Changing Teams (20 page)

Chapter

Twenty-Three

Britt

I rode the elevator up to Nash’s studio, more nervous that I’d been when I’d been booked for the cover shoot. It felt weird going there without Sam; if I was honest with myself, I’d admit that Sam was part of the reason I’d agreed to do the test shots today. Okay, Sam was most of the reason. Working on those nine covers would mean lots of sessions at Nash’s studio, and therefore lots of working with Sam. Then Sam and I could spend time together, and I could get to know the real man, the one behind the lies. I hoped I’d love the real Sam just as much as the Sam that was a figment of my imagination.

The elevator door creaked open, revealing nothing but darkness. I checked the buttons to make sure I’d selected the correct floor. Yep, I was on the floor fourth, but the normally bustling studio was deserted. “Nash?” I called.

“Britt, hello there,” Nash greeted, walking toward the elevator. “So glad you could make it today.”

“Of course,” I murmured. “Where is everyone?”

“I’m afraid this shoot will just be you and I,” Nash said. “I wasn’t scheduled to shoot anything today, but when Sands called earlier and asked for the test shots I didn’t want to wait. Are you okay with it being just the two of us?”

I wasn’t, especially after what had happened with Ben, but my empty wallet and I decided to just power through the awkwardness. “I’m sure everything will be fine. Are there costumes?”

“The only costume we have on hand is the dress you wore for the last shoot,” Nash replied. “What Sands is interested in is how you work with the camera, not the outfits, and if your look is strong enough to carry a cover without Giovanni.”

Of course my image can stand up to that oily, muscle bound freak’s.
“Well, then, I guess I’ll go change.”

As I made my way to the dressing room, Nash called after me, “Will Sam be meeting you here, later on perhaps?”

I thought of the picture Michael had sent earlier, of Sam passed out drunk on his couch. That man wouldn’t be going anywhere for days. “I don’t believe so.”

I got myself into the ochre gown, no mean feat without someone to help with the laces, and scowled at the grease stains, courtesy of Giovanni. I also kept my bodice at a respectable level, as opposed to Sam’s nipple-baring tactics; really, I’m an idiot for not seeing through his façade after that incident. What gay man cares about a woman’s breasts that much? When I stepped out of the dressing room, I saw Nash setting up a few props.

“Auditioning for Sam’s job?” I smirked.

“I’d never make the cut,” Nash said. “People like Sam are one in a million.”

Truer words were never spoken. I smelled coffee and glanced at the full pot. “Is that fresh?” I asked.

“I just brewed it,” Nash replied. “Help yourself.”

I did, only to frown when I tasted it. “This is really bitter,” I said. “What kind of coffee is this?” I asked, looking for the package.

“Some swill one of the gophers picked up. I’ll get you a Starbucks later.” Nash made a final adjustment to the set, then he grabbed his camera. “I thought we’d start with some profile shots.”

“Sounds good,” I said, setting down my horrendous coffee. “Just tell me what you need me to do.”

Chapter

Twenty-Four

Sam

When I woke, the ills of my body momentarily overcame the ills of my heart, being that my eyes were sore, my head pounded, and there was a crick in my neck. All in all, I felt the same I always did when I woke up on Michael’s couch. I rolled to the side and grabbed my phone from my back pocket, only to frown when I checked the display. Britt still hadn’t called or texted me.

“Maybe she’s right, maybe I can’t fix this mess,” I muttered. I opened the gallery app on my phone, and scrolled through the pictures of Britt I’d uploaded. God, but she had looked like an angel in that blue and gold dress. My angel, that’s what she was—emphasis on the was. “Maybe it really is over.”

“You’re really going to give up on her that easily?” Michael asked. He sat in the chair across from me and offered me a glass of water and some aspirin. “That’s not like you.”

“If she doesn’t want me, she doesn’t want me,” I said. I’d scrolled to the image of her topless in my bed, her pink panties just visible above her shorts. “The least I can do is respect her wishes.”

“Well, I happen to know that she does want you.” Michael sipped from his own glass, and added, “Fool girl that she is.”

I looked at Michael. “When did you and Britt start sharing secrets?”

