Chapter 15
MAE
Allyson: I’ve finally landed! Join me at Astor’s lobby bar for a drink?
Missed Calls: (3) Allyson
Allyson: Just let me know you’re okay. You know I start imagining the worst when you don’t answer.
Missed Calls: (2) Allyson
Allyson: Good morning… I think? Still no word. Hope it’s just because you’re hyper-focused on your collection.
Allyson: If you feel like resurfacing, meet me for lunch at Half Moon’s.
Missed Calls: (6) Allyson
Allyson: Mae… I’m FREAKING OUT. I just saw Peter outside Ritchie’s Grill with I’m guessing his brother? They look alike. Just when you think one is bad enough! He asked me how you were enjoying your stay at my(?) beach house! WTF is that about?
Allyson: Why is he looking for you, Mae? Where are you?
Allyson: For the love of God, please let me know you’re okay!!!
Missed Calls: (10) Allyson
Stepping out onto the balcony, after having read through three days’ worth of messages and calls from my rightfully concerned best friend, my phone buzzes again.
Allyson: If I don’t hear your voice by tonight, I’m calling the police.
I press on her name, and she answers on the first ring.
“My God, Mae, I thought you were buried in a ditch somewhere!”
The idea isn’t completely absurd.
“Ally, I’m sorry. I haven’t had my phone on me for the last few days and—”
“What do you mean? You just vanished without your phone?”
At this point in time, it’s easier to just agree. “In a sense, yes. But it’s a messy conversation to not have in person.” I wouldn’t even know where to start or how to detail Damon’s involvement without her forming a poor judgment of him. “I was just reading through your messages now and needed to call you back with proof of life.”
“Right.” Allyson barely seems convinced that I am me. “Is he there with you?” she whispers.
“Peter?”
“Of course, Peter, who else?”
Well…
“Ah, no. I don’t know where he is actually.” But he’s soon to be here and steeling my nerves for it is a lot harder than anticipated. Still, no matter how sincere Damon appeared when asking me to stay, throwing caution to the wind has never been easy for me, and I’m left fighting the voice of doubt that perhaps there are ulterior motives involved. That fine line between friend and foe has blurred too much for comfort, but at least I can rest assured I won’t be handed over as part of a transaction.
“Oh, so, you’re home then?”
“Ah, not quite.” I hate lying to my friend, but I simply don’t know how to make the truth work. “But I don’t want you stressing.”
When she laughs, it eases my tense shoulders. “It’s a bit late for that.”
“I know, and I am sorry.”
Allyson’s sigh triggers a tear to slip down my cheek. I miss her. And I miss normalcy. Peter has limited our interactions over time, and it’s been felt. “Just tell me if you need help, okay?”
“I will, I promise.”
After a tentative pause, she asks, “So, what happens now?”
“The exhibition is taking full priority. I promise.”
“Babe, I can help. Just tell me what—”
“ You have done enough. It’s all on me now, and it will be done.”
Will it?
Inspiration has dwindled, and even as I stare out at the city and ocean view, it leaves me with little desire to pick up a paintbrush.
A contemplative silence settles between us, and I sense her hesitation. “Mae…”
A hard lump lodges in my throat. “Yes?”
“Has he hurt you?”
This I can answer honestly. “He will if I return home.”
“So come to the hotel. We’ll work it out from here.”
“No, Ally, I couldn’t do that to you.” I leave out the part that staying with her wouldn’t be a deterrent for someone like Peter when he’s fixated on the hunt.
He’ll take what he wants every time or die trying .
~
DAMON
“There’s still time to back out?”
I watch Mae anxiously fiddling with the belt on her dress, her wide eyes flitting to mine. “No. I want to see his face and every emotion you put him through.”
From the living room, Jason grins, even if it is more to himself. “We’re rubbing off on her.”
“It’s not going to be pretty,” I warn once more.
“I know.” She nods. “I’m counting on it being ugly.”
There’s a knowing chuckle from my brother. “Told you.”
Biting the inside of my cheek, I stop a smile. “I think Jase might be right. We’re a terrible influence.”
She turns to me, fingernails raking over my chest in a way that could see me hauling her over my shoulder to find a nice, private room. “Maybe I’m not as sweet as you think I am.”
“Nothing you do or say, sweetheart, will convince me otherwise.”
