15. London
Chapter 15
London
" W hat do you mean you two kissed?" Grace says louder than I'd prefer her to. "Give me every juicy detail."
"A girl doesn't kiss and tell." I play coy and sip my latte, returning it to the table in the coffee shop and pretending like I'm not going to tell her everything.
It's been two days since that wild evening with Archer's family, and my lips have never felt lonelier. It would be cliché to say it was the best kiss of my entire life, but I'd be lying if I said it wasn't.
I can't stand Archer, but something about it makes me want him more. How can something so wrong feel so right?
"You just told me you kissed!" Grace shoves me playfully. "Now, spill."
"I confronted him about the conversation between him and Ivy."
Grace gasps. "You didn't?"
I nod. "Yep. Well, kind of. I mean, I made it clear I knew. Brought up all the highlights."
"Shit, London, I'm sorry." She winces and fidgets with her coffee. "Then what happened?"
"We were standing there in his bedroom; he had just gotten out of the shower. He still had little water droplets all over him, and he came strutting in with only a towel barely wrapped around his waist." I get lost in the mental image for an embarrassing second. "Anyway, we started arguing, each one of us somehow getting closer to the other with every single jab, and the next thing I know, Archer's got his tongue down my throat and we're making out."
Grace's hazel eyes go wide. "Oh. My. God. That's so hot. He was practically naked."
"I mean, he was for a minute."
She shakes her head and holds her hand out. "Excuse me, what?"
"Right, yeah, I forgot that part. He went to his dresser to get clothes and dropped his towel right in front of me."
"Did you see it?"
"No. But he has a nice ass." I take another drink of my coffee and hide my smile from watching Grace lose her mind. "He changed into boxers, then we fought. Yeah, that's the order. But get this, afterward he put on gray sweatpants."
"No," is all Grace says.
"Yep. Like, come on, man, you're already a six-foot-something tattooed, chiseled god, you don't need the sweatpants, too."
Grace chuckles and leans back. "Wow. And I mean, wow." But then she bends at the hip and moves closer. "What does this mean? Are you two going to become something? Hook up? Date? Get married and live happily ever after?"
"Immediately no," I say the same words that she said to Seven when he tried hitting on her. "Archer and I couldn't be further from alike. I'm not kidding when I say I can't stand him. He's hot, there's no denying that, but he's an asshole. Plus, I'm still not over him saying all that shit about me. He didn't even apologize." And now that I think about it, he confirmed the comments when we were fighting.
Grace smiles politely at an older man who walks by and returns her attention to me. "Yeah, that was kind of fucked up. Maybe he was heated from his fight with Seven." She shrugs. "Maybe give him the benefit of the doubt."
"No, absolutely no way. Plus, we both agreed it was a mistake. That can't happen ever again. I don't want to complicate things anyway."
"I guess that makes sense."
"What about you, though? Are you going to entertain Seven?"
Grace laughs abruptly. "Immediately no." She reaches into her purse and pulls out her phone, poking a few buttons and showing me the screen. "Look at this."
It's a text thread with Seven, except he's the only one talking.
Seven: Did you hit me with a chair?
Seven: That was fucked up.
Seven: It really hurt.
Seven: You could kiss it better.
Seven: Do you want to fuck about it?
Seven: I'll let you hit me with a chair again…
Seven: If that's what you're into.
I scroll to the bottom. "Wow, he's down bad."
"He's going to have to get over it." Grace drops her phone into her bag. "He's vile."
"He's kind of hot, though," I admit. "In a psychotic way."
"He's not terrible-looking, but you think you and Archer are opposites?" Grace motions to her body. "Miss Prim and Proper, a senator's daughter who spends her time planning charity events, and him, doing God only knows. He's the textbook definition of trouble."
"Could be fun," I say over the top of my mug. "You could use a little danger in your life."
"No. I refuse to deal with another shitty man."
"I respect that," I tell her and recall the events of that night. Seven was a drunken idiot making passes at Grace every chance he got. Archer was tense and withdrawn, typical. Ivy was guarded but curious, her every response toying with the truth she was willing to give. August was polished and put together and it felt like he didn't want to be there, something that seemed to bother Ivy even though she tried to not show it. But Leo…
"Leo was kind of cute," Grace says at the same time I'm thinking about him.