“While there was a passed out pseudo-homo on my couch,” Michael snapped. I opened my mouth to explain, but Michael held up a hand. “You can give me all the dirty details later. Britt wants you to call her after her shoot.”

“She does?” I was shocked, for once in a good way. “Where’s her shoot? When does it end?”

“She said they were test shots at Nash’s,” Michael replied. “And no, I have no idea when they’ll be over with.”

“Nash has a shoot scheduled for today?” I rubbed my eyes; man, had I gotten so drunk I’d forgotten about a shoot? No, it was after five, and one of Nash’s many quirks was that he refused to work after five. Amazing that man ever got anything accomplished.

“Well?” Michael asked.

“Well, what?” I countered as I lowered my hand.

“Are you going to call her, or what?”

“You think I should?”

“I think all the bourbon in New York can’t drown what you feel for her,” Michael said. “And if you insist on being with a woman, Britt’s a good one to be with.”

I looked at my phone, then I shoved it in my back pocket. “I’ll do her one better,” I said as I pulled on my Doc Martins. “I’ll head on over to Nash’s and talk to her in person.” Once my boots were on, I stood and grabbed my leather jacket.

“Thanks, Michael,” I said, then I clapped him on the shoulder. “For everything.”

“I know, I know,” Michael said, waving away my gratitude. “Go on, get your girl, cowboy.”

I grinned. “I sure will.”

***

It took me about half an hour to get from Michael’s place in Soho to Nash’s studio. As I rode up the elevator I was nearly jumping out of my skin; I had no idea what I was going to say to Britt, or how she was going to react to my being there. All I knew was that she wanted to talk to me, and that made things a whole lot better than they had been yesterday.

The elevator door wobbled open, and I stepped into the studio. Instead of the usual bustle that accompanied most shoots, the place was dark and empty. “Britt? Nash?”

When there was no answer, I made my way to one of the rear soundstages, the one Nash favored for smaller shoots. After I’d navigated around some equipment and got an unobstructed view of the stage, my heart jumped into my throat. Britt was lying stock still on a couch, her skin pale as death.

“Britt! Baby,” I said as I rushed forward, brushing her hair away from her face. Her skin was cold, and there was a bluish tinge to her lips. As I grabbed her icy fingers I saw that she was wearing the orange gown from the romance novel shoot. The bodice was unfastened and her breasts were fully exposed.

“Britt,” I said, chafing her hands, “Britannica! Britt, baby, talk to me.” She was breathing, so that was something. I took off my jacket and laid it across her torso, then I stood and looked around the studio. “Nash,” I called. “Nash, are you here? What the hell happened to Britt?”

Pain exploded across the back of my head, and I slumped across Britt’s prone form.

***

I don’t think I was out for that long, just long enough for whomever had hit me to high tail it out of the studio. I checked on Britt, relieved to find her still breathing, then I grabbed my phone and dialed 911.

“911, what is your emergency?”

“My girlfriend, she won’t wake up.”

“Is she breathing?”

“Yeah. Her skin’s real cold, clammy even.”

“Address?”

I rattled off the studio’s address, then I sat on the couch and pulled Britt’s head onto my lap. “Stay with me, baby,” I pleaded. “Please, baby, stay with me.”

***

By the time the EMTs arrived I was in tears, begging Britt to open her eyes.

“Let us do our work,” one of the EMTs said, dragging me away from Britt. “How long has she been out?”

“Since I got here,” I replied, watching as they shone a light in Britt’s eyes, and flung aside my coat so they could check her heart. “I…I’m not really sure how long ago that was.”

“Do you know what she took?”

I paused. “Took?”

“Looks like an overdose,” he replied. When I just stared at him, he demanded, “You take something too?”

“No, I think someone hit me.” I rubbed the sore spot on the back of my head, and felt wetness. “Yeah, I was hit,” I mumbled, looking at my bloody fingers.” The EMT started toward me, but I backed away. “I’m fine. Britt needs you more than I do.”

The EMT frowned, but he returned his focus to Britt. “She do drugs often?”

“Never.”

“Drink?”

