Forbidden: A Standalone (40 page)

W
e had to cross a fake cobblestone lane to get to the parking lot. I’d taken a cab. Deacon drove. So we had to exit and cross, and I didn’t even know if I wanted to go with him.

The paps waited outside in a pack. I’d be in the news with Deacon’s hand on my back. They didn’t faze him, no matter what they said. One time, early in our relationship, a pap had tried to get a rise out of him by calling me Deacon’s Famous Little Fucktoy.

I thought he’d fly off the handle, but he didn’t. He stared at the man, and the pap never came around again. After that, they didn’t say much to me when he was around, unless they were new. Another stare, and it was done.

We walked into the lot.

A valet approached, and Deacon waved him off. “I’ll get it myself.”

We took the stairs, as always. No elevator. No one handles the car but him.

So many little things.

Like the way he walked a little bit behind me. The way he opened a door slowly and didn’t go through right away, or the way he checked right then left before he let me walk through it first. The casual spot check of the car. The way he unlocked it from as far away as possible then locked it again so if it exploded, we were half a garage away.

I stopped and pressed my fingers to my eyelids. “I can’t do this.” My voice echoed in the empty concrete space.

“Then
what?
” he shouted.

He never shouted.

“I’m just using you. Don’t you see that?”

“What do you want?” His jaw tightened. He pointed the key at me as if he were going to unlock me remotely with a light-flashing beep.

“I want to be normal.”

“Jesus Christ. You might as well want to be taller. Normal wasn’t the hand you were dealt. You and I, we’re not normal. That’s not a choice we have.”

“I know. I…”

I stopped myself. Did I want to do this? Out here in the parking lot, with the sound of tires screeching around turns somewhere in the depths, did I want to do this? I’d done an incomplete job in my penthouse if he thought he could just show up.

“You were supposed to be away,” I said. “On the continent. Why did you stay?”

“Africa’s just one fucking crisis after another. But you? You’re broken, and if I’m not here to fix it, I’m responsible for what happens.”

“Okay, listen to me. You aren’t responsible for my shit. You know who’s responsible for that? Me. All me. I’ve been putting myself in stupid situations. I’ve been fucking crazy. And it’s my fault. Not yours. Everything that happens is my fault.” I took a deep breath. “That’s not true. Not everything is my fault, but the stuff I choose? That’s mine. Yes, I put myself in a ton of shit this week, and yes, I got out of all of it. I think I was testing myself. But also…” I swallowed. My spit tasted like metal.

“Also?”

He brushed my forearm, his fingers landing in the curve of my palm. It was so easy to fall into him and just submit myself. I pulled my hand away.

“Don’t. I can’t use you anymore. And I can’t treat you like a barometer. Or whatever. I don’t even know what a barometer does. But if it’s something a grown woman looks at to decide if she’s doing right or wrong, then I can’t use you for that.”

“This is what it is. And if it works? What’s the problem?”

“It doesn’t work. I didn’t tell you who hurt me in Westonwood because you’d freak out and kill someone.”

He raised his finger. “I knew it—”

“You don’t know anything.”

“I saw what he did.”

“I’m the only one who can make it right. I’m the only one who can stop it from happening to someone else. I just…” As if the underground parking lot had cracked open and sunlight shone through, I knew the problem. “I was scared. I thought if I brought it up, I’d be asking the universe for it to happen again.”

He put his hands on my jaw and moved his face close to mine. I didn’t feel safe or enclosed, but I didn’t feel endangered. I felt a responsibility to him, as a man, as a lover, as a friend who cared about me.

“What happened?” he said in a low voice, not his Dominant tone, but something just as serious.

“Right before I left, I went to the creek with him to talk about the sleeping pills he got me. He raped me. It hurt. I told him to stop. But I had to get out of there, so I didn’t tell anyone.”

“You sat next to me in my car right after he did that?”

I nodded, looking down. “I wasn’t trying to shut you out.”

“Who was it?”

“Doesn’t matter.” I looked into his eyes. “I’m going to take care of it.”

