8. Mila
MILA
LA, June, 1 Year Ago
O n the felony count of rape and sexual assault in the first degree, the court finds the defendant, Marcus Wendell Parker, guilty.”
“On the felony count of distributing sexually explicit content including rape, murder, and assault for the intention of financial gain, the court finds the defendant, Marcus Wendell Parker, guilty.”
“On the felony count of trafficking illegal substances with the intention of financial gain, including, but not limited to, methamphetamine, cocaine, heroin, and fentanyl, the court finds the defendant, Marcus Wendell Parker, guilty.”
“On the felony count of fraud, including tampering with official United States documents to swing an election, the court finds the defendant, Marcus Wendell Parker, guilty.”
“On the felony count of two-hundred-and fifty-eight claims of trafficking a human being for the intention of sexual slavery, the court finds the defendant Marcus Wendell Parker guilty in the first degree.”
No one ever told me how utterly stifling courtrooms could be. Especially when there’s a camera trained on your family the entire time the judge is reading off the guilty verdict of your former stepfather.
I keep my face blank, my mind empty, save for the sound of the judge’s voice as she reads off all the charges that Marcus Parker is being convicted of. If I had my way, I wouldn’t have come today. None of us would.
What’s done is done. We can’t go back and change the past, but we can create a better future—one without men like Marcus in it.
For the last eighteen years, I’ve watched him hurt the people I love to the point that we were all almost murdered for his political gain. I’ve watched my sister, Savannah, live through his torment when he raped her, pimped her out to his friends, drugged her. I’ve watched my mother become a shell of who she once was. I almost lost my brother.
As far as I’m concerned, the only thing Marcus deserves is a death sentence, and I’m ashamed to live in California, knowing he won’t ever get one.
“The court has gone into great detail over this case in the previous months leading up to this sentencing,” Judge Higgens says, laying her glasses on the stand in front of her. “I, myself, have had trouble sleeping at night knowing what you have done. Most of your victims will never see their families again, and the fact that you were almost elected to be mayor of my city makes me sick to my stomach.”
Marcus doesn’t respond, simply staring at her with that same look of cocky indifference he always has. I hate that they let him wear a suit. Orange would suit him better.
“I can only hope that there will come a time when you will see the consequences of your actions and have remorse in the eyes of your maker for the men, women, and children you have hurt, though I do not know that repentance is possible for someone as quietly violent as you.” She stares him dead in the face. Mom squeezes my hand so tight, my fingers ache. Someone pops a piece of bubble gum in their mouth. “May God have mercy on your soul.”
If he had one . . .
“The court imposes the following sentencing,” the judge says, and everything goes silent. “In the case of Marcus Wendell Parker, the court has reached the following verdict. Marcus Wendell Parker, you are hereby sentenced to five consecutive life sentences to be served at the California State Federal Prison without the possibility of parole. You are to serve your sentence immediately following this hearing, with a credit of one-hundred-and-twenty-two days time served in the Los Angeles County Jail.”
Where I expected chaos in the dusty LA courtroom, silence follows instead. No one moves. No one celebrates. I’m not even sure anyone breathes when Marcus is hauled to his feet by the officer standing next to him. He murmurs something quietly to him, and Marcus places his hands behind his back. The officer handcuffs him, and he’s led towards a door off to the side where he’ll go to prison for the rest of his sorry life.
He’s going to die behind bars, anyway. Why not save the taxpayers some money and deal with him now?
Frustration bubbles up inside me, but I have to push it back down. There’s no use being angry. The decision has been made. My only hope is that by some stroke of luck, someone shanks him in his dirty prison sheets in the middle of the night and lets him bleed out for what he did to all those people. Women and children. Men, too.
Marcus smirks, looking back at us, his gaze lingering on my sister sitting beside me. She meets his gaze with her ice-blue one, finally unafraid of him after what he’d done to her for all those years. Her fiancé, Logan, the special FBI agent who brought Marcus down, places his arm around her shoulders and stares back at him as if daring him to even blink in Savannah’s direction.
Marcus’s gaze turns to my mother, and he stares at her long and hard. The divorce was finalized a month ago. She owes him nothing, but in true Marcus fashion, he still feels some control over her.
I pat Mom’s hand, and she lets out a shuddering sigh, tears brimming in her eyes. However, she doesn’t look away.
“Come on,” I whisper, tugging on her hand. “Let’s go celebrate.”
Mom grimaces at me but nods softly, and I get the feeling that maybe I’m the only one happy about this day.
I lead Mom out of the courtroom to find my brother, Mason, waiting in the lobby, leaning against the wall. He’s barely been a part of our lives since Mom married Marcus, but he’s making an effort, and I’m proud of him.
The moment Mom sees him, he pulls her into a hug, and she cries on his shoulder. Logan holds Savannah, and I stand awkwardly, unsure of how I’m supposed to feel.
