22. Chapter 22
Chapter 22
Nova
I got to Sentinel Steakhouse, the poshest restaurant in the small town at the same time as Diego. We drove separately, but he insisted on driving behind me—as if worried I'd escape, which I wanted to do.
The atmosphere was upscale, with dark wood furnishings, white tablecloths, and soft ambient lighting. I felt like I was stepping into the lion's den. The moment we crossed the threshold, I could feel eyes on us, the curious gazes of the townspeople who knew of me. I kept my head high, but inside, I was a bundle of nerves.
It would only get worse once Anson arrived. People would gossip, and waiters would hover, trying to catch snippets of our conversation. The rumor mill would go into overdrive—actually, it probably already had, with text messages flying, secretly taken photos and videos circulating, and overheard tidbits mixing with all the stuff that would inevitably be made up.
"You're popular," Diego remarked as the hostess walked us to a prime spot near the window, a spot I irritably thought would guarantee that we were on display from the inside and out.
"This is a disaster," I muttered once we were seated.
Diego grinned. "Come on, give them something to talk about, babe."
I raised an eyebrow. " Babe , they already do," I replied.
He laughed, and I literally heard all the women in the restaurant sigh.
"Don't look quite so happy," I admonished jokingly, "the rumor will be that we were on a date."
"And what happens when Anson arrives? Ménage à trois ?"
I chuckled. "I shudder to imagine."
Our server asked what we'd like to drink. Diego ordered a bourbon neat while I asked for unsweetened iced tea. I was driving, so I wouldn't be drinking.
"You can have one glass of something," Diego mused, his large brown hands contrasting against the white of the tablecloth.
"I don't drink if I'm driving," I told him. "How are you finding Sentinel?"
He shrugged. "I'm staying at the Sentinel Inn right now. I took over their one and only suite. I still have my place in Scottsdale and an apartment in downtown Savannah."
"You don't intend to live here?"
The server gave us our drinks and left three menus after Diego told her that we'd have a third at the table. I knew that would mean those who were almost done with their meal would hover around just to see who would be joining us. Small towns were hell on privacy.
"No." Diego picked up his glass of bourbon in a toast. "Sentinel is just not diverse enough. This town is fucking racist."
I almost spat my iced tea.
"You're mixed race, so I'm sure you know that," Diego quipped.
"I just…I've never heard someone say it out loud." I looked around and grinned. "And people heard."
"Good. A little shame might help them become more tolerant and accepting. It's not like Georgia is the mecca of tolerance, but Savannah is quite liberal. My father is a physician, and my mother is a hospital administrator, and they love it there. They have a diverse set of friends, different races, and socioeconomic statuses. Here, you're either white or black, wealthy or middle class or poor, and everyone stays within their little cliques."
Diego spoke flatly. He wasn't angry, he was just stating facts.
"I was always black first; and then I was a prostitute's daughter. Mama grew up in Sentinel and Memaw lived here all her life," I said feeling comfortable talking about this with Diego because I knew he understood what it meant to be an other , specifically, a lesser other.
"That couldn't have been easy." Diego leaned in and gently placed his hand on mine, offering a reassuring touch. I didn't pull away. For some reason, he didn't make me feel uneasy. Diego might have been one of the first men since Anson that I trusted after knowing for such a short period. His honesty was disarming.
"No. I was a straight-A student; top of the high school class, but they wouldn't let me be the valedictorian. They chose Brian Macon."
Diego arched an eyebrow. "Mayor Brian Macon?"
"Exactly," I smiled cheekily.
"Just because you're black?"
" And the daughter of a whore. I think it also was a problem that I didn't have a penis," I drawled.
I thought he'd laugh, but he laced his fingers with mine. "I'm so fucking sorry, querida . That's so damned unfair."
I was going to reply when the murmurs around the restaurant rose, and a shadow fell on our table.
Anson looked at our joined hands. "Did a work dinner turn into a date?" He was angry.