"He was, wasn't he?" It just wasn't as glaringly obvious as the rest of the guys. Leo was calmer, more even-tempered, and a bit unbothered by everything going on. He was wearing designer clothes from head to toe, his appearance well-thought-out and put together, but not like August was. August had a dapper vibe about him, and Leo was giving a more casual, sophisticated look.
"I didn't notice it until now." Grace taps her finger to her mouth. "Maybe Leo is the brother we should be after."
I put my hands up. "Not it." I'm familiar with the inner workings of a dysfunctional family but I'd prefer not to get involved with another one. "You know Seven will murder him, right?"
"Could you ask Archer for his number for me? Actually…" Grace gets her phone again, furiously typing away and leaving me hanging. She smiles triumphantly and pokes one final button before signaling to me to be quiet and putting the phone to her ear. "Hey," she says into the receiver. “It's Grace, we met Sunday night at Archer's place. I'd love to get together for coffee. When are you available?"
She stops talking, and I watch her assertiveness take hold.
"Great, yeah, that time tomorrow works for me. I can meet you there." Grace hangs up and sets her phone down. "And that's how it's done."
My eyes widen. "Did you really find and ask out Leo that quickly?"
"Like it was hard." Grace shrugs and grins, her bubbly personality almost contagious if not for everything that’s happened to me.
I used to be like her, despite everything that I've lived through, but I find it particularly hard to pretend lately. The worst should be behind me, and somehow it feels like my father still has his claws stuck in me.
"No, but really, how did you find his number?" I ask her, wanting to learn her sleuthing ways.
"Leo owns Sin Casino. It only took a little digging to cross-reference documents and find his personal number. Easy-peasy."
"Casino owner…huh. I don't know what I expected but it wasn't that."
"Right?" Grace downs the last of her coffee and checks her watch. "Listen, I should get going. Unless there are any other juicy details you left out."
"Not that I can think of." I stand and drink the rest of my latte, too. "But you need to update me on this Leo situation."
"Excuse me," a voice interrupts.
I scan until I lock eyes with a man, his face familiar but I can't quite place him. My chest tightens. No one should be familiar. Not here. Not yet. Does he know who I am? Did I get so complacent that I forgot I'm supposed to be hiding out and starting over?
"Sorry," he says. "We never really officially met. The other night, in front of the apartment complex. I'm Drew." He extends his hand.
"Drew, hey." I shake his hand and it's not until I fully lock my eyes on him that I place him as the guy who let me into Archer's building over a week ago when I showed up that night. "Yeah, I remember you." My body takes a long moment to relax. The threat I thought was staring me in the face is actually a nice guy.
Grace reaches out to him. "Grace McCallister."
He shakes her hand, too. "Drew Kingsley, pleasure is all mine." Drew focuses on me again. "I'm sorry, I don't think I caught your name."
"London," I offer, almost following it up with Gardella. But London Gardella died in California when her father was set on killing her for helping her friend. "London Smith."
"Beautiful name," he says, a polite smile on his handsome face. "I know this is probably too forward, but would you want to go out sometime? Get dinner with me? My treat, obviously."
My first reaction is to tell him no, to turn him down and walk out of here with my head held high. That's what the old London would have done. The old London was picky, and never dated—her dad wouldn't allow it.
We have to keep you pure, London girl.
No one will pay me top dollar for a whore.
You're worthless if not for what you can give with your body.
I'll kill any man that even looks at you .
And he held his word to that promise, my heart aching at the bloody memory I can't escape no matter how hard I try to push it aside.
"Yes," I find myself say. "Are you available Thursday?"
Drew nods, a hair too enthusiastically. "Of course, yes. I'll let the firm know not to schedule any late meetings. Have you been to Rao's?"
"I haven't," I tell him.
Grace chimes in. "You have a table at Rao's?"
"What's so special about Rao's?" I ask them.
"Only people with VIP access can get in. It's passed down from generation to generation. Getting a table is impossible unless you know someone with one. Plus, I mean, it's on the river."
"What do you say?" Drew ignores Grace and doesn't take his eyes off me. "Dinner at Rao's Thursday?"
"Sure, sounds great."
"Don't sound so enthused, London," Grace teases.
"Oh." I perk right up. "Sorry, I was thinking about what I'm going to wear." The dress at Charlotte's comes to mind but there's no way I can afford it on such short notice and since Archer called me a spoiled brat, I don't think I'll be using his Black Card to pay for it.
"I'm sure I have something you can borrow," Grace suggests.