On one hand, I’m happy the fucker’s going to prison. I hope it’s filled with cheap one-ply toilet paper and moldy shower stalls.
On the other hand, I can’t help but feel like it’s not over. Like there’s still something lurking in the shadows, waiting and watching, planning to strike when we least expect it.
Mom and Mason discuss the court hearing, and Logan and Savannah whisper amongst themselves, so I press myself against the wall while the courtroom clears out, turning my phone on.
It’s been a long day, and my phone’s been off this entire time, so it floods with messages from well-wishers and people who just want the inside scoop the moment it powers up. I roll my eyes at half the people who reached out. They don’t actually care. They just want to know all the gritty details. It’s been the same for months.
Since Marcus was arrested, we’ve dealt with reporter after reporter and paparazzi trying to take pictures through our windows. Average citizens throwing insults at us in public because of who we’re related to.
I can’t wait for a day when all this blows over. When peace isn’t just a foreign concept, we can move on without ever having to hear his name uttered again.
As I scroll through my phone, deleting messages, only two stand out to me. I click on the first, my stomach filling with butterflies as I reply.
The second fills me with complete and total dread.
Unknown: Sweet, sweet freedom.
I grit my teeth and delete the message, shoving my phone back in my bag. My skin prickles with awareness like someone’s watching me. If Mr. Unknown knows that Marcus was sentenced, then that means he’s here.
I scan the crowd filing out of the courtroom, but no one’s paying any more attention to me than it takes to shoot me a dirty look or a tear-filled glance.
I’m watching the doors swing open with each group of people that exits, and my eyes catch on a man inside the courtroom beyond, a hood pulled up over his head, casting shadows over his face so I can’t see anything more than his chin and mouth.
My heart lurches in my chest, coming to a halt. My palms grow sweaty, and everything fades away as we stare at each other.
Slowly, his lips tip up in a smirk.
“Mila.”
I jump when Mason’s hand lands on my shoulder, letting out a quiet squeak.
“You alright?”
I look back to the courtroom door, but the door’s shut.
“I forgot something,” I murmur, hurrying back towards the doors. I push through, stumbling into the large, empty room, but it’s just that. Empty.
I look around for any signs of the man in the hood, but I’m met with nothing but the quiet hum of the air conditioner and a fly buzzing somewhere in the room.
“Did you find it?” Mason asks, popping his head through the door.
He was right fucking here.
Right here.
“Y-yeah. It was in my purse,” I lie, gaze trained on the two doors in the back of the room. One that Marcus went through and one that the judge used. Surely, he couldn’t sneak out that way.
“Let’s get going,” Mason says, completely oblivious to the eerie feeling that hangs in the air. “Mom’s tired. It’s been a long day.”
Slowly, I nod, and when he holds out his hand, I place my fingers in his, letting him lead me from the room.
That feeling never leaves, though.
The feeling of being watched from the shadows.
I’ve always loved the way waves from the ocean crash against the sand at night.
In March, the water is chilly. Freezing, to be exact, but I don’t care. I’m standing at the edge of the surf, letting the water wash across my toes and erase today, along with the heat still trapped in the pristine sand of Venice Beach.
I can look out over the water and imagine a life where I’m a nobody. No one knows I was related to the man who was just charged with heinous crimes against humanity. I’m not the girl who’s sister was used in some sick elitist cult. I’m not the girl getting stalked.
I’m just Mila, lost in the ocean and feeling the sand beneath my toes.
“You’re going to catch a cold.”
I don’t have to turn around to know who it is. I feel the awareness travel up my spine from his gaze.
“Would you take care of me?” I joke, turning back to him over my shoulder. His eyes bore into mine, stealing my breath away, and my toes curl into the sand in the water from just that simple glance.
“Depends,” he murmurs, rubbing a hand over the stubble on his jaw. I’ve always loved when he doesn’t shave every day.
I turn to face him, the bottom of my skirt I’d picked up on a trip to Romania last year dripping from the water.
“On?”
He cocks his head to the side, his gaze slipping over the loose, flowy skirt billowing around my legs, up to the piercing in my navel that I did in secret two years ago with a clothespin—not recommended. The same one he had to take me to the doctor to get medicine for when it got infected so my mother didn’t find out. His eyes slip over my tank top, then finally meet mine, and my mouth goes dry.
God, he looks handsome in a pair of jeans and a button-up. It should be illegal.
“On how long it takes you to get the fuck over here.”
My stomach dips at the growl in his voice, and I can’t fight the blush on my cheeks. Slowly, I step out of the water and step across the sand, stopping right in front of him.
“Is this better?” I breathe, looking up at him through my lashes.
“Get the fuck over here,” he bites, tugging me closer by a hand on my waist.
The moment his lips crash against mine, the world melts away. My stomach takes flight with butterflies. My core heats to a sweltering five thousand degrees, and all the problems of the day just don’t seem to matter anymore.
