Chapter Twenty-Three #2
I went from being alone much of the time to having someone to share meals with, someone to ask about my day, someone to fight over TV show selections with, someone to curl up to in bed.
My life had been good before, but having Nixon there made it better than I could have anticipated.
Feeling his arms close around me, hold on tight, as I tried to process an event he hadn't approved of in the first place, well, it just showed me how good of a man he was underneath all the sarcasm and eye rolls.
"It's going to be alright," he assured me as he tucked me into bed. "You'll get him next time."
Except the next time, Michael didn't show up. And the time after that, it was so crowded he didn't even see me there. And the time after that, I'd been cornered by an old friend of my father's who wouldn't let me slip away.
It became almost a normal, boring part of life.
I worked. I spent time with Nixon. I ran errands. I got scratched by Mal. And I got dressed and went to charity functions alone, hoping Michael would corner me.
I knew as I walked up the paver driveway that easily cost a couple hundred grand that the valet was actually one of Lo's guys, that two of the caterers were hers as well, that the woman in the understated black dress and icy blue eyes was there to keep an eye on me too.
I also knew that the van parked across the street with the local water company's logo on it was actually where Lo and one of the other guys were watching the cameras the caterers had discreetly placed around the common areas of the house.
I also was very aware that the fitness watch on my wrist was listening to every word I uttered.
This was the event I was least looking forward to. At least the art show allowed me to look at some interesting pieces, inwardly wondering what Nixon would think of each, since he was so wholly horrified by the one piece of art I owned. And the charity fundraiser supported a good cause.
This? This was just a dinner party full of rich people who liked to talk to other rich people who were going to criticize the canapé and the wine.
It was the kind of thing I used to enjoy.
Back in my old life. With my old people.
Now, though, I couldn't help but start to see things through Nixon's eyes as well as my own, cringing each time someone commented about the new yacht they were having built or how many maids they had gone through that year.
I nursed a white wine, hanging on the fringes of conversations since I only knew the hosts through a friend of a friend, and didn't know a single other person at the event.
"You look bored out of your mind," a familiar voice said behind my left shoulder, breath warm on my neck, sending a shiver up my spine.
"I... yeah, a little," I admitted, trying to keep my voice low, sweet, not let my sudden anxiety creep out from between my lips.
"You're new to this crowd," Michael went on as I turned, swallowing hard when I noticed he didn't bother to take a step back, just continued standing far too close given our distant relationship.
"Yeah. I’ve been so busy working, getting my business turned around, that I've let my social calendar lapse. I finally started going out last month. It's been... awkward," I added, lacing some truth in with the lie.
"Well, luckily, you've run into an old friend," he said, giving me a smile that made my stomach turn sour.
"It's amazing that we ended up in the same place!" I agreed, smiling saccharine sweet.
"You look well, princess," he said, and I felt my spine stiffen, having to concentrate to relax each vertebra until my posture relaxed again.
"Thanks, Mr. McDermot,” I said, head dipping. It likely looked shy, demure, sweet, but it was actually the only way to hide the revulsion in my face.
"Michael," he corrected, fingers touching my hand, making my gaze shoot up.
"Let me take this for you," he told me, removing the wine glass from my hand.
"I'll grab you a refill," he added, flagging down the closest server, taking one of the white wine glasses from his tray, bringing it back toward me.
I took it in numb fingers, offering a polite thank you.
"How have your parents been?"
"They're good. Trying to downsize some of their properties. I think they are realizing they don't need five different houses in the continental U.S."
“They're keeping their main place in California though, surely."
My parents had bought a little shack on the beach several years before I was even born, knocking it down, rebuilding their dream home.
Mansions popped up around them, but no one had the square footage of shore frontage.
Those that even came close would set a new buyer back a cool forty million.
Everyone was always waiting for them to decide to downsize, to move, to put that amazing property on the market.
I didn't care if we somehow ended up destitute, I would rather the bank take their house than let Michael have it.
