Eight Seconds to Glory #2
“I was about to call and tell you—Caitlyn was supposed to remind me, but she must have forgot, too. See, honey, Tony Dolce passed away a couple weeks ago, and some people are trying to make me into the bad guy. I had nothing to do with any kind of illegal dealings, but it would probably be better for your career to not get mixed up in it. Wouldn’t want my famous daughter having anything negative associated with her name. ”
“Trouble is, I was going to surprise you and come home a few days early, so I’m already in Faulkner,” I say.
“You are?” he asks, sounding surprised. “Well, isn’t this a treat! You usually don’t come home a whole week before Christmas.”
“I know,” I say. “I should have called.”
“Well, that’s alright,” he says. “Tell you what. I’ll put you up in a hotel while you’re here, just to be on the safe side.”
“A hotel?” I ask. “Dad… Is everything okay?”
“Of course,” he says, making his fake laugh that he does when he’s schmoozing with other politicians. “I just don’t want any of this to reflect back on you, sugar plum.”
“You sure?” I ask. “Because it doesn’t sound like it. Are you in some kind of danger?”
“No, of course not,” he insists. “We’re just taking everything a day at a time, and your stepmother’s a little overwhelmed with it all this year. We’d love to have you for Christmas dinner. Just give us a few days to get everything sorted.”
I swallow hard. “Okay, Daddy. I’m at Grampa Darling’s, so I’ll just stay here until I hear back from you.”
“That’s a good place to stay,” he agrees, and I know then that he must be in more danger than he’s letting on. He hasn’t associated with the Darlings in two years. There’s no way he would have let me stay here last year.
I’ve barely hung up the phone when I get a long paragraph of text from my stepmother scolding me for stressing my father out and raising his blood pressure, telling me I should have called before showing up, and not-so-subtly hinting that I’m not welcome there except for one dinner.
I squeeze my eyes closed and try not to cry. I guess I’m on my own.
That’s alright. I’m a big girl. And it’s not like I’m in any danger—Preston may have an unhealthy inability to let go, and a track record for dirty deceit, but he would never, ever hurt me.
If I was in danger, I wouldn’t hesitate to put myself in his hands.
This is probably the safest place I could be—not just safe from physical harm, but from any kind of gossip that could affect my career.
No one in town knows I’m here, so they can’t gossip, and this place is like a fortress of security.
So, I guess until my dad gets his business dealings settled, I’ll just have to accept that I’m staying here.
I get up and walk along the wall of glass, remembering the parties that took place here.
There were always stripper poles, tables where people sat, and a dance floor.
Usually they brought in a real DJ, too. Now, it’s nearly empty—a long, rectangular room with windows forming one long side and mirrors on the other.
There’s a barre set up as well, and I wonder if Magnolia’s still dancing, if she uses this for a studio.
That gives me hope that I’m not trapped in here.
At one of the shorter ends of the rectangle is the wall with the door we entered and the door to a half bath.
At the other end are two more doors, one that leads to the rest of the east wing and one that leads to the room that the Darlings used to call the Den of Iniquity.
I only stuck my head in once, and that was enough for me.
That’s how I found out about the orgies that took place at their parties.
I stood there gaping for a full eight seconds before Devlin pulled me back and said, “I told you, we don’t have to go in there. ”
I pause before opening the door again.
Standing frozen, I listen to the sound of footsteps overhead. The hair on my arms stands on end, even though I tell myself it’s just his grandfather, not a ghost.
Then I hear a voice singing somewhere, the high, sweet note echoing in a faint, eerie way, as if the voices of our childhood years spent here are coming back to haunt me.
I swallow, a shiver running through me as the voice continues singing.
I swear, if I run into a little girl’s ghost in this place, I’m going to know I’ve cracked up like Preston.
I shove the thought away and turn the knob.
When I open the door, it’s hard to imagine this is the same room where I once saw Preston railing Destiny while Colt took her mouth.
I’ll never forget how Preston caught my eye and just stared me down, his expression cool, while he pumped rhythmically into my best friend.
I could have just died at the way it made me feel.
Tonight, it couldn’t be further from the room I glimpsed back then. No blackout curtains cover the picture window with a recessed window seat. No naked strippers writhe on the stage while guys shove god-knows-what inside them. No rotating bed with a human centipede of sex on it.
There is a bed—a king bed with a canopy overhead, delicate white lace swaying around the frame.
Beside it, a thick, furry white rug lays over the smooth, pale hardwood that’s replaced the very questionable black carpet that used to cover the entire floor of the spacious room.
A plush pink comforter covers the bed, the top laden with pillows of assorted shapes and sizes, all pink and white except for one white daisy pillow.
More cute pillows line the cushion in the window seat, and a small, round table beside it is topped with a vase containing pink roses and baby’s breath, along with a copy of Little Women.
I’m sure it’s no coincidence that my favorite book is here, that the daisy pillows match the necklace Preston gave me when I left for California.
The entire room’s been redone, made pretty instead of depraved.
I know I should be flattered, but it’s hard to forget what I saw in here the time curiosity got the best of me.
I may not have come into this room again, but it was always active at the parties.
I always watched Preston going in, knowing what he’d be doing.
My next thought is even less comforting. If Preston had this room redone entirely for me… How long has he been planning this?