Chapter 8
MAE
A violent husband.
A blackmailing lover.
A sex tape.
There’s a chance I might be laughed out the front doors of the police station or worse, face impending wrath the minute I return home. I’m here, running the risk of getting Peter’s abuse on record so if he finds and kills me after I’ve fled, the authorities will know who to point the finger at. The husband is always the primary suspect, is he not? I can only pray Officer Brandon, Peter’s long-term friend and ally, isn’t on duty—the primary reason I’ve not reported the abuse earlier.
Then there’s Jason Shaw, filming his brother fucking me and then using it as blackmail. If my sudden disappearance gives him the green light to distribute it, at least it’s on file that it was done without my consent.
Making my way toward the front entrance of the LA Police Department, my attention is drawn to a small group at the right of the door. Reporters circle a man, holding mics and smartphones close to his face, cameras poised behind them. Dressed in a gray suit, the man methodically answers their peppering questions.
But there’s something about him, an odd familiarity that draws me to a halt. So I wait for him to turn a fraction, hoping to glimpse his face. As the man gesticulates, I’m drawn to the row of gold rings adorning his chubby fingers, then to the way he rocks from toe to heel as he talks. I step closer, and in the same instant, he turns to address a reporter, spying me in his peripheral. There’s a double take, and recognition dawns.
Our eyes lock.
It can’t be.
Realizing just how monumentally I’ve been played, my heart lurches into my throat, and I’m caught between wanting to scream or cry.
He notices my retreat, hastily concluding the interview before reaching me quicker than I can react. He smiles without sincerity.
“Mae,” Frank greets, kissing my cheek. It’s a forced courtesy, his gaze darting around to ensure we’re out of earshot. He’s not surprised when I don’t return the greeting. “What brings you to the department?” he challenges. “Something wrong?”
Answering isn’t as easy as it should be. “I didn’t realize—”
“Didn’t realize what?”
I now understand why he looked so familiar at Damon’s cocktail party.
Frank Brunello is the new Chief of Police, having been in the top role for just over a year.
‘Let me introduce you both to Frank and his wife, Carmen.’
Omitting Frank’s surname during introductions so I wouldn’t make the connection was a tactical move.
A Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, the CEO of America NewsCorp, and the Chief of Police, among others, all in attendance at the intimate cocktail party. Friends and accomplices . And no doubt, all on Damon’s payroll.
Seeing the penny has dropped, a growing smile spreads across Frank’s face. “Why don’t we go upstairs into the privacy of my office?” His meaty hand grips my elbow. “I’m sure you’ve got a lot to discuss.”
The jovial, kind man I met a few nights ago has no qualms abusing his power, and if he thinks I’m stupid enough to follow him behind closed doors, he can think again.
“I won’t trouble you,” I say, yanking my arm but to no avail.
“It’s no imposition. After all, a friend of Damon’s is a friend of mine.”
The glint in his eyes rolls my stomach. I imagine the three of them talking, laughing as Damon reveals just how easy I handed myself over to him. Jason, painting a pathetic picture of how I looked when discovering I was the star of a sex tape. And Frank, making a mockery out of me, detailing the moment I learned that freedom and safety comes only with having the right connections.
“I have to go,” I say, feeling every bit as violated as intended. This time, I successfully pull free from his grasp.
“You have a great day, Mae.”
I turn to make a run back to my car, but I’m only a few feet away when he calls my name again, and I stop. Deciding he doesn’t deserve to see my face, I keep my back to him, but that doesn’t make his warning any less clear.
“I’ll let Damon know you stopped by for a visit.”
~
I’m as good as dead.
Neither Jason nor Damon strike me as men who are happy to forgive and forget a betrayal, nor would they squander an opportunity.
But right now, I have my own personal challenge.
Three custom-made blank canvases stare back at me and despite so desperately not wanting to hand over victory to Peter, I’m close to calling it for what it is.