“Only socially,” I replied. “Can’t hold her liquor worth a damn.”

The second EMT looked up at her partner, and said something full of medical jargon. The first nodded, then he and asked me, “What is this place? How would she have gotten drugs?”

“This is a photography studio,” I began, then I realized I hadn’t seen Nash once since I arrived.

“Nash? Nash, are you here?” I called. When there was no response I turned around, and saw the nearly full pot of coffee. Odd, since Nash hates coffee nearly as much as he hates Mondays. “Can you put drugs in coffee?” I asked.

The second EMT followed my gaze to the coffee pot. “You think she’s been roofied?” she asked.

A few facts clinked into place in my head: the young girls in the harem costumes, Nash’s lack of a presence in his own studio, the fact that somebody had almost brained me. “Yeah, and I think I know who did it.”

Chapter

Twenty-Five

Britt

I didn’t want to open my eyes, but the bright light streaming down on me had other ideas. I blinked, then I coughed; when I raised my hand to cover my mouth, I saw a white plastic band around my wrist, my name printed on it in neat little letters. For some unknown reason, I was wearing a hospital bracelet.

I looked around, and saw that I was lying on a cot surrounded by blue curtains. While I was wondering what the hell had happened, my gaze fell on Sam. He was sleeping in a chair next to my cot.

“Sam,” I rasped. His eyes snapped open, then he staggered to his feet and sat beside me on the cot.

“Hey, baby,” he murmured, smoothing my hair back from my forehead. “You’re gonna be all right.”

“What’s wrong with me?” I slurred.
Who’d packed all that cotton into my mouth?

“You were drugged.”

“Drugged? Who the hell would drug me?”

Sam frowned, his dark brows nearly touching. “Do you remember anything?”

I thought for a moment, which was pretty difficult since my head pounded as if a marching band was tromping across it. “I got a call from Nash to do some test shots for the romance covers,” I said. “I…I remember getting to the studio, but then there’s nothing. Nothing until now.” I looked down at the once-blue hospital gown, and asked, “Where are my clothes?”

“I have the ones you wore over to Nash’s,” Sam said, jerking his chin toward my backpack sitting on the floor next to the chair. “The EMTs had to cut your gown off.”

“EMTs? Gown?” I sat up, searching my memory but finding nothing but blackness. “Why were there EMTs? And what gown?”

“When I found you, you were unconscious, wearing that gown Jorge made,” Sam replied. He dragged his thumb across my cheekbone, then he shook his head. “I’ve never been so scared in my life as when you wouldn’t open your eyes.”

I reached out to ruffle my fingers through Sam’s dark hair, pausing when I felt the edge of adhesive tape on the back of his head. “Are you hurt?” I asked, feeling the bandage.

“Someone smacked me from behind,” Sam said. “It was right after I found you.”

My hand fell into my lap; in my wildest dreams—make that nightmares—I never thought something like this would happen to me. “Sam, what happened to me back there?”

He gathered me against him, his warm arms doing nothing to chase the coldness from the pit of my stomach. “I don’t know, baby,” he murmured, pressing his face against my hair. “I really don’t know.”

***

Once the ER doctor gave me the all clear, I excused myself to the bathroom and got dressed. Earlier, the doctor had advised me in his cold, clinical tone that they’d performed a complete examination of me, including a rape kit. When I asked about the results of the exam, he dropped his gaze to the chart in his hands.

“It takes a few days for results,” he’d said, while writing me a prescription for sedatives. “We will be in touch.”

Yeah, can’t wait to hear about the results of my rape kit.
“Anything else I should know?”

“Yes. You will feel the aftereffects of the drugging for a day or so, including headaches, dry mouth, and nausea.”

“Sounds like a hangover.”

The doctor met my gaze, his mouth pressed into a thin line. “In essence, that’s what it is.”

For a moment I wondered what he was implying, that maybe I was some party girl who often got drunk and let herself be…well, let whatever had happened to me happen. Instead of defending my honor, I just went into the bathroom and got myself dressed. When I left the bathroom, the doctor was gone and Sam was waiting for me. After we stared at each other for a few moments, he spoke.