“Boss,” Marco calls while entering the front door, holding his phone to his ear. “He’s pulling up the driveway.”
Mae may want me to believe she’s perfectly capable of handling a volatile confrontation, but her shaky inhale further proves she’s putting on a brave face. Pulling her into my arms, I tilt Mae’s face to mine.
“Remember something for me.”
“Anything.”
“He can no longer hurt you. He no longer has power over you. And you no longer have to be scared of him.”
Mae opens her mouth to reply, but the sound of hard-soled shoes entering the foyer makes her pull away, white-knuckled fingers wringing with nervous energy.
“Well, well, well,” Peter announces. “Look who it is.”
He looks set to crucify his wife, who’s doing an incredible job of standing her ground. While the chaise between them prevents the asshole from launching himself at her, his silent promise of reckoning hangs thick in the air.
“What is she doing here?” Peter asks with an extra layer of contempt.
“You know why. Mae needed to sign her NDA.” Taking the folder off the table, I hold it for him to see. “Which she’s done. Plus, I invited her to view my latest Picasso acquisition. It’s quite the piece.” Cracking open a chilled bottle of sauvignon, I pour four glasses and hand one to Mae, our fingers brushing. I wink, and she exhales. “Are you a Picasso enthusiast, Peter?”
He accepts his glass. “I think we’ve established by now that I am not.”
“And that is a shame…” I continue, conversationally, “… because this particular piece you might appreciate. Many prefer the somber tones of his Blue Period, but I much prefer that of the upbeat Rose. Knowing Picasso was less of an abusive asshole during those few short years makes it easier to separate the artwork from the artist, don’t you think?”
Peter hesitates. “I suppose.”
“The history is colorful in itself. He abused each one of his wives, yet with each portrait he painted of them, his popularity increased. That’s quite the injustice.”
A shrug is followed by a widening grin. “I don’t know. It sounds to me like he had the best of both worlds.”
Spoken like a true abuser.
“I guess one could see it that way.” I sit on the arm of the sofa and catch Jason’s eyes behind Peter. He’s itching for his own version of violence. We both are. “Picasso once said, ‘Every time I change wives, I should burn the last one. You kill the woman, and you wipe out the past she represents .’ ”
The twisted quote is met with Peter’s laughter.
I knew it would tickle his inner psychopath.
“Perhaps…” he says, looking to Mae, “… he’s simply a man who knows his worth and wasn’t going to allow any woman, even the ones he married, to fuck him over.”
“You could well be onto something, Peter,” I say, watching him empty his wine glass. “Now, let’s eat.”
~
MAE
“We need an answer.”
Damon places a leather-bound folder in the center of the dining table and leans back in his chair.
“Are you in?”
Making a last-minute judgment call, Peter looks between the two brothers. Jason, who sits beside him and Damon, who’s seated across the table next to me. “I have my answer, but before I give it to you, I have one request.”
Always in control, Damon’s unfazed. “I’m listening.”
“From here on out, my wife is to be kept out of all discussions.”
He thinks he’s hurting me. What a fool to believe I’m not already numb to him.
“Well, the deal already only involves you, Peter. Mae was only to sign an NDA.”
“I gather that, but she’s not to attend any more business meetings. She is to play no part in this whatsoever. And I want the payment to be put into a layered trust where only I can access it.”
Damon considers Peter for a long moment, and I can just imagine what’s going through his mind. “That’s two requests. Anything else?”
My husband shakes his head, his face set to a permanent scowl.
“All right, then.” Damon gestures to the contract. “Go ahead.”
Peter opens the folder, and without bothering to read a sentence, he flips to the pages marked ‘Sign Here’ and scribbles his name so harshly it sounds like the pen is tearing the paper. He closes the folder with a smack and hands it back to Damon, proud he’s now working among the upper echelons of the building industry and yet so utterly clueless as to what awaits him.
Damon turns to Jason, and they share in their amusement.
Peter’s surging spite, his vendetta, and the white-hot rage he has for me have clouded his judgment. He’s so caught up in wanting to hurt me that he made a rookie error by not thoroughly reading the contract.
“The deal’s done,” Peter says with finality. “She can fuck off now.” He points to me. “Go home. And this time, damn well stay there.”