Diego didn't let go of my hand. "Since you took your own sweet time, we thought maybe we could convert it into a date; but then you showed up and ruined everything."
There was a warning in Diego's eyes, even though his tone was friendly and teasing. Anson heeded the warning and sat next to me.
"You can let her fucking hand go," he muttered.
Diego laughed as he very slowly did so.
Anson looked around the restaurant and his jaw set in a tight line. "Is everyone who is anyone here tonight?" He had never been one for small-town gossip.
We ordered food. I chose the snapper, while Diego and Anson went for the house special steaks. Anson also ordered a bottle of a Napa Valley Cabernet Sauvignon after I told him I wasn't drinking, and he didn't have to consider my snapper when he chose the wine.
With Anson's arrival, the tension in the restaurant became even more evident, and every so often, I caught snippets of whispered conversations from nearby tables. I tried to focus on Diego's light-hearted anecdotes, but it was impossible to ignore the weight of judgment around us.
It also didn't help that Anson sat next to me, brushing up against me, touching me. I felt like I was drowning in him, and it cost me to stay aloof. He, on the other hand, seemed just fine, unaffected.
Asshole!
Midway through the meal, I excused myself to go to the bathroom. As I walked toward the restroom, I could feel the stares follow me, and my heart pounded louder with each step.
Thankfully, the bathroom was empty, and I took a moment to steady myself in front of the mirror, taking deep breaths. I did what I had to do, washed my hands, and, instead of going into the restaurant, I stepped out, using the side exit. I needed some air. I leaned against the wall in the dark, collecting my thoughts.
The door swung open, making me all but stand against the wall to hide. Two women walked out. I watched as they lit cigarettes.
"Did you see Nova King?" one of them said, her voice dripping with curiosity. She was wearing a flowery red dress that looked like a sack on her, I thought pettily.
"Yeah. And with Anson Larue, no less," the other woman, wearing a black bodycon dress tittered. "I heard he dumped Bailey. Broke off their engagement…but you know she's gonna tell everyone she broke it off."
"Do you think he's back with Nova?" Flowery Sack Dress wondered.
"She's the kind who spreads her legs for anyone," Bodycon Dress said with disgust. "Her mother was a ho."
"The rumor is that Anson ran her out of town not only ‘cause she stole his grandma's diamonds," Flowery Sack Dress dropped her voice for affect, "but 'cause she was sleeping with Pete."
Bodycon Dress gasped. "I heard that when she was in jail, Raymond Carre was there, too."
"No," Flowery Sack Dress huffed.
"Yes, and…according to Maria, they might have…you know…done the deed."
"In jail?"
Bile rose inside me. They were making sexual assault consensual just because of who my mama was.
I wrapped my arms around myself tightly. The rumors were swirling, and now they thought Anson and I were an item again. It was all too much. The accusations, the gossip, the stares—it felt like the walls were closing in on me.
Once the women left, I made it back to our table in a daze.
Dinner passed in a blur. I barely touched my food. Diego's jokes couldn't pierce the fog of anxiety that had settled over me, and Anson's attempts at conversation only grated on my nerves.
"Don't you like your fish?" Anson asked, his face too close to me.
"It's fine. I'm just not hungry." I looked pointedly at my watch. "I'll leave you guys to finish dinner. I have to run."
Literally, run .
I needed to get the fuck out of Sentinel and now.
Diego was about to say something, but Anson cut in. "I understand. I'll walk you out."
"Not needed."
"I'll walk you out," he repeated.
I gave up and said goodbye to Diego.
"I want to talk to you," Anson told me as we strode together to my car.
"About the project?" I asked pointedly.
"No," he said softly.
I could put two and two together. He and Pete had a falling out because Anson had realized that I was telling the truth about what happened to me that night. But I couldn't bear to hear his apologies. "Then no." I beeped open my car, my voice trembling with barely contained emotion. "I need to…I need to go, Anson."
"Nova, just—"
"No." I let him see how broken I felt, how tired I was. "Please. I can't, Anson. I just can't. I'm…exhausted."