“The police want to talk to us,” he said. “It can wait until tomorrow.”

I shook my head. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Sam laced his fingers with mine, and we went hand in hand as we rode the elevator and then walked down the hall. When we stepped out into the bright light of day I sighed aloud. “What time is it?” I asked, shielding my eyes with my hand.

“About eleven in the morning,” Sam replied. “Thursday morning, that is. You were out for around thirty hours, near as I can tell.”

I stopped walking. “What?”

Sam wrapped his arms around me, but I didn’t reciprocate. I was so shocked I could hardly move. “Never been so scared in my life, baby,” he murmured against my hair. “I didn’t quit holding my breath until you opened your eyes up there.”

“How long…” I swallowed, and began again. “How long was I there before you found me?”

“That’s something else I don’t know,” Sam said. “I got there about an hour and a half after the last text you sent to Michael.”

Wow. Ninety minutes. An awful lot can happen in ninety minutes. “And you’ve been with me ever since?” I asked, looking up at him.

“I have.” He frowned, and stepped away from me. “I can go, if you don’t want—”

“No.” I grabbed his hands. “Please stay.”

Sam smiled tightly. “I’m not going anywhere, baby.”

After an all too short cab ride, we arrived at the police station. Sam and I were shown to a waiting room; it had plain walls and a plain wooden table with a few chairs scattered around it, pretty much what you would see on any given episode of
Law and Order
. In the corner sat a television on a rolling cart. We sat in silence until two detectives entered.

“Detective Salter, Detective Fillion,” the man said, indicating first himself and then his female companion. They sat opposite Sam and me, then Officer Fillion set a manila folder on the table. “Miss Sullivan, we understand that you remember very little of what happened?”

“I don’t really remember anything,” I said. “Nash called me, and asked me to do some test shots. I’d been hired as a cover model for some books. I got to the studio, then Nash offered me a cup of coffee…” I shook my head. “Everything after the coffee is just empty.”

The detectives glanced at each other, then Detective Fillion withdrew a disc from the folder. “Miss Sullivan, during our investigation we learned that Mr. Williams has been videotaping the events that transpired within the studio. We would like you to watch it, and see if it jogs your memory.” Detective Fillion paused, then added, “I will warn you, it contains difficult subject matter.”

I laced my fingers with Sam’s, then I nodded. As long as Sam was with me, I could handle anything. “I’ll watch it,” I said.

Detective Fillion rose and slid the disc into the slot, then she turned on the television and rolled the cart closer. “There’s no sound,” she said, as the screen flickered to life. The video began with Nash moving around the studio, arranging the set pieces.

“That’s Nash Williams?” asked Salter.

“Yes,” Sam and I replied in unison, then another man moved into view and I gasped.

“Do you recognize that man?” Fillion demanded.

“Yeah,” I said. “His name is Ben. He teaches an art class at the museum near my apartment. I used to model for the classes, and he paid me fifty dollars per session.” I shuddered. “He started acting weird, so I called the museum and asked about him. They told me that they don’t pay models. Ben had been paying me out of his own pocket to go there.”

Salter frowned. “Our investigation revealed that Mr. MacKellar here struck and injured Benjamin Williams at a gallery opening, and that Mr. MacKellar is also Nash Williams’ assistant,” he said.

“Sam had nothing to do with what happened at the studio,” I snapped, then my brain processed what else Office Salter had revealed. “Ben’s last name is Williams?”

“Yes. Benjamin and Nash are brothers. You didn’t know?”

“I did not.” I flopped back in my chair, my thoughts spinning. While I searched my memory for any indication that the two had known each other, Detective Salter asked Sam, “Were you aware that they were related?”

“Stop questioning Sam,” I said, but Sam squeezed my hand.

“It’s all right, they’re just doing their jobs,” Sam murmured. “I’ve worked for Nash for over a year, and I never once heard him mention a brother, or any other relation, for that matter. I’ve only seen Ben three times, twice at the art class at the museum, and once at the gallery when I decked him good.”