Christian Cross tastes like late nights and sneaking out. Like melted caramel dripping over vanilla ice cream or whiskey tinged with a hint of honey. Like everything I want to let ruin me if it means I can still be his.
“Fuck,” he grits, pulling away and stooping to press his lips the inside of my neck. “Miss me, little devil?” he purrs against my skin, slipping his teeth over my racing pulse. My eyes clench shut at the heat that slips through me, and I wrap my arms around his neck.
Christian’s eyes twinkle with mischief when he pulls back, and my stomach does a backflip at the devil-may-care grin on his lips.
“How was the hearing?”
“As good as could be expected.”
He cocks a brow. “Meaning?”
I push away from him, my stomach in knots. I cross the sand to the little blanket he’s set up for us and sink onto it, falling back to look at the stars.
He follows, sitting down beside me and hovering over me, forcing my gaze to his when he blocks out the moon overhead.
“Talk to me,” he murmurs, brushing a thumb over my lip.
I shake my head.
“I just feel like this isn’t the end.”
His gaze darkens, his jaw clenching. His thumb strokes my cheek, then slips down to cup my chin.
“It’s over, Mila. You don’t have to worry anymore.”
I haven’t told Christian about Mr. Unknown. I don’t want him to worry. Things are finally starting to slow down. The last thing everyone needs is to be worried about my little stalker problem.
—Because that’s all it is. A little stalker issue that will eventually come to an end. I’m not that interesting. Eventually, Mr. Unknown will tire of following me around, and I’ll never hear from him again.
And, then, I can’t help but wonder . . . when will Christian tire of me, too?
“Is it over for you?” I ask quietly, my heartbeat thrumming in my ears.
“Stop that,” he murmurs. His thumb strokes over the tear on my cheek. I hadn’t even realized I was crying.
Fuck. I grit my teeth, hating myself for even feeling this way about something that I knew was transient from the moment it started six months ago.
“Stop what?” I whisper, lifting up to press my lips to his. If he’s kissing me, he’s here, right? And if he’s here, he’s mine, at least, for now.
Christian lets me kiss him for only a moment before he pulls back, pressing his forehead against mine.
“Mila.”
I shake my head. I can’t tell him how I feel.
How longing glances across crowded rooms and secret dates in the back of blacked-out Surburbans or darkened beaches at night aren’t enough anymore. Holding his hand to release it the moment we pull into the driveway at my mother’s new mansion or how falling asleep in his arms after he snuck into my room only to wake up alone guts me.
I don’t just want him. I need him. The irony is almost laughable.
“Please, just kiss me,” I whisper, needing him to chase the racing thoughts out of my head. He searches my gaze, an expression I can’t read on his face. My heart stretches out for his, begging for his touch, and tears sting in the backs of my eyes. I push all my emotions away and focus on what I can control.
He and I, in this very moment, where no one is demanding anything from either of us and we’re free to fall in love, even if it’s only for a moment.
“Please.”
He nods once and slowly closes the gap between us, his lips feasting on mine and a groan tearing up his throat that renders my heart immobile in my chest.
I love you . . . I whisper in the back of my head because I can’t say it out loud.
When he rolls me over, my legs straddling both of his, I reach between us for his zipper and pull him into my palm. He’s burning hot, searing my skin when he groans and pushes inside me with a shudder. My head falls back, my gaze locking with the moon, and everything feels complete.
It may be toxic . . . this need I have to feel him. It may be pathetic.
Nothing matters as long as we’re together in this moment.
“Fuck, Mila,” he groans against the side of my throat. My nails scour the back of his neck, my heart racing, and my thighs slick when he moves me over him, my skirt bunched around us while he uses his hands on my ass to drive up into me.
“Please don’t stop,” I whisper, my pussy clenching around him and the impending orgasm drawing closer and closer.
“Never, baby,” he rasps, and I capture his lips with my own, my heart soaring.
He’s never called me baby before.
“Grind on my cock, sweetheart,” he rasps, his groin brushing against my clit, sending my eyes rolling. “Show me how bad you need me, Mila.”
“I . . .I . . .” the words get caught in my throat, and before I can release them, my entire body seizes with the force of the pleasure rippling through me. “Christian,” I moan into his mouth while he spills inside me with a rough growl.
The moment we both float back down to earth, I lean my forehead against his, and he wraps his arms around me, falling back on the blanket and holding me to his chest.
I wish, for a moment, that we could stay like this forever. Completely intertwined. Unable to discern where one of us begins and the other ends, but I know, eventually, this will end.
“I’m here, Mila,” he says so quietly I barely register that he’d spoken. “Do you trust me?”
Raising my head to meet his gaze, he stares back at me with a look in his eyes I can’t process.
“Always.”
The problem with clandestine love affairs is, eventually, someone gets hurt. Usually, the person who’s more invested, and I’m afraid, judging by the warmth permeating through my veins, that person is me.