He closed his eyes as if looking at me hurt. "I know. But we have to—"
"You know what, Anson, let's make this easy. Let's pretend you apologized, and I accepted your apology."
"I can't apologize for what happened to you, Nova, because I don't deserve forgiveness for it," he whispered, pain etched on his face.
"I can't do this."
Without waiting for a response, I got into my car and drove away, the tears blurring my vision. The small town of Sentinel and its relentless gossip had finally proven too much.
My emotions churned like a storm inside me. I took deep breaths, trying to calm my racing heart, but the suffocating memories of gossip and judgment clung to me.
Just as I found some emotional stability, red and blue lights flared in my rearview mirror, my heart sank. It was the sheriff's car. I pulled over to the side of the road, my hands trembling as I gripped the steering wheel. A familiar dread settled over me, one that I hadn't felt in years.
I picked up my phone and turned the recorder on, put it face down on the passenger seat.
The sheriff's car door opened, and out stepped Pete Fontaine. My pulse quickened, and fear gripped me like a vise. The memories of that night came rushing back, and I could feel my breath coming in shallow gasps.
It's not the time for a panic attack, Nova. Breathe in, breathe out. You've done nothing wrong.
Pete made a motion for me to roll down my window. I did as he asked.
"Sheriff," I said as coolly as I could, though I was shaking inside.
"Nova. License and registration."
I gave him what he asked for and waited. He looked through, using a flashlight, and handed them back to me. "Where have you been?"
He knew damn well where she'd been. "At Larue Homes."
"Right before you got in your car?"
"I had dinner at the steakhouse."
He nodded. "How much did you drink?"
"I don't drink and drive, Sheriff. I had iced tea."
"Likely story, but from what I hear, there was a bottle of wine ordered for your table, and you partook."
"I'm afraid you're mistaken. I did—"
"Step out of the car. Pete's voice was as cold and commanding as I remembered.
I wanted to protest, but I knew that would only make things worse.
With shaking hands, I unbuckled my seatbelt and got out, my legs feeling like jelly. Pete's imposing figure loomed in front of me, his eyes glinting with a malicious satisfaction.
"I'm going to need you to take a sobriety test," he said, his voice dripping with malice.
"I haven't been drinking," I repeated tightly. "I'm not intoxicated."
"Then let's do a breathalyzer, shall we?"
No fucking way. I knew all about how those could be manipulated. I knew my rights. I had made sure I did. "I don't trust those, Sheriff. But I'm willing to take a blood test."
Pete's eyes narrowed, and he took a step closer, invading my space. "Are you refusing a breathalyzer test?"
I swallowed hard, trying to keep my voice steady. "Yes, I insist on a blood test."
Pete's smirk sent a chill down my spine. "Well then, Miss King, since I believe you're driving under the influence and refusing to take a sobriety test, I got no choice but to arrest you. Turn around and put your hands behind your back."
Terror seized me as I complied, the cold metal of the handcuffs biting into my wrists. The memories of that horrible night years ago flooded my mind, and I could feel panic rising. This was happening again. I was being arrested for no reason, and the man who had hurt me was once again in control.
"My car," I said, barely able to get the words out, and opened my palm. My keys were in it.
He took the keys, locked my car, and pocketed them. "I can't let you drive. We'll get it towed, at your expense obviously."
Pete shoved me toward the back of his car, and I stumbled, barely catching myself. Tears blurred my vision as fear and helplessness overwhelmed me. I was pushed into the backseat, the door slamming shut with a finality that echoed through the car.
As Pete drove toward the sheriff's office, I struggled to breathe, the confined space triggering my claustrophobia. I couldn't believe this was happening again. The trauma of that night was something I carried with me every day, and now it was being dragged to the surface.
I closed my eyes, trying to block out the present, and escape into the recesses of my mind, where I could find some semblance of safety. But the reality of the situation was inescapable. I was being taken back to the place where my nightmares began, and the terror of what lay ahead threatened to consume me whole.