Salter said something else, but I didn’t hear him. Ben was gone and I had appeared on the screen, and I watched as Nash greeted me, then he sent me off to change. I emerged a few minutes later wearing Jorge’s gown, its swan song before the EMTs had cut it to shreds, and then video me poured a cup of coffee. Nash and I stood together for a few moments, then he posed me and took a few shots. After the third pose, Nash put down his camera and brought me my coffee. When I finished the first cup he promptly poured me a second.

“That coffee was terrible,” I said. Oh good, the video had jogged my memory. “Bitter.”

Detective Fillion glanced at me. “We’re still waiting for the final analysis, but we believe that the coffee was how they drugged you.”

“What kind of bastard drugs coffee?” I wondered, then the king of bastards strode into the frame: Ben. Britt on the television laughed when she saw him, and kept laughing as he unlaced her bodice and started playing with her breasts.

“I-I don’t remember any of this,” I said, unable to tear my gaze from the screen. To my horror, Ben unzipped his pants, and I went down on my knees before him.

“Oh, my God,” I whimpered, tears streaming down my cheeks. Sam scooted his chair closer and put his arm around me, but I hardly noticed him. On the screen Nash dropped his pants, and for a moment they crowded so close to me I was hidden from the camera’s view. Thank God for that. Then, the me onscreen toppled over.

“What happened?” I asked the detectives. “Did one of them push me?”

“We think they put too much of the drug in the coffee,” Salter said. “You passed out.”

“Oh.” I bit my fist, watching the screen as Nash and Ben slapped my face for a while, then they dragged me to the couch and set me on it. They stood over me for a minute, gesturing in a way that made me think they were arguing. All of a sudden they stopped, both of them looking toward the elevator, then they retreated behind the set. A moment later Sam rushed to my side, dropping to his knees as he tried to rouse me. When I wouldn’t wake up, he covered me with his leather jacket, then he stood and looked around the studio. While Sam’s back was turned, Ben crept up behind him.

“Behind you,” I whispered, but it didn’t matter since video Sam couldn’t hear me. Ben hit Sam with some metal object, and Sam fell across my body. Sam was only down for a moment, then he was trying to rouse me again, shaking my shoulders as his tears streamed down his face and onto my cheeks. He grabbed his phone and spoke into it for a moment, then he pressed his forehead to mine as he held my hands.

The EMTs burst into the studio, and Detective Fillion paused the video. “Do you remember any of that?” she asked.

“No,” I replied. “I’m sorry, but I don’t.”

“There’s no need to apologize, Miss Sullivan,” Salter said in his gruff voice. “If you’re up for it, there are some other videos we’d like you to watch.”

“Videos of me?” I asked, my voice panicked.

“No, videos of other victims.” Officer Salter scrubbed his face; I wondered how long he’d been working on cases like this. “We would like to know if you recognize any of those involved.”

As much as I wanted to run away and hide, the thought of there being additional victims turned my stomach. I had to help those girls or boys any way I could. “All right.”

The detectives glanced at each other, then Fillion ejected the disc documenting my humiliation, and proceeded to insert disc after disc featuring different girls, though all of the encounters followed the same basic theme. Nash and Ben gave the girls something to drink, then they started giggling and taking their clothes off. Even though Fillion ejected the discs before anything too unseemly was captured, I knew that all of those girls had been raped. Just like I had been raped.

“Those are the girls from the news,” Sam said, when we saw a video of two blonde girls who looked no more than fifteen. They were topless, wearing only see through pink pants. “The sisters that were found in the motel room. I walked in on Nash and them, and he sent me home with pay.”

Fillion nodded. “Luckily, they survived.” Before I could ask what the hell that meant, she ejected that disc and popped in a different video. “This is the last one taken before the events involving you, Miss Sullivan.”

I turned toward the screen, and saw yet another topless girl stumbling around Nash’s studio. Then she turned toward the camera, and I gasped. “That’s Jillene,” I said. “She was another model at the art museum.”

“Do you know her surname?” Fillion asked.

I shook my head. “I don’t really know anything about her. We were just acquaintances, never said much more than hi to each other. She was always so nice.” I tore my gaze from the screen to Fillion; the detective was frowning. “Is Jillene okay?”