8. Juliet
8
JULIET
U sing Dr. Pillard to escape the clutches of the Scorpion Kings is a means to an end. He’s a symbol of my old life that I latched on to in an effort to get away from the consequences of my new one. I’m aware of his scrutiny as he leads me down into the parking garage of the hospital, but I don’t offer any words to ease the awkward silence that stretches between us.
Why he’d offer to give me a ride, I’m not sure. Even when I was dating Bran, he’d hardly ever paid me any attention. The occasional greeting or respectful nod when we’d seen each other at events held by either my parents or him was the extent of our communication. Now, I’m viscerally aware of his gaze moving over me as we stride across the lot and down the aisle reserved for hospital staff until we come to a beautiful dark-gray Aston Martin.
I arch an eyebrow as he clicks a button on his key fob and the back lights flicker. It’s the kind of car that screams money, wealth, and maybe a small dick. I should know—Bran used to drive it to school sometimes. The Pillards are all fans of their fancy ass cars, and the one time I’d been given a tour of their estate, I’d seen all twelve of their personal vehicles. After going from having all the money a girl could ever need to nothing at all, I have to wonder who the hell needs that many cars.
“I was so sorry to hear about your father,” Dr. Pillard says as he starts the vehicle and I strap my seatbelt in. “Bran told me the two of you had had a falling out before it all happened.”
A falling out? I grit my teeth. More like a falling in—as in, he fell into my now ex-best friend’s pussy. “Don’t worry about it, Dr. Pillard,” I say. “Everything’s worked out so far.”
“Oh please, Juliet,” he says as he backs out of the space. “Call me Charles, or better yet, you can call me Chuck. It’s what my wife calls me.” Who the fuck wants to actually be called Chuck? Chuck is a verb, used for sayings like “I chucked a grenade at my asshat ex’s car” or “I upCHUCKed all over my ex-best friend’s Jimmy Choos.” Chuck is not a fucking name.
“Erm … okay, uh, I should probably tell you where you can drop me off,” I say, withdrawing my cell from my bra. As the loose t-shirt gapes open, Dr. Pillard’s eyes shoot to my chest and I stiffen.
Ahhhh. That’s why he offered to give me a ride. I blow out a breath. Men are all the same, it seems, no matter the age. Rolling my eyes, I check my messages and am relieved to find that Roquel messaged me back from when I’d sent the initial request. I text her to let her know that I’ll be there soon.
Dr. Pillard— Chuck —pulls out of the parking lot of the hospital. “Are you not staying with Morpheus?” he asks.
I slide farther down in my seat. Of course, he’d assume that. No one else would try to strike out on their own when their family loses their entire fortune. Just me.
“Actually, I’m staying with a friend of mine,” I lie. I give him Roquel’s address, and he hums in the back of his throat.
“That’s not a very safe part of town,” he comments. Considering that his eyes keep flicking to my chest as he drives, I don’t put much value in his tone of concern.
“Safety is an illusion,” I reply. I don’t know what makes me say the words and to him of all people, but I find that as the statement leaves my lips, I fully believe it. Safety is an illusion.
I thought I was safe in my parents’ home. I thought I had it all figured out. I was Queen of Silverwood Prep. Captain of the Cheer Squad. I had a boyfriend that fit the right image of a millionaire’s daughter. I had the right clothes. The right hair. The right everything to make me believe that I was safe .
None of it was real.
After all, here I am sitting in a car that costs more than most people’s houses with a doctor that has a sterling reputation, and I know the truth—I’m not fucking safe.
As if he senses my thoughts, Dr. Pillard chuckles uncomfortably. “That’s pretty jaded for someone so young,” he says. “Then again, I suppose you’re eighteen now. An adult. You’re no longer a child.”
How unsurprising that he’s mentioning my age—almost like he wants to remind himself that his disgusting fantasies are okay. It doesn’t matter that he watched me grow up. That I dated and fucked his son. What he sees now is a young woman who has none of the protection of her family and money anymore. What he sees now is a young woman who’s fair game.
A familiar anger spreads through my chest, warming me from the inside out. I close my eyes as my mind catapults me back in time to the night I’d been attacked. There’s really not much difference in the man that broke into my apartment and Bran’s father. The only thing that sets them apart is window dressing—their looks and background. Reputation can either be a shield or a weapon, and I was taught to use it well.
Turning in my seat, I open my eyes and fix them on the doctor. “How’s Branden?” I ask, tilting my head.
Dr. Pillard shifts in his seat, fingers flexing on the steering wheel as he drives. He clears his throat before answering. “He’s… well,” he says. Dishwater blue eyes the same shade as my ex’s flick towards me before returning to the road.
“I assume he’s dating Avery now,” I say, letting my voice soften into an almost absent-minded tone. My temple touches the Aston’s rich, smooth leather of the seat and my eyes drop down, moving over Dr. Pillard’s scrubs. There’s a distinct bulge in his crotch. Acid drips down the back of my throat and makes its way into my stomach.