“Watch your fucking mouth,” Damon’s ice-cold warning sends a shiver up my spine and catches Peter off guard.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard what I said, asshole.”
“I did.” My husband’s smile is one of suspicion despite hoping to gain back his captive audience. “I guess I’m just a little confused as to what the hell is going on here because my wife has some explaining to do.”
“Oh, she does, does she?”
“Tell them, honey.” Peter throws back the last of his wine. “Tell them how you fucked off for a whole five days just so you can act the whore.” When he places the goblet back on the table, he toys with the stem as if contemplating smashing the glass and lunging for me.
Damon leans forward, the veins in his arms pulsing when interlacing his fingers on the table. “And you know this for sure?”
“Well, let’s just say, if you’re going to stage a lie that involves others, perhaps let the others know. Allyson, for example. Somehow, your best friend both forgot she owned a beach house or that she gave you the keys. So, whose cock were you riding, honey? Who’s the asshole you’ve been fucking?”
“I wouldn’t be so hard on her, Peter,” Damon says, feigning a nonchalant shrug.
Surprised his big reveal has fallen short in reception, he bites back, “And why the fuck not?”
“Because I’m the asshole who’s been fucking her .”
Silence befalls the group, and my heart pounds so violently in my chest the pain is crippling.
Damon maintains his unwavering challenge, allowing time for his confession to sink in.
Peter’s sudden laugh is uneasy because he wasn’t expecting the joke to be on him. “You’re fucking with me.”
Jason can’t help himself. “Not with you, he isn’t.”
Scathing, soulless eyes move between us. “Someone care to explain?”
“You heard me the first time,” Damon delivers the easy reply, “but to save any confusion later, I’m the one who’s been fucking your wife, Peter.”
After a palpable moment of utter disbelief, my husband turns to me. “Is this true?”
This might be the one time I can stick it to him to score even the smallest victory. “ Yes, it’s true, and I loved every second of it.”
Across the table, Jason’s amused grin suits him, while Damon—who makes no secret of it—takes my hand in his and places it on his lap. Peter, however, reels with rage and disgust when his venomous stare locks to mine.
“I should have listened when he said you belonged to him,” he says, not in reference to the man next to me. “You’ve proven to be nothing more than a stupid fucking slut.”
The vile slur enrages Damon, but he remains in admirable control. “You’re one step away from not walking out of here alive, Peter, so I’ll tell you this once… Watch. Your. Fucking. Mouth .”
Nostrils flaring, Peter considers the threat, quietly determining who he’s warring with. He glances at Jason, whose cold, hard stare reflects a cautionary warning.
“You’re a real piece of shit, Peter,” Damon continues. “I thought what I’d personally discovered about you was sickening enough, but what you’ve done to your wife truly defines the type of man you are. You’re one sick motherfucker. So, you can vilify Mae if it boosts your ill-gotten ego, but I suspect you’re simply projecting .”
A scowl mars the face of a man now aware he’s sitting among enemies. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
Damon tosses a yellow envelope in front of Peter. It lands with a thud.
“What’s this?”
Damon half smiles. “Your projections.”
Curiosity wins. Peter partially opens the envelope, snarling when recognizing the contents. Without a word, he discards the package.
Damon is not about to let him off that easily just because the truth hurts. He removes a stack of photographs. “Since you’ve suddenly gone shy…” he says, “… allow me to refresh your memory.”
He places the top image in the middle of the table for Peter and me to see.
I squint, looking closer, studying the faces and the positions.
What the actual hell?
“This is Claudia,” Damon begins. “You met her the weekend Mae visited her grandmother in the hospital. You accepted fellatio in the back of your car down an alley on the Saturday and fucked her on the Sunday.”
Another picture. Then another and another of the same woman with my husband.
“This is Nadia. You met her the Tuesday Mae flew to New York to discuss her exhibit. You had sex with her at The Palms Motel on that day and went back for more on Wednesday.”
I’m sickened.
Repulsed .
Damon offers me some assurance. “He may be a vile piece of shit, but according to the women, he does wear protection.” He turns back to Peter. “Perhaps it’s got something to do with your HIV scare nine years ago that makes you extra conscientious of it now.”
My husband’s eyes narrow into slits. “And how the fuck would you know that?”
“Medical records, Peter. They’re easy to access when you know the right people. You know a little bit about that.”