A failure.
There’s not a chance in hell I can get these pieces finished in time.
My cell vibrates violently on the wooden floor, the screen illuminating with a message from Allyson.
Allyson: Babe, the Augustine Gallery requires confirmation on delivery dates to meet the installation deadline. How’s the body of work progressing?
My heart sinks.
To present an incomplete set, I’d make myself the joke of the art world. Not finishing so close to opening night would be career suicide.
Me: There’s absolutely no chance of delaying for an extra month?
The three reply dots dance around for quite some time. Then they still for what feels like an eternity.
Allyson: There isn’t another opening for five years. And Augustine isn’t one for second chances. Let me know what I can do to help because I’ll be on the next flight over if you need me.
Blackmailed and potentially blacklisted, I’m on a winning streak.
As if to seal that thought into the vaults of fate, another message comes through, this time from an unknown number. There is, however, simply no questioning who it is.
Unknown: You’ve been a very bad girl, sweetheart.
~
“There you are.”
Peter’s intrusion startles me mid-brushstroke, causing my fine, detailed line to spike wayward.
Hiding my irritation, I turn to find him standing behind me, hands tucked into his pockets. A fairly innocuous stance if it weren’t for the knowing smirk pulling his lips. Drunk or sober, it’s the same, and I usually don’t fare well out of it.
“Going somewhere?” I ask, noticing he’s wearing his best jeans and a checkered, long-sleeved collared shirt.
“I have a meeting with Damon and Jason tonight.”
My sudden heart palpitations might be a giveaway, but outwardly, I remain indifferent. “Oh, so soon?”
“I expect they want to go over some things pertaining to last year’s financials.”
While that makes no sense, considering this is more a quid pro quo and less an investment proposal, I don’t even care to ask why they would need such information.
Peter scowls. “For God’s sake, just say it, Mae. What’s bothering you now?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit. I keep telling you you’re a terrible liar, but you just keep doing it anyway.”
“I’m not lying. I hope it all goes well for you tonight.”
He observes me with a mark of suspicion. “You’re not even going to ask why you weren’t invited?”
Perhaps Damon sympathized with my pleas after all. That, however, is a discussion I’ll keep to myself. “No. I’m happy it’s just you. Your relationship with them is all that matters.”
“Mm…” He nods, unconvinced. “If you really mean that, perhaps you might want to send me off with a parting gift.”
There it is. He’d had it written across his smug face when he walked in, and now, the suggestion turns my blood ice cold. “I… I don’t know what you mean.”
“Get on your knees, and I’ll show you exactly what I mean.”
The idea of performing such as act on someone I hate with every fiber of my being is truly repulsive. “Peter, I—”
“I don’t care for your excuses, Mae,” he says as if utterly detached from morality. “Keep refusing me, and I’ll take more than just a blow job.”
“ No , I’m not—”
“Then so be it.” He steps forward so fast I barely register him ripping the paintbrush from my hand and tossing it aside. There’s no time to watch it fling across the floor because I’m grabbed by the back of my neck and hauled off the stool.
“Let me go, Peter!” I push at his chest, but he’s far stronger than I can ever defeat.
“I thought I made myself real clear.” He drives me face-first onto the chaise against the wall, and seconds after that, he’s on me, rubbing his erection against my ass. “I want a quick fuck before I go.”
The sound of his belt unbuckling sends fear ripping through me. “Get off, Peter!”
“Not a fucking chance. I’ve waited long enough to have you again.” Collapsing on top of me, he grinds his erection and murmurs his vulgarity against my ear, “You just have to lay there and take it, honey, like a good wife. You don’t even have to look alive.” Peter kisses my cheek, leaving behind a pool of saliva.
“I don’t want to have sex, so get off me.”