“They miss you,” Dr. Pillard replies, but the obvious deflection tells me I’m right.
My lips curve up at the edges. “I bet they do.” I bet they miss fucking around behind my back when I was someone important. Someone Dr. Pillard would never try his lame attempt at comfort and seduction on.
“They do,” he insists. “In fact…” My eyes shoot back to his face, but he’s not looking at me. Sweat dots his brow. “Perhaps you should stop by the house sometime, to see them…”
“To see Branden and Avery?” I lift my hand and touch one fingertip to the radio face between us. His gaze moves there and then to me with a sharp movement. “And not you ?”
Curiosity makes me wonder how far he’ll take this. I watch him carefully, with a belly full of darkness and jadedness that I’m supposedly far too young for. There’s no age on emotion, but older generations always want to make it so. As if no child, no one so much younger than themselves could ever have such experiences that would leave them world-weary.
“Me?” he chokes out the single word.
The laugh that bubbles up from my throat is husky. “Yes,” I confirm. “Are you offering to have me stop by your house to see my old ex-boyfriend and ex-best friend or to see you?”
The car slows as he takes a turn. We’re getting closer to Roquel’s. The yards of each house we pass growing less and less maintained. Dark brown patches mar the grass as the winter season creeps in, shoving autumn out of its way in its bid for dominance. I keep my eyes pinned to the man in the driver’s seat.
I dare him silently to say it. To admit what he wants.
Dr. Pillard lifts one hand away from the steering wheel and reaches between his legs to adjust the fabric now stretched taut over his cock. It’s funny—I’m not even dressed for seduction. I’m wearing someone else’s clothes and the shirt is too large, only gaping down enough to show the top of my collarbone. Yet, he keeps flicking his gaze to my tits as if he’s praying I’ll get the hint and lift it up to show him.
“I don’t have a car anymore,” I say. “I sold it to pay for my apartment.” An apartment that no longer exists.
“I-is that s-so?” He stutters.
“Mmhmm.” I leave the radio alone and bring my fingers to the collar of my shirt. His hips shift in the driver’s seat.
“W-well if you wanted, I-I could pick you up,” he says, the words breathy. “You’re a beautiful young woman and I wouldn’t want anyone to hurt you. If you need some assistance, I’d be willing to help you out.”
I just bet he would.
The address that Roquel had given me comes into view. An old sagging porch in front of a brick duplex with dirty windows. He slows the car to a stop in front of it but leaves it idling. There are a few guys hanging out on a nearby neighbor’s equally decrepit porch. I’m surprised the structure doesn’t collapse under their collective weight.
My smile is tight as I reach down and unclip my seatbelt. “That’s a kind offer, Dr. Pillard.” The front door to the duplex opens and Roquel’s dark head of short spiky black hair peeks out. When her eyes catch on the Aston Martin, they widen and she shuffles fully onto the porch, the door banging shut completely behind her.
I pop the passenger side door open. Before I can get a foot out, though, Dr. Pillard speaks. “Does that mean you’ll let me?” he asks.
My insides roil with illness. Only it’s not a stomach bug that gives me the sensation, but the sound of his voice, of his words. I turn back and let my mask fall away. One look and he recoils. I let him see the fury, the revulsion, the unhinged desire to reach between his legs and cut his balls off before I shove them down his throat for even daring to think that I would offer him sexual favors in return for his help. Maybe he never said the words—but he didn’t need to. It was there in his eyes, in between the lines of what he did say.
“I would rather strip naked in front of the whole of Silverwood and set myself on fire than let you fuck me, Chuck, ” I snap. “No amount of money in the world would sink me so low to prostitute myself to my ex-boyfriend’s father, but to say I’m surprised would be a lie. After all, your son is a cheater, so it makes sense that you would be too. I’ll let your wife know about your kind offer if I see her. Thanks for the ride.”
With that, I get out of the car and slam the door shut, not caring as the door clicks and bangs on the loose seatbelt, not quite shutting all the way. Turning away from the doctor, I make my way up the cracked driveway to where Roquel stands on the top step, her arms folded and a curious expression on her face. The sound of tires squealing as Dr. Pillard backs up and swivels around to take off back down the road is like music to my ears.
Roquel looks from me to the Aston Martin’s retreating tail lights. “What was that?” she asks.
A wicked grin graces my lips. “That was me calling out a pervert,” I tell her, “and threatening to tell his wife.”
Eyes lined with dark smudged mascara widen, and she pops a bubble of pink bubble gum I hadn’t noticed she’d been chewing before. Then she grins. “Wasn’t that Dr. Pillard?” she inquires. “Your ex’s dad?”
I nod as I rise up the steps to the duplex. “Yup.”
“Oh, that’s too rich.” Roquel laughs, the sound loud even over her neighbors’ old radio bumping out deep bass and fast lyrics. This is my world now. The blinders are off. No one and nothing is safe anymore.