22. Lemon

Chapter 22

Lemon

I 'm sprawled on Atticus' ridiculously plush couch, my toes sinking into the stupid-expensive rug, when I finally work up the nerve to ask about the investigation. Atticus gives me that look. The one that says he'd rather eat glass than discuss this shit with me.

"It's ongoing," he grunts, adjusting his tie like it's strangling him. "That's all I know."

And just like that, he's out the door in a cloud of cologne and repressed emotions.

So freaking typical.

I let out a long sigh, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on me in this gilded cage. It's only been a week since I’ve been back in Atticus' penthouse fortress. Two weeks at Ezra’s before they both coaxed me back here. I’m sure that I didn’t really have a choice, but the illusion that Atticus let Ezra convince me was kind of nice.

Three weeks since I found out about my dad and Atticus and then I coated his dick with my tears and saliva as Ezra watched, kneeling on the floor.

He hasn’t used me since, but at least the playboy has been by my side with his flirty self. Literally never a dull moment with him around.

Speaking of the devil, he plops down next to me, his warmth seeping into my side. "Hey," he says, nudging me with his shoulder. "You okay?"

I snort. "Define okay."

He grins, that cocky little smirk that simultaneously makes me want to smack him and jump his bones. "Well, you're not in jail, you're not on the streets, and you've got two very attractive men looking out for you. I'd say that's pretty fucking okay."

I roll my eyes, but I can't help the smile tugging at my lips. "Your modesty is truly inspiring."

"I know, right?" He stretches, his shirt riding up to reveal a tantalizing strip of skin. The asshole knows exactly what he's doing. "But seriously, Lemon. You're safe here. This place is like Fort Knox now. Atticus really fucking went all out."

I raise an eyebrow. "I just…I hate feeling so fucking helpless, you know? Like I'm just sitting here twiddling my thumbs while my life goes to shit around me."

Ezra laughs. "You’re not helpless. You have some power. Plus, the doorman downstairs is built like a brick shithouse. Nobody's getting in here without an engraved invitation and a full body cavity search."

I wrinkle my nose. "Gross."

"Hey, safety first," he says with a wink.

I lean back, taking in the view of New Haven City through those supposedly bulletproof windows. The skyline glitters like a sea of diamonds, beautiful and untouchable. Just like everything else in my life lately.

"Remind me never to off someone in Atticus’ kitchen. "

Ezra stretches again. "Speaking of which, why don't you go for a swim or hit the hot tub? Try to relax a bit while I go for a run and meet with an investor."

I wrinkle my nose, giving him a skeptical look. "You run?"

"Yes, smartass, I run," he retorts, that cocky grin back in full force. "Haven't had a chance in few weeks, what with playing bodyguard to your biteable ass. Now that I know my bellezza is safe, I can finally get back to it." He winks, adding in a lower voice, "Plus, I need the cardio to take Atticus hammering my ass."

I nearly choke on my own spit, heat rushing to my face. "Jesus Christ, Ezra!"

He laughs, a rich, throaty sound that is so damn sexy. "Oh please, like you haven't thought about it only a hundred times."

I grab a throw pillow and chuck it at his head, which he dodges with ease. "Get out of here before I decide to test how bulletproof these windows really are."

Ezra holds up his hands in mock surrender, backing toward the door. "Alright, alright, I'm going. Try not to miss me too much while I'm gone."

As soon as the door clicks shut behind him, I let out a long breath, trying to ignore the heat still prickling under my skin. Damn him and his stupid, sexy everything.

I glance toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, catching sight of my reflection. I look…different. Softer around the edges, maybe, but with a new hardness in my eyes. This place, this situation—it's changing me, whether I like it or not.

With a sigh, I haul myself off the couch and pad toward the bedroom to change into my swimsuit. Maybe Ezra's right. Maybe a swim will help clear my head.

The rooftop pool’s infinity edges make it look like you could just swim right off into the New Haven skyline. The water is perfectly heated.

I slip in, feeling the tension start to melt from my muscles almost immediately. As I float on my back, staring up at the clouds in the sky through the canopy, I can almost pretend that everything's normal. That I'm just some rich bitch enjoying her penthouse pool, not a broke girl with no family, relying on the ‘generosity and protection’ of my dad’s best friend and his lover who make my head spin in the best and worst ways.

I float there for what feels like hours, letting the gentle lapping of the water against the pool's edge lull me into a trance. The sun beats down on my face, warm and comforting, as puffy white clouds drift lazily overhead. For a moment, I can almost forget the shitstorm that is my life.

But reality has a way of creeping back in, doesn't it?

My thoughts drift to Dad, locked away in some cold, sterile prison cell. Is he scared? Angry? Does he regret what he's gotten caught up in, or is he just pissed? I bet he’s pissed. The questions swirl in my mind like a fucking tornado, and suddenly I can't stand it anymore.