"What? No." Drew chimes in. "Let's go shopping." He tilts his expensive watch face toward him. "I have about forty-five minutes to spare. I think there are a few shops around here. What do you say?"
I look at him, unsure of what angle he's playing here. He doesn't know me, we met briefly, and I mean so briefly I'm surprised he recognized me in the daylight.
"My treat," he adds. "Really. I mean, I'm asking you out, the least I could do is make sure everything is taken care of."
"Damn," Grace mutters with a grin. "You two have fun. I've got to go."
"It was so great to meet you," Drew says to her.
Grace makes her way to the door, motioning with her hand and mouthing for me to call her later.
"What do you say?" Drew asks once we're alone in this coffee shop full of people.
"What the hell," I snatch my bag off the table, "why not?"
Drew smiles, and it's so strangely wholesome. He guides me out, his hand on my lower back even as he opens the door. Once we're outside, he sticks his elbow out for me to hold on to. He's so fucking formal and chivalrous, and I should be swooning, but I don't feel anything at all.
"How's your day going?" he says to me while we walk down the sidewalk together.
"Oh, um, pretty well, thank you. What about you?"
"Better now." Drew winks at me and points ahead. "What about in there?"
The shop where the girls were bitches to me. A perfect place to walk into with a hot guy on my arm and his credit card prepped to get me whatever I want.
"Yeah, that works."
My chest flutters at the idea of showing him off, but then I remember the comment Archer made about me being a spoiled brat.
So what, maybe I am. At least I'm not a grumpy asshole.
"After you," Drew tells me, holding the door open again. He follows me in, the store clerks flocking toward us without giving us time to even look around.
"Can I help you find anything today?" the blonde says to him, her eyelashes fluttering more than a normal rate. She doesn't take her eyes off him long enough to realize I'm the same girl from before. But I sure do recognize her.
"We need something for dinner," he tells her and glances down at me. "A dress, perhaps? Or whatever you're more comfortable in."
"A dress, yes," I confirm. "Long, though." I make a quick gesture to my casted leg.
"Formal? Casual?" The woman finally meets my gaze, her breath catching. She coughs. "Excuse me, I'm so sorry. Had something stuck in my throat." Her eyes water and her cheeks redden, and I can't contain the happiness that floats through me. It's pure fucking joy to witness her stumble over her words.
"We're going to Rao's," he tells her. "So maybe something with a sleek elegance to it, but not too formal."
"I have just the thing." She points toward the back of the shop. "If you'll just follow me."
We do, his hand on my back as I focus on not stumbling over my own feet. This cast is not easy to walk in, especially with the lopsided height difference with my shoes.
"What happened, by the way?" Drew whispers on our way over. "I mean, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to."
"I'm clumsy," I lie. "Silly little accident."
"Are you okay?" he asks, genuine concern lining his question.
"Oh, I'm fine. Nothing to worry about. I should have these off in a couple of weeks." I hold out my arm and remember I still need to find a doctor around here who will see me and not drill me about information. How much do doctor visits cost?
"When dinner goes well, we'll have to plan something for when they're off. Maybe we can go dancing."
I tilt my head toward him. "Counting on it going well, are we?"
"A guy can hope, right?"
"What about this?" The clerk interrupts us to show off a pale-yellow long dress.
At first glance, it's pretty, but she and I both know damn well that redheads don't look good in pale colors. This bitch is trying to sabotage my outfit and still get a commission.
"Beautiful," Drew says, nothing wrong with his remark.
"How about something with a richer color?" I suggest, my tone neutral even though I'm considering strangling her with the straps of the yellow dress.
"We have this pink one over here." She strolls over to another soft palette dress, and I imagine fashioning the hanger into a point and stabbing her in the eye with it.
"Do you know anything about fashion?" I ask her.
"Excuse me?" she snaps back.
I want to explain to her that the colors she's picking out will do nothing but wash me out in the most unflattering way, to educate her on deeper colors, like dark green or browns. Hell, even a bubblegum pink would be better than the one she's trying to convince me of.
"How about this one?" I break off from Drew and trace my fingers along the delicate fabric of a dark purple dress, so dark it almost looks black. In the right light, it's a stunning shade of aubergine.
"Try it on," Drew encourages.
"Let me get that for you." The clerk cuts in front of me, snatching the hanger off the rack and turning toward the fitting rooms. "If you'll follow me."