“I can’t tell you what it does to me that someone hurt you. You’re mine. I chose you. To not go there and kill him right now… where I’m from, I’d tie him to the back of my Jeep and drag him through the street until he didn’t have a bone left that wasn’t broken.”

“To send a message.”

“To make you feel safe. I have no tools here. Anyone can take what’s mine, and I can’t do anything.”

“I have tools. But I can’t drag him around the street. This isn’t Africa.”

“Let me help you then.”

I pressed my lips together. “This is going public. You can help me by not getting mad about it. You should probably go back to Johannesburg, because your privacy is probably going to be not-so-private anymore.”

He leaned on one foot, the picture of male perfection. His presence in the ugly parking lot made it more beautiful, yet he looked at a complete loss. “I don’t know what I care about besides you.”

I took a deep breath, because I had to expand my chest to fit a new love for him. I’d never known why he needed me, and with those words, I understood it all. By sheltering the unprotectable, controlling the out-of-control, he gave himself a task so impossible, he’d never run out of shit to keep him from his own problems.

I loved him more than ever.

I took his cheeks in my hands.

“I’m going home, Master.”

fiona

I
 dreamed dreams of a narrow wall reaching to the sky. I walked on the top, toe to heel. Then with wider strides, and wider, until I was running, fearlessly, recklessly, Los Angeles beneath me at cruising altitude. The wall ended, and I walked on the sky. Then I feared, and fell, and woke to another day.

I had a voice mail from Elliot when I got out of the shower.

I want you to know. I told the admins. They’re investigating. You’re going to be fine, no matter what. And I’m here for you, no matter what
.

My lungs got too small for breaths. I nearly choked on my own spit. People were going to know. They’d talk about how I’d said no. They’d come and ask me about it. I sat on the bathroom floor, wet and naked, staring at his message.

The phone rang.

“Fiona?” Elliot asked. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.”

“Your sister already told law enforcement. They came right after. They want to do an examination.”

I didn’t answer.

“Fiona?”

“I’m not a victim.”

“You don’t have to use that word.”

“They will.”

“You’re not alone. I’m here. If you can’t lean on me, I talked to your sister. She’ll be there for you every step—”

I hung up. Half a second later, the screen lit up with Margie’s name.

It was all over.

fiona

T
he rape kit was as bad as I thought it would be, and it was probably for nothing, because it had been days since the assault. But the woman from LAPD insisted it could only help. After the first two hours, the speculum, the swabs, the photographs of my ass, we hadn’t even started.

“There’s no point,” Margie said from behind me. I was in stirrups, and the young tech was coming at me with tape. “We have to skip combing for hair. She’s showered.”

“We can skip anything you want.”

“No,” I said. “If we’re doing it, we’re doing it.”

Margie squeezed my hand through the exam.

Afterward, we sat at a desk and I described everything in brutal, painful detail to a female detective in a button down shirt. She seemed more angry about it than I did, and I appreciated that. Margie was the most irritated. I felt her anger at the process. It radiated through her tan suit in the form of a calm, dead heat.

“It’s okay,” I said in the cafeteria when the detective had been called away. Margie needed more comfort than I did.

My phone rang. Elliot again. I shut it. He wanted to be there, and I didn’t want him anywhere near me. Not for this.

“Daddy’s going to find out,” she said.

“He’s not going to believe me.”

A shadow passed over us, and I looked up to find out who had blocked the light.

“Speak of the devil,” Margie said.

“And he shall appear, Margaret.”

Our father wore a perfect suit and held his hands in front of him as if he didn’t want to appear too threatening. It didn’t work. The full head of sandy-red hair came to a point at the center, reminding me that maybe I shouldn’t speak of him if I didn’t want him to show up.

“Where’s Mom?” I asked.

“Ibiza. I told her to stay. I have this.” He turned his sharp eyes to Margie. “Will you excuse us?”

“She’s going to tell me everything anyway. So no.”

Margie, of all of us, was the least afraid of Declan Drazen.

He swung a chair around and sat with us. He stared at me as if I had a really good book stuck to my face.

“What?” I asked.

“You’re telling the truth?”

“Dad,” Margie protested.

He ignored her.

“Of course I’m telling the truth.”

“May I be frank and less than politically correct?” he asked.