I need to see him and figure out what the fuck is going on. I hype myself up that I can do this. I’m not Veronica Mars, but I can poke around. I don’t want to be the type of girl who just rolls over and accepts all the shitty things.

I haul myself out of the pool, water cascading off my body and leaving a trail of wet footprints as I stomp toward the bedroom.

I throw on the first clothes I can find. A pair of jeans and a faded band tee that probably belonged to Ezra at some point. Definitely not Atticus approved, but I’m not about to call him and ask him what should I wear as I leave the penthouse that I’m definitely not supposed to leave. Let alone leave to go see my dad in prison.

The elevator dings open, and I step inside, my heart pounding. I know I'm taking a risk, but it’s worth it. It has to be. I need answers, and I'm tired of waiting for someone else to give them to me.

As the doors slide shut, I take a deep breath. I need to be in and out and back before either of them realizes I’m gone.

I don’t want to know what Atticus will do if he realizes I’m gone or where I went.

I step out of the cab, my heart pounding so hard I swear it's gonna burst right out of my chest. The prison looms before me, concrete and razor wire. It’s like something out of a nightmare.

I hand the cabbie a wad of bills I swiped from Atticus' counter. Guilt twists in my gut, but I shove it down. This is more important than his pocket change.

Taking a deep breath that does jack shit to calm my nerves, I march toward the entrance. The automatic doors whoosh open, blasting me with a gust of stale, air-conditioned air that smells vaguely of disinfectant and despair.

I approach the front desk, where a woman with hair pulled back so tight it's practically screaming sits looking bored out of her skull. "I'm here to see my dad," I blurt out. "Lawson Vaughn."

The woman's eyebrows shoot up, and she lets out a snort that sounds like a cross between a laugh and a pig having an asthma attack. "Well, well. Richie rich girl never done this before, huh?" She gives me a once-over that makes me feel like I'm butt-naked instead of wearing Ezra's old band tee. "Alright, honey. Let's get you sorted. ID."

I fumble in my pocket, pulling out my driver's license. My hands are shaking so badly I nearly drop it.

"Okay, Lemon Vaughn," she says, eyeing the ID. "Now, empty your pockets. Everything goes in this tray." She shoves a white plastic container at me. "That means phone, keys, wallet, loose change, any jewelry. Take off your shoes, too."

I comply, feeling more exposed with each item I remove. The cold floor seeps through my socks as I stand there, shifting from foot to foot.

"Arms out, legs apart," she barks, coming around the desk with a wand. She runs it over my body, pausing at my bra. "Under wire?"

I nod, face burning.

She sighs like I've personally offended her. "Gonna have to pat you down then. Stand still."

Her hands are quick and impersonal as they pat me down, but it doesn't make it any less humiliating. When she's done, she steps back.

"Alright, you're clear. Put your shoes back on. You'll go through that door there," she points to a heavy metal door to my right, "where you'll be searched again. Then you'll be escorted to the visitation room. No physical contact with the inmate beyond a brief hug at the beginning and end of the visit. No passing of items. You have 30 minutes. Everything you say and do will be monitored. Any questions?"

I shake my head, not trusting my voice.

"Good, put this on. Next!" A visitor badge is thrusted at me and someone pushes me out of the way as they go through the same motions of emptying their pockets .

As I walk toward the door, my legs feel like jelly. What the fuck am I getting myself into?

I push through the heavy metal door, my heart pounding so hard I swear the guards can hear it. Another bored-looking officer waves me over, and I go through the whole dance again—arms out, legs spread, cold hands patting me down. This time, they make me take off my socks as well, checking between my toes like I'm some kind of drug mule.

When they're finally satisfied I'm not smuggling in a file in my bra or whatever, a guard with breath that could strip paint off a car grunts at me to follow him. We walk down a long corridor that seems to stretch on forever, our footsteps echoing off the bare concrete walls. The fluorescent lights overhead flicker and buzz, giving everything a sickly green tinge that makes my stomach churn.

The guard stops abruptly in front of another metal door, this one with a small, wire-reinforced window. He swipes a keycard, and it buzzes open with a harsh metallic clang that makes me jump.

"In here," he grunts, jerking his thumb toward the room. "Sit. Wait."

The visiting area is depressing, all gray with fluorescent lights that make everyone look like extras from a zombie flick. There's a row of metal tables bolted to the floor, each with two chairs facing each other. They're probably meant to look sturdy, but they just look sad and defeated, like they've given up on life.

Another burly employee of this fine establishment with a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp stands by the door, his eyes scanning the room with all the enthusiasm of someone watching paint dry. His uniform stretches tight across his gut, and I wonder if he's ever had to chase anyone down or if he just glares them into submission.

I shuffle over to an empty table, the legs of the chair scraping against the floor with a sound that sets my teeth on edge. As I sit, I half expect the chair to collapse under me, but it holds. Small mercies, I guess.

There's a vending machine in the corner that looks like it's been through a war, covered in dents and scratches. I bet it eats more money than it spits out snacks.