To have him walk through the living room where Sammy and I used to binge-watch movies, dive into the pool where we used to have swimming contests, sit on the warm sand where we used to build intricate sand castles.
"No. They love that house. But they're unloading the ones in the colder states mostly. And the smaller one in California. They want to get a villa in Italy in the next year. If they can find one that doesn’t need too much work."
“What are the chances of that?" he asked, knowingly. "You will miss them when they're gone."
"They've always been travelers," I said, shrugging. "We've always managed to make time to see each other."
"So what about you, princess? What have you been up to in this little town of ours?"
"Well, I've taken over the helm at Devil Tears."
"Right, right. Great whiskey."
"I agree. And it's my mission to get it in more hands. Make it more accessible."
"Sounds like a great plan. If anyone can do it, I know it's you."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence," I said. "Geez," I hissed when someone stepped back suddenly, ramming into my shoulder, knocking me forward into Michael’s chest, spilling a bit of my wine on both of us.
"A little crowded," Michael observed, hand moving out to steady me, making my stomach drop. "Come on, let's get a little space," he suggested.
And because I had to, because this was the plan, even if everything was screaming at me to run in the other direction, I let him put his hand on my lower back and lead me away from the safety of the crowd.
Michael stopped in front of a closed door, one that was clearly closed for a reason, one where guests didn't seem welcome. He released me so he could turn the knob, walking inside, waiting for me to follow.
And then closing the door behind me.
Warning sirens blared in my ears as I tried to keep my breathing slow and even, remind myself that I was safe, that people were listening, that it was going to be okay.
The room in question was clearly a study.
A “gentleman’s study," as my father would put it—full of dark built-in floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, an oversize executive desk to match, thick, buttery-soft brown leather chairs, a matching couch against a wall.
There was a globe on a stand that I had seen often enough to know it wasn't a globe at all, but where the owner of the house likely kept liquor and a couple of glasses situated.
There was a box of cigars on the desk, the same ones I had brought Charlie Mallick the first time I'd gone to his house.
That suddenly felt like a long time ago, though it had only been about six weeks or so.
When I took a deep breath, I could smell the smoke clinging to the soft fabrics of the carpet, the drapes.
I'd been in rooms much like this many times in my life. I had been in rooms like this with men like this more often than I could even remember.
It never occurred to me before this moment how easily that could have turned into a bad situation. Cornered, alone, surrounded by thick wood and heavy tomes that acted as sound barriers.
You had to wonder why Michael would know he could bring a woman here, why he would know it was safe to, that he wouldn't be interrupted.
My mind whipped through conspiracy theories about some big group of wealthy men preying on unsuspecting women as Michael prattled on about classics on the shelves, ones he clearly hadn't read. I knew this because I had, and because people who actually read them formed opinions about them, didn’t just spout Cliffsnotes facts about them.
I offered him the answers he wanted, stroked his ego as I drank my wine, as I tried to remind myself that if I stayed on his good side, if I played the part of the nice, unassuming, compliant girl, that this could all be over, that I wouldn't have to spend my nights chasing down a man to make sure he didn't hurt anyone else, that I could stop feeling like business was unfinished, that my sister went unavenged.
"What about you?" he asked, the first direct question he'd sent my way since we walked into the room.
"What about me?" I asked, the wine starting to make its way through my bloodstream, making me a little light, a little slow. I should have eaten before I came, so the alcohol wouldn't slow me down.
"What is your favorite book?" he asked, coming to sit down on the couch near me.
The couch was large, big enough for four, but he felt too close.
He felt closer still when he moved one of his legs to cock up on the cushions to face me.
It was a seemingly innocent move, but I felt myself stiffening, felt my belly twisting, recoiling, everything in me suggesting I get away as soon as possible.
When it came to fight or flight, I guess I was the kind to want to take wing.
I couldn’t, though, and that reality was making me feel oddly buzzy.