“No,” Margie said, but she was ignored again.

“Go the fuck ahead. I don’t care.”

“Your reputation precedes you. It’s an ugly thing to say, but how you act affects how people treat you. You don’t have to like it. It’s the world.”

“Really?” Margie looked ready to jump out of her skin. “Are you fucking with her?”

I pointed at him and spoke firmly. “I said no. No is no, regardless of how many guys fucked me this year or this week.” I spat it out, hoping to upset him. I failed.

“I know. And for that, I’m going to destroy him and the family that created him. That kid’s always been trouble, and they allowed it. I can’t abide anyone knowing they took what wasn’t theirs. That they took it
from us.
But that’s why I need to make sure you’re telling the truth and this isn’t some game.”

“You’re sick if you think I’d play a game like this.”

“Maybe. I’m guilty of plenty. Your mother too. The number one mistake we made was raising you the same way Warren was raised, and we’re setting it right.”

“You going to unraise her, Dad?” Margie’s arms were crossed so tight, it looked as if she had one sleeve around both forearms.

“It’s time you took some responsibility.” He sat up straight. “I warned you this could happen if you slipped again, and you did. In Holmby Hills. We heard all about it. You can keep your non-liquid assets, but the trust is revocable. We’re exercising our right to remove you until further notice. I’m sorry, Fiona. It’s for the best.”

“Miss Drazen?” The detective came back and leaned over the table. “Do you want to finish?”

I stood. “Yes. I’ll finish.” I turned to Dad. “You can take the money. I get your logic. It’s stupid and too late, but I get it. Now fuck off. And thank Mom for coming by.”

I threw up a middle finger and followed the detective to the back without seeing how Dad reacted.

fiona

“H
ow did it go?” Elliot asked from his doorway. Pajama bottoms. No shirt. Beautiful. He was better toned than I ever expected from a psychologist trained for the priesthood. And with his hair mussed from sleep and the scruff on his chin, I found myself attracted to him as if I hadn’t been before. And I had been, but I’d been attracted to him as a person. I wanted to fuck him because of who he was, but standing in the doorway, I wanted him because he was physically beautiful in his bafflement.

“Terrible. Yesterday was the worst day of my life. I should have just hired someone to murder him.”

Elliot didn’t have blood in his revenge fantasies. He dreamed of justice and goodness. I wished I could be like him. I admired his squeaky-clean soul. His commitment to
rightness
. And there I was at five in the morning, like a devil on his shoulder.

“But it’s kind of a relief. Like a weight’s off.”

“Come in,” he said, stepping out of the way. “You can tell me all about how you’d murder him.”

The house was dark. He’d gone to the door without turning on a light, and I wanted to see it. All of it. Would the house be as warm as his office? Would the rug and chair be inviting? Would the light ask gentle questions?

“Can I make you tea or something?” he asked.

“Do you have coffee?”

“No.”

“Tea is fine.” I could see the kitchen from where I stood. “I’ll make it.”

“Sit. I have it. Just give me a minute to clear the crap out of my eyes.”

He padded down a short hall and into the bedroom. A soft light came from it. I wanted to see inside.

What the hell was wrong with me?

Was I nervous? I didn’t get nervous. Not around men. Not around anyone I wanted to fuck. I was in charge.

I clicked a switch over the toaster. Cold light flooded the surfaces: the granite countertop, the tiles, the grain in the wood cabinets. I snapped the teapot off the stove and filled it. I didn’t even like tea. Fuck this.

I put the teapot on the burner.
Click click click.
The stove wouldn’t light.

Fuck this again. I’d waited all night, staring at the ceiling, debating whether to come see him or not, only to stand here unable to light the fucking stove.

The room light went from cold blue fluorescent to warm and dim with a click. With a
whoosh,
the burner flamed blue.

Elliot leaned in the doorway, hair straightened, T-shirt covering the body I’d just admired.

“Thanks,” I said, taking my eyes off him. I should have just grabbed his dick. Nothing like a straight line between two points. But I didn’t know what would go over with this guy, if anything. I was probably going to chase him all over LA and wind up turned away. “I like the incandescent light too.”