Drew settles into a cozy chair in the back and waits patiently as I slip into one of the fitting rooms and start taking my clothes off. I suppress a curse when my top gets stuck on my cast and try not to get frustrated when it happens to my jeans, too.
The dress manages to cover my leg well, concealing it so you can't even tell I'm hiding anything underneath. My wrist is another thing, but unless I opt for a long-sleeved thing, I'm screwed. I'll have to make do with what I can.
The tag catches my eye and I reach for it, suppressing a gasp at the twelve-hundred-dollar price. I can't expect this stranger to spend that much money, can I? I mean, Archer bought me two designer bags, a pair of shoes, and a cell phone and we'd only known each other a week. Surely I could be okay with a dress.
I step out of the room and walk toward Drew, his eyes lighting up and sparkling bright.
"Wow," is all he says.
I do a spin, careful not to fall and hurt myself any more. "It might be a bit much," I tell him, not quite mentioning the hefty price tag.
"It's perfect…you're perfect." Drew stands, getting the attention of the clerk who's gossiping with another coworker. "We'll take this one, please." He slides her a silver credit card.
"You don't have to," I protest, despite very much wanting this dress. It's gorgeous, and I haven't felt this pretty since before .
"I insist." He swivels his finger in the air. "Do you want shoes? Accessories? Anything else?"
"No, I have shoes that would go great with this." The ones I picked up from Charlotte’s.
Drew doesn't bat an eye when the clerk brings him the card reader and finalizes the transaction. He taps the card on the receiver and returns it to his money clip.
I slip back into the dressing room, letting the dress slide off my shoulders and onto the floor. I hang it up, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The poor lighting casts the worst shadows on my already not-so-great appearance, deepening the shades of faded purple and green covering me. I place my hand gently on my ribs, wincing at the soreness that's still present. My gaze trails over the jagged scar on my stomach and the memory comes flooding back in.
It was a hot afternoon, and my father had been toying with his favorite pet. That's what he called the girls that came to and from our house, and one of them was supposed to bear him a child—a son. Having a daughter was pointless, he said. He needed an heir. Someone to carry on the family name. Someone who wouldn't disgrace him.
Of course, he couldn't get a wife of his own, so he bribed and bargained for women who might be fertile enough to provide him with a baby. It was disgusting and repulsive, but there wasn't anything I could do about it. I spoke up a few times, questioning why he did what he did, but my words were met with his abuse, so I learned if I wanted to stay alive, I had to accept, or at the very least turn a blind eye, to his antics.
I always hated him; I don't ever remember a time when I didn't. And somehow, that hatred grew with each passing day. I fantasized about killing him, torturing him, even. I considered all the ways I could end his life—his threats making damn sure I never did.
He hurt me, sometimes when I didn't do anything to provoke it. He was like that, unpredictable and volatile, and after a while, I realized I had to just stay out of his way.
I felt bad for the girls that came into our house, some of them barely legal. In the beginning, I tried to help them, to come up with elaborate plans to spike his drinks when I knew he'd be having them over in an attempt to subdue his abuse. His wrath was inevitable, but I figured if I could help take the edge off, maybe it wouldn't be so bad.
He was no fool, though, and he quickly figured out what I was up to, beating me until I was unconscious time after time.
I stopped helping them for a while, staring straight ahead when his pets came into the house. It killed me in a way he could never manage.
It wasn't until one of them directly came to me that I snapped back to reality.
Madison was her name. She was beautiful, as were all of them, her eyes dimming each day that passed in his presence. Over a few weeks, we spoke in hushed whispers throughout the house, coming up with a code to exchange ideas and come up with a plan. If I couldn't save myself, maybe I could save her. I had to hope things weren't completely hopeless.
My father was a sick man, dragging out the torment in a slow and cruel kind of way. He was tracking her cycle, too, waiting for the time to finally plant his wretched seed.
The goal was to put extra sleeping medication in his brandy and pray that he passed out before his plan would see its way through. We'd buy ourselves a few hours to make it look like things happened, and we'd figure out how to move forward.
But I didn't find out until much later that my paranoid father had bugged nearly everything I owned, giving him access to every private detail about my life.
So, when I casually tried to slip the medicine into his drink, he barged in, calling me out with his hand wrapped around my throat.
Madison begged him that she had nothing to do with it, throwing me completely under the bus.
My father grabbed the nearest sharp object, a corkscrew wine bottle opener, and drove it into my stomach.