He isn’t likely to admit Carlson’s involvement, and since Damon isn’t elaborating, he’s no doubt wondering how much of the finer details his newest adversary knows.
“This is Natalie,” Damon says, dropping another photograph. “She says you tried to instigate anal, and when she said no, you gave her a bruised throat and concussion.”
Oh my God.
While I’m only aware of what Damon has uncovered in the last six months, my husband’s prostitute addiction could very well span the two years of our marriage. I reflect on all the occasions when he had the opportunity. Sick family visits. Work obligations. The week I spent bedridden with the worst flu in history. His business trips. All that time, he’d been trolling the streets like a common predator looking to get off.
Another series of photographs are shown.
“And here we have Claudia again with her friend Sam. They recognized you the night you were at the bar with Jason. You paid to have sex with both in the park, but when you became violent during intercourse, they ended the transaction prematurely, escaping with a black eye, fractured ribs, and a split lip between them.”
Staring at the monster sitting across from me, I cannot fathom what those women—in dealing with a stranger and his hostile unpredictability—would have experienced at the hands of my husband. I’m not just acquainted with the man and his violent tendencies, he has forced me to sleep with one eye open for years. These women stood no chance.
“For how long has this been going on, Peter?” I dare to ask.
He considers me with utter disdain. “I owe you fuck-all explanation, especially after you’ve been whoring around with him .”
“Time to step off your pedestal, Peter,” Damon shoots back. “Among many things, we’re yet to discuss, you’re a sadist and compulsive liar.”
“Maybe so, but you can forget about the contract,” he says confidently as if he still wields some power. “I want nothing to do with any of it.”
“That’s too bad for you, Peter,” Damon responds evenly. “Had you bothered reading the contracts, you’d know that you didn’t just sign an NDA, but also a completion of obligations, which clearly states a clause you probably should have paid attention to.”
Though holding up a defiant front, the color drains from his face.
“If you fail to perform under the agreement and breach the contract, you’ll be liable for damages. That includes monetary. We’ll hit you hard, Peter, and take everything you’ve got. And then there’s the small detail of you forfeiting your rights to work within the engineering industry for two years after breaking the contract. We will cripple you.”
“This is bullshit! I don’t deserve any of this.”
“I happen to believe you deserve a shitload worse.”
“ Fuck you .”
“No, thank you. Let’s stick to business. You’ll be expected to join us in Dubai for three days. After that, we will have limited communication with you.”
“And let’s say you take everything from me and ‘cripple’ me. What if I decide to say a big get fucked to going to Dubai?”
Damon doesn’t miss a beat. “I anticipated you saying that. To which I’d ask, how much do you value your freedom?”
Three photographs are taken off the stack and placed in front of Peter. When recognition dawns, his pale face turns ashen.
“Just as I thought. You know Krystal is underage.”
‘ K ’ .
The asshole had the number of his underage sex worker programmed into his phone under a single initial.
Cheap Sugary Perfume.
I smelled it on him when he came home after one of his drives . It was soaked into the fibers of his clothes and emanating from his pores.
I fight the urge to vomit. Of all the degenerate things he’s done to me, at least I was of age. That poor girl. “You’re sick , Peter!”
“Spare the judgment. I didn’t know at the time she was underage.”
“ Is , Peter. Krystal is still considerably underage,” Damon asserts. “And you went back more than once. Three times, in fact.”
“I didn’t know! I wouldn’t have approached her if I knew. I’m not that person.”
“I’m not the one you need to convince. Soliciting prostitution is illegal in the state of California. And since you’ve already been caught once, you will do time, Peter. All I have to do is make a call to the Chief of Police. You remember Frank, don’t you?” When my husband remains silent and stony-faced, Damon hits him where it hurts. “And with Krystal still being a minor, they’ll not only see you as a pervert but also a pedo—”
“ Enough !” Peter breaks. “Just enough .” With his chest heaving, he considers his next course of action. Instead of repenting, which I know he’s incapable of doing, he goes on the attack. “So, what is this? Huh? I’ve signed your fucking contract, and now what? You’re blackmailing me? What’s the situation here? What’s my wife agreed to that’s dug this hole?”
“She’s a completely innocent party.” Damon meets my gaze, and I see a flicker of something in his beautiful eyes that I had hoped I’d see at some stage throughout my marriage.
