knowing if these truly are his prized possessions, he’s cringing at the oil from my hands running across them. I keep touching them on purpose.
“Dickens. Austen. Brontë. Twain.” He moves his chair closer.
“I was expecting to find something more along the lines of I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings or Lolita,” I say, referring to books that deal with child molestation. “Those are more up your alley, aren’t they?”
I turn to face him. To see the weak man with pale skin and dark hair shorn short. He’s dressed in expensive clothing—a sweater over a collared shirt, slacks, and shoes that cost more than most people make in a month. His eyebrows are raised, his lips twisted as he studies me the same way I am him.
I hate him instantly.
Our eyes lock, and I swear to all things, my flesh crawls. Chills run over my skin and tighten my scalp.
“So Beatrice told me that you said we have some kind of connection besides both knowing Chance?” he asks as if I never made the comment about the books.
“Yes. It’s quite funny how it came about, actually.” I move now, around the massive couch, so I’m able to rest my ass on its arm and sit directly in front of him.
If he moves his chair, he’ll show me he’s uncomfortable. If he stays where he is, he has no choice but to see the vitriol in my eyes.
“Funny? How so?”
Absently, I pull Lucy’s, formerly Samantha’s, necklace with the key on it from my pocket. I don’t look at it, I don’t even acknowledge that I’m doing the action, but James sure as hell does. He tries not to look but can’t resist. And then looks again, eyes widening, mouth falling lax. The swallow he’s trying to work down his throat seems like it’s a battle.
“What did you say your name was again?”
“I didn’t.” My smile is wide and unforgiving. When I hold out my hand, I make a show of transferring the necklace from my right to my left hand to free it up. “Ryker Lockhart. Nice to meet you, James.”
We shake hands the best he can with his atrophied muscles, and then I resume my spot on the arm of the chair.
“And the connection?” he prompts.
“You know, I was surprised when I looked you up to find a man of such stature. The John Bates Clark Medal for economics? Your family must be so proud.” I clasp my hands in my lap, the worn key resting against the dark fabric of my slacks.
“My family is very accomplished. It’s one of many medals that gets lost in the accolades in our lineage.”
“Don’t play it down, James. You should be proud of it, just as they should be proud of you.” I smile. “I mean, it’s not the Nobel Prize, but it’s pretty damn close. They should be as proud of you as a family can be of a man who preys on and rapes children.”
“What?” He chokes on the word. Then sputters to connect thoughts for a few seconds. I enjoy the show—his face turning red, his eyes widening, his lack of coherency.
“You heard me just fine. You might be paralyzed—we’ll get to that in a moment—but you’re not deaf.”
“Beatrice!” he shouts as he moves his chair back.
I step toward him, my foot going behind the wheel to stop his progress, and then lean down to his face. He smells of cigar smoke and Old Spice and urine. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” I whisper the warning. “We wouldn’t want your secret to get out. The only award for a child rapist is one you can get behind bars.” I move my foot from behind his wheel and look him in the eye without flinching. “Do I make myself clear?”
He nods, his head moving up and down slightly, his body trembling, his eyes wide and wild.
“What do you want?” he asks in a strained voice.
“A villa on Lake Como. World peace. Fuckers like you to die a slow, painful death.” I shrug callously. “But beggars can’t be choosers. We all can’t get what we want.”
“Why are you here?”
“So a rich, brilliant”—I roll my eyes—“man like you gets custody of your sister’s two girls. Most people would try to give them the best life possible. They’d love them and nurture them. They’d treat them as their own. But you’re not most people, are you, James? No. You figure it’s the perfect way to feed that urge you have. The one that only sick fucks have whose dicks need to be cut off for even thinking such thoughts let alone acting on them.”
“I never—”
“Save it for your family who will buy your bullshit. Not me. Uh-uh. What I don’t understand is this . . . if Samantha really shot you like you told the police she did, then why did you never pursue it? Why did you not take all this money you spend buying books you’ll never read and get vengeance on the person who turned you into a bag of useless bones? A single shot to the spine? Isn’t that where Sam shot you? Oh, yes. I forgot. That’s what the police report says, but the medical records show that the shot was more aimed at your pelvis. Can’t imagine why you wouldn’t want those details out there.”