I remember gasping for breath, my eyes wide, my mouth gaping. I couldn't believe it. He had hit me, punched me, kicked me, thrown me into things, but my father had never done something so…damaging.
I slid down the wall, my hands cupped around the thing sticking out of my stomach, blood pooling all around me, and watched him turn to Madison. At first, I thought he was going to fuck her right there, make me witness him defiling her, and in retrospect, that wouldn’t have been the worst thing that could have happened.
Instead of that, my father fisted her hair and forcefully rammed her head against the wall.
She screamed, the sound burning into my memory so vividly I could still hear her cries haunting me now, as I lay there, unmoving, unable to do anything other than suffer.
He ripped her shirt, exposing her breasts, and shoved her hard onto the floor of his study.
With great force, he kicked her in the gut, tossing her frail body more. Lazily, he waltzed over to the table next to his chair he smoked cigars and drank dark liquor on, and pulled out a revolver.
"Please, please, I'm so…" Madison cried out. "I'm sorry." She had found her hands, palming the floor and scooting back, unable to do much else other than inch away from him.
He flipped open the thing that held the bullets, my heart pounding harder with each passing second until he slammed it shut and pointed it at her.
"You are nothing more than a fucking common whore, you're a dime a dozen." His voice was thick and phlegmy like he had something caught in his throat.
"I'm sorry," she spat out again, her gaze meeting mine this time.
I still wonder to this day if that last apology was meant for me, or if it was her attempt to forgive herself for her sins. I'll never know.
Because the next thing I knew the gun went off, the reverberation settling over me, my ears ringing. Her body thudded hard on the floor, red covering the space around her. Madison gurgled for a solid minute as my father watched, but he gave up halfway through, my sights never leaving her, not until he turned his fury on me.
He stepped around the blood coating the floor like it was spilled milk, careful not to get his loafers dirty. My father didn't even look at me bleeding out, slumped against the cabinet on his way over.
I sucked in a breath, everything numb and lit on fire at the same time, my hands still around the wine opener jammed in my stomach.
He riffled through his liquor cabinet, knocking things about in his search for something I'd soon discover. A knife, meant for cutting the lime wedges he sometimes used in cocktails.
My father knelt down, something that took him great effort, and ran his gaze over me. "You have disobeyed me for the last time, London girl." He clicked his tongue before latching onto the wine opener and yanking it out. "Now, I'm going to fucking gut you. Maybe then you'll realize the error of your ways."
He didn't even give me a chance to process his words before driving the knife in, my lungs letting out a blood-curdling scream. Everything turned white, my vision betraying me. Maybe I shouldn't see this anyway.
He dragged the blade along my flesh like a child coloring outside the lines, tearing me open wider, and I screamed, wanting it to stop, wanting it all to stop.
I'd never wanted death more than I had in that moment.
But for the life of me, I couldn't give up, not yet. I don't know why I did it, I don't know why I didn't let him finish me for good right there, because living another day under his thumb would be reliving this day over and over.
Still, I was weak, and I couldn't take any more of the pain, I couldn't fathom the idea that this was the way I would die. I had barely lived, why did he get to take that away from me?
That was the day I learned to think like him—saying the only thing I could think of to save my life. "Sell me," I sputtered. "Sell me to someone," I begged. "I have to be worth more alive than dead."
This made him pause, my idea somehow intriguing him enough to think about it.
He thought long and hard, so long I started to black out from the pain, but I clung to that silence, hoping like hell it might mean something other than my demise.
And so, he removed his hand from the knife, brought himself to his feet, and towered over me. "If you live, I'll consider it."
He spat on the floor and left me there, somehow with a sense of thankfulness that he chose the floor instead of me.
I wasn't sure if I'd have the strength to overcome what he did to me that day, but I wore that scar as a constant reminder that nothing could ever hurt me as much as he did.
I trace my fingers along the jagged edge and shiver the memory away, one I hate reliving but find myself facing every time I look at my naked body. Once I'm dressed, I return to the clerk with the dress in my hand.
"I'll get that bagged up for you," she says.
I ignore the condescending tone in her voice and nod stiffly. "Sure."
"Everything okay?" Drew asks me, his hand resting on my back.
"Mmhm," I mumble and shift away from him. He hasn't done anything wrong, but I find no comfort in his touch, and right now, all I desire is to be tucked away in Archer's room.