Remorse .
Coming from Damon, it means so much more.
The way our relationship has developed is far from traditional and was birthed from the same coercive patterns of control I’d experienced with Peter. Now, I can look at Damon and know no war is too big for him when it comes to protecting me.
“Mae is only just learning about all of this now.” The apology in his voice breaks my heart because this is what he’s been keeping from me all this time. The lies. The deceit. His betrayal.
‘Trust me, sweetheart,’ he’d said. And I do.
“Well, that’s fucking great!” Peter abruptly stands, his chair scraping and falling backward in the rush. He points an accusatory finger at me. “I should have killed you when I had the chance. Lucky for me, the night’s still young. Now get the fuck up.”
He’s absolutely lost his damn mind if he thinks I’m leaving with him. Incensed by my disobedience, Peter lunges over the table, preparing to grab a fistful of hair when, at the same time, Damon effortlessly drags my chair back until I’m out of his reach. Quick on his feet, Jason already has his arm hooked around Peter’s neck. Hurling him backward onto the tiled floor, he presses a Glock muzzle into my husband’s temple.
“Stay real fucking still,” Jason warns in a voice that could freeze hell. “Count yourself lucky it’s me holding the gun and not my brother.”
Damon rounds the table, and my heart continues to race as the scene unfolds. He’s already a powerful man, God-like on a good day, but at this moment, Damon Shaw is a terrifyingly formidable force. He grabs Peter by the scruff of the neck, effortlessly dragging him around to where I now stand.
“All fours,” he commands, roughing the man I despise into pitiful submission. Although he may follow instructions, if set loose, Peter would most certainly kill me the first chance he gets.
“Consider this as a handover of power, dipshit,” Damon says, his deep voice bone-chilling. “Never again will you possess any form of coercive control over Mae. You won’t touch, threaten, or have her harmed in any way. Am I clear?”
Nostrils flaring, he replies, “Yes.”
“With that said, look up at your wife .” Gripping a fistful of Peter’s hair, he angles him upright on his knees so his now-stony face meets that of the woman he’s always loathed. “How do you find the view from down there, Peter?” Damon’s warm gaze finds mine, and I could drown in his adoration. “Because it’s fucking beautiful from where I’m standing.”
How does he do it?
How can we be in a situation with my abuser held at gunpoint at my feet, yet he can send a flurry of butterflies loose in my stomach, all with a simple wink?
That’s the command of Damon Shaw.
“So, here’s what I want you to do, Peter. I want you to repent for all the times you tried to break the woman in front of you. For all the manipulation and sick perversions. For being the insidious disease you are and threatening to end her life. You… ” he gives Peter a violent jolt, earning a grunt of pain, “… will say you’re fucking sorry, and if I don’t hear conviction, Mae gets to shoot off this thing you consider a dick. And if she can’t do it…” Damon lowers himself to whisper a promise in Peter’s ear, “I fucking will .”
Sweat beads down my husband’s forehead, his chest rising rapidly with each furious intake of breath. There isn’t an inch of him that’s remorseful for what he’s done to me, and Damon knows that. This is all about inflicting humiliation and nothing of seeking amends. It’s a man forced to kneel at his wife’s feet instead of attempting to drown her in the bath tub.
The handover of power.
“So, what do you say, asshole? Can you muster a heartfelt apology, or are you prepared to have your dick shot clean off?”
“I’m sorry,” Peters mutters, and Damon tuts in disapproval.
“Disappointing, even for you.”
Jason hands me the Glock with a knowing smile. “Ready for target practice?”
With a small smile of my own, I note the stark contrast in personality. The Jason I see now is nothing like the man from a couple of nights ago who probably also considered holding me at point-blank range. Now, there’s a comradery I never expected. I like it.
“Have you ever handled a gun?” he asks, remaining by my side.
I shake my head and steady my trembling hands. It feels heavier than I expected it to be. “Never.”
“If you miss his dick, you’ll get his torso. Worst case scenario, we spend our night burying the piece of shit.”
“I’d call that a win,” Damon says, and I’m not entirely convinced it’s a joke. “Take aim, Mae.”
I follow his instruction by pointing the gun at my husband’s groin. It may be all for show, but the temptation to punish him like he has me is overwhelmingly strong. Damon recognizes the desire in my eyes, faithfully watching as I restore my confidence.