I chuckle and shake my head. My own restlessness breathing the same air as this piece of shit is more than I can stand.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re lying—”
“Took you a minute to find your backbone to stand up for yourself, but I guess Samantha took care of that when she shot you after you raped her one too many times. Huh?”
“Beatrice!” he shouts again, and within seconds I have the doors shut to the library.
I’m nowhere near finished with him yet.
“I want you out of my house, right now. I’ll call the cops. I’ll—”
“Please do. We can square up this matter right now and get their files updated with what really should be in there.” I point to the phone on the desk. “Should I dial for you?”
“Whatever Samantha told you is a lie.”
“It is?” I hold the chain up so the key swings back and forth. “Remember this? She used to wear it all the time.”
He shrugs as best as he can. “So?”
“This right here is the key.” I laugh. “Get it? The key? The one that holds all the evidence to prove she wasn’t lying.”
“And I’m supposed to believe you?”
“Believe me. Don’t believe me. I couldn’t care less. The documents don’t lie.” But I do. Hell, I’m lying through my teeth. At least being a lawyer pays off at some point. “Journals that document your threats to her. Calendars with each and every time you touched her notated. It’s like a road map to your sick and twisted abuse.”
“I didn’t touch her.”
“You say the words, but the look on your face, the sheer terror that I’m going to let the world know that the brilliant mind is also a sick fuck? That paints a whole different story.”
His face grows paler, if that’s possible. “What do you want?”
“I want you to admit you did it.”
“No.”
“No, you won’t admit it, or no, you didn’t do it?” I press. “Just a few simple words and I’ll leave.” My smile is less than sincere.
“Why are you here?”
“I just told you.”
“You want something else, though. I’m not naive enough to believe there isn’t more to it.”
“See? They were right. You do have a brilliant mind. That Uncle James is a smart one.” I squat down so I’m at his eye level. “Here’s what I want. I want you to drop any and all charges against Samantha and Vaughn Sanders.”
“I can’t—”
“Oh, but you can. I’m a lawyer. I know how these things work.” I lift my eyebrows. “So here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to call the prosecuting attorney who got the warrant issued way back when and tell him you want a motion brought before the issuing judge to get it dropped.”
“That’s not how it works.”
My laugh holds everything but humor as it ricochets off the walls. “I’m more than aware how the process works, but there’s no way in hell I’m making Samantha or Vaughn surrender themselves to the court to ask the judge to release the warrant.�
� I rise to my feet and cross my arms over my chest, my physical threat undeniable. “So figure it out. It seems you’ve paid off enough people in Greenwich that greasing a few more palms won’t turn heads.”
“Just like that?” he asks. “You think they’re not going to question why?”
“Obviously you’re skilled at telling lies and keeping up false pretenses, so I’m sure you can think of something to explain why you’ve had a change of heart. Why you previously thought it was your nieces who assaulted you but now know differently. You were shot in the spine, so how could you have seen who the assailant was?” I wink. “See, this is where your lies catch up with you and make it easier for me.”
“They’ll see through that.” His voice is a rasped wheeze at this point.
“Like I said, you’ve paid them enough to keep quiet so far, so I’m sure shelling out some more cash really won’t be that taxing for you.”
“What’s this to you?” he asks.
I take a moment, draw in a deep breath, and nod. “Because you’ve hurt Sam and Vaughn enough for a lifetime. You’ve scarred them so deeply that no matter how many calluses have grown over the scars, they still turn to blisters with the simplest mention of your name. I’m sure it gives you great pleasure—that hearing you’ve fucked them up for life gets you off—but I’m here to put an end to it. Right here. Right now.”
“Leave it to Sam to find a vigilante to protect her,” he sneers, and I don’t correct him.
“What’s it to you?” I shout, and I’m in his face in a split second. I’m more than aware of how helpless he feels right now. Me, big and strong and threatening—and him, paralyzed, weak, and defenseless. “You wouldn’t want them now. They’re too old, right? It’s only the underage ones who can get you hard.” I keep my face within inches of his and just stare. “You disgust me.”
“Fuck you.” It’s the first sign of a temper, and I welcome the resistance.
“You gonna give me a fight, Dillinger? Huh? You going to come out swinging so I have no choice but to turn all this evidence over to, say, the New York Times? What’s the saying? No press is bad press? Or even better, did you ever take them into New York? Please tell me yes, and then I can turn you over to the FBI for crossing state lines. I’d love to see you try to bribe a federal agent.”