Proving how little he cares, Peter bunches the smock around my waist and tries to pull off my tights. In doing so, he partially lifts his weight long enough for me to turn and send my arm swinging. The palm side of my fist hits Peter’s mouth hard enough that he’s knocked off me and onto the wooden floor, his head banging into the side table. The jar of turpentine smashes on the woven rug, and just like a buttered slice of toast slipping off a plate, my palette of carefully mixed colors lands paint-side down into the puddle of solvent.
I crawl off the chaise and put distance between us, but it wouldn’t take much for him to further commit to the assault.
“What the fuck was that, Mae?” He wipes the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.
“I told you to get off me.”
“If you ever fucking hit me like that again—”
“You’ll what, Peter?” I brave, practically taking the shovel and digging my own grave.
He stands and rezips his jeans. “You know firsthand what will happen. Count yourself lucky I have somewhere to be because I can easily get what I want without hearing a breath of protest from you.”
Hopelessness. It consumes me because he can make two years of trauma seem like an eternity.
“Don’t bother crying, honey. Save it for when it matters.”
For tonight when he returns home with payback on his mind.
His attention lands on the paintings lining the far wall. In what he perceives would be seen as a casual approach, Peter strolls over, his interest honed on a completed piece. He slowly runs his finger along the top of the canvas before turning his face to meet mine. “Your exhibition is getting in the way of more important things.”
“I can categorically say the exhibit is not the problem.”
“It won’t pay to disillusion yourself, Mae. You’re entertaining a hobby, nothing more.”
For a split second, I imagine the damage I could do with a blunt palette knife.
When I don’t answer for fear of reprisal in the form of him destroying the artwork, he pockets another win. But if I think that’s all he came here for—a blow job and a vitriol shakedown—then I’d be gravely mistaken because, beneath his layers of contempt, something far more sinister has been festering. And that’s his desire to instill such crippling fear in me that I forgo even the thought of escaping.
“Why were you at the police station today?”
The question is said with such casual duplicity it seizes my breath, my thudding heart lurching into my throat. “Peter, were you following me?”
“Would you prefer I leash you? Answer the question, Mae.” Each step forward signifies the kill he’s eager to make. “What could you possibly have to say to them?”
Everything.
“It’s not what you think.”
“No?” He closes in. “Then why choose to antagonize me instead of admitting why you were there?”
“I—”
“ Don’t lie to me.”
“I was there because of Frank!”
He cocks a brow, a simple expression that fills me with hope that he hadn’t been following me per se. Otherwise, he would have indeed witnessed the interaction himself. A tracker placed in the lining of my handbag would also explain how he found me not long after I arrived in Big Bear. “Frank?”
The words tumble from my mouth before I can think about being caught out in a lie. “I didn’t have Carmen’s number, so I wanted him to pass mine on to her.”
“Why would Frank be at the station at the same time as you?”
Oh, so he didn’t know either.
“Because he’s the Chief of Police.”
An unnerving smile spreads across his face. “Is that right? Seems at dinner old Frank was playing hard to get.” With one more step, and with nowhere for me to run, his fingers cinch around my neck. He’s so blinded by hate, he doesn’t even notice the existing bruising. In fact, he probably assumes it’s from when he had me pinned against Damon’s office wall. “But tell me something, how were you privy to that information when I wasn’t?”
If Peter sees me falter, he doesn’t hint to it. “Carmen mentioned it in passing.”
He narrows in on the tear slipping down my cheek and into the crease of my mouth. “You’re not being completely honest with me.”
“I am.”
His expression darkens with a hellish fury I fear will one day result in my death. “I love this game you play with me, honey.”
Panicked, I push at his chest, but it’s all too easy for him to shove me against the closed door, his body pinning me in place.
“No, please , I’m not—”
Peter’s forearm presses against my throat, his whole weight against me, and for a moment, as his face and the studio blurs, I wonder if this is the finale. The last harrowing breath he’ll ever allow me to take.
“The game I love,” he seethes , “is where you fucking lie through your teeth, and I get to decide how to best punish you.”