Then, as if the scene and the people around us fade, and we find ourselves alone and entangled in intimate throes, he asks, “How does it feel, sweetheart?”
It feels exhilarating.
Biting my bottom lip, I take a slow step forward and place the Glock’s muzzle in the middle of Peter’s forehead. He winces the harder I press, seething with desire for his own revenge.
I should spill his blood with the same callous disregard in which he’s treated me.
I should just pull the trigger and consider it poetic justice.
“The decision’s yours, Mae,” Damon murmurs so as not to break the spell. “Head, groin, or anywhere in between. Take the shot, sweet girl.”
Grip tightening, my finger caresses the trigger. “I want to.”
“I know you do.”
Trading places with his brother, Damon steps behind me, his enticing lips brushing my ear. “If only you could see the fire in your own eyes. I fucking love it.”
Growing heady from the rush his closeness provides, every bit of me wants to fall victim to his commanding passion and be rendered powerless for him again.
“I’ll count down for you,” he says, the rumble of his richly deep voice eliciting a response in me that needs desperate tending to. Damon reads me well and kisses the tender crook of my neck, my sigh just for him. I want to be somewhere private. Alone. And at his mercy. “Never lose sight of your target, sweetheart.”
I’m so utterly weak for him but victorious that the asshole on his knees in front of me might finally believe I’m capable of pulling the trigger. When I return my attention back to Peter who’s been watching the intimacy of his wife and another man, he looks set to implode.
Let him.
I want his ego so badly beaten, he stands to never recover.
I want him to understand that he’s now the loser in the battle he first waged three years ago.
“Are you ready?” Comes the rumbling voice that makes this all so real.
“Yes.”
“Five…” Damon murmurs the same way he does when fucking me. “Four…” he offers a moment to readjust my grip. “Three… two…” The final whisper grazes my ear, “Kill the fucker! One —”
“Jesus fucking Christ!” Peter shrieks, jerking his face out of the firing line. “ I’m sorry . I’m fucking sorry .”
“For?” Jason prompts, violently yanking him back into position.
“Everything. Everything I’ve ever done to her. I’m fucking sorry.”
“Don’t apologize to us, asshole. Your soon to be ex-wife is who needs to hear it.”
Peter wishes he could kill me with a single glance, but somehow, he manages to swallow enough pride to speak the two words which mean absolutely nothing to either of us.
“ I’m sorry.”
Damon’s touch runs down my arm, a caress almost to soothe the incessant tremble. Then his hand encases the Glock, gently taking it from my grasp. He turns back to me, pride in his eyes and mouths, Good girl .
None of this fixes what’s been done, but it’s a small, significant step for Mae Ellison to drop the name associated with the worst mistake of her life and reclaim what’s left. That no longer involves learning how to survive Peter Cooper’s reign of terror.
“Gotta say, you look good on your knees,” Damon says before striking Peter’s head with the Glock. It makes a sickening sound on impact, but it’s nothing compared to his wounded groan when he collapses on the tiles, blood trickling from his hairline and over his ear. “Now get the fuck out of here.”
On cue, Marco steps into the pavilion, his kind eyes meeting mine. “Admirable restraint, Mae. I’m not sure I would have been so gracious.”
“Can I change my mind?” I half-joke, still feeling the itch to pull the trigger.
Damon laughs. “Just say the word, sweetheart, and I’ll have him lined up.”
Oh my…
There’s something about his voice that makes me hot all over, and it has nothing to do with adrenaline, and everything to do with wanting this man alone. “That’s a generous offer, Mr. Shaw.”
He watches me bite my bottom lip and his eyes turn feral. “Call me that again and you might find yourself completely at my mercy.”
“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
Hooking a finger under my chin, he tilts my face. “And there is nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”
I believe it. I’d go so far as to say, this man might just kill for me.
Jason clears his throat. “You wanna take care of this first, brother?”
Reluctantly, Damon turns to find Marco hauling my soon-to-be ex-husband to his feet. “We leave for Dubai in two days, Peter. Be ready.” As the men head toward the house, Damon calls, “Oh, and one last thing…” They grind to a halt. “I’d be keeping my door locked if I were you, Peter. After all, the night is still young .”