Other visitors are scattered around the room, their hushed conversations creating a constant murmur that sounds like the world's most depressing beehive. A woman a few tables over is crying silently, mascara running down her face in black rivers. Her companion, a guy with more tattoos than skin, looks like he wants to comfort her but can't because of the "no touching" rule. It's fucking heartbreaking.

I drum my fingers on the table, the metal cool under my fingertips. My leg bounces up and down, a nervous tic I can't control. The clock on the wall ticks away the seconds with agonizing slowness, each tick feeling like a personal attack on my sanity.

Just when I think I might scream from the tension, the door on the far side of the room opens with a metallic groan. My breath catches in my throat as I see him.

Dad.

His hair is lighter than I remember, and there are new lines etched into his face. But his eyes, those green eyes that are so like mine, they're the same. They lock onto me, and for a moment, I'm five years old again, running to him for comfort after a nightmare.

He walks toward me, his movements stiff and awkward in the orange jumpsuit that hangs loose on his frame. As he gets closer, I can see the dark circles under his eyes, the stubble on his chin. He looks tired. So fucking tired.

"Lemon," he says, his voice rough with emotion. "What are you doing here?"

I'm on my feet before I know it, throwing my arms around Dad's neck. He smells like cheap soap, but underneath it all, there's still that familiar scent of home. His arms wrap around me, strong and secure, and for a moment, I forget where we are. I forget everything except the feeling of being held by my father.

The guard clears his throat, a sound like gravel in a blender. "That's enough," he barks.

I step back reluctantly, my eyes burning with unshed tears. Dad's hands linger on my shoulders for a heartbeat before he lets go, and we both sink into our respective chairs.

"Jesus, kid," Dad says, his voice full of worry. "You shouldn't be here."

I shrug, aiming for nonchalance, but probably missing by a mile. "Yeah, well, when has that ever stopped me?"

He chuckles, the sound rusty like it hasn't been used in a while. "Fair point. You always were a bit stubborn."

We fall into an awkward silence. I study his face, cataloging the changes. The new wrinkles around his eyes. It makes my chest ache.

"So," I say, breaking the silence. "How's the food?"

Dad barks out a laugh, startling the couple at the next table. "Terrible. Makes me miss your attempts at cooking."

"Hey!" I protest, a grin tugging at my lips despite everything. "I'll have you know I've improved. I can now use the microwave without setting off the smoke alarm."

"Will wonders never cease," he deadpans, but there's a twinkle in his eye that I've missed so damn much .

We fall into an easy banter, talking about nothing and everything until we’ve run out of superficial things.

Dad winces, guilt flashing across his face. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I never meant for any of this to happen."

"Yeah, well, it did," I snap, then immediately regret it when I see the pain in his eyes. I take a deep breath, trying to rein in my temper. "Look, I'm…I'm okay. I'm staying with Uncle Atti."

Relief washes over Dad's face. "Thank God. I was worried sick about you. Atticus is a good man. He'll keep you safe."

I feel heat creep up my neck, thinking about exactly how Atticus has been taking care of me. I don’t think Dad would be calling him a good man.

"Dad," I say, leaning forward, my voice barely above a whisper. "What the hell is going on? I need to know."

His eyes dart around the room, and he opens his mouth to speak, but before he can get a word out, the guard's voice booms across the room. "Time's up!"

Fuck. No, no, no. I'm not ready. I need more time.

I stand up so fast my chair screeches against the floor, drawing annoyed glances from the other visitors. I don't care. I throw my arms around Dad, clinging to him like I'm drowning and he's my only lifeline.

"Atticus thinks you betrayed him," I whisper urgently into his ear, my words tumbling out in a rush. "He thinks you sold him out and fed things about his business to the competition."

I feel Dad's body go rigid against mine, his jaw clenching so tight I can almost hear his teeth grinding. He pulls back, his eyes boring into mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch. He gives a small, almost imperceptible nod before the guard's meaty hand clamps down on his shoulder .

"Let's go, Vaughn," the guard grunts, already steering Dad away.

I watch as Dad walks away, his shoulders slumped but his head held high. He doesn't look back, and somehow that hurts more than anything else.

The room suddenly feels too small, too hot. The fluorescent lights are too bright, searing my eyes. The constant murmur of voices becomes a roar in my ears. I stumble backward, my legs hitting the chair I'd just vacated.

And then, like a dam breaking, the tears come.

They start silently, hot trails running down my cheeks.

Before I know it, I'm standing outside the prison gates, the late afternoon sun beating down on me. The world seems too bright, too loud, too fucking normal after what just happened.

I fumble for my phone, my vision blurred by tears. I need to call a cab, need to get back to the penthouse before Atticus or Ezra realize I'm gone.

I came for answers, but all I got was tears. My dad is innocent, I know it. I knew it before, but looking into his face, I’m more convinced than ever.

Now, I just need to get Atticus to see reason.

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