Get You Back: Part Three: Redemption Page 3

  Oh, I cared, all right. My heart bled for Lauren. She'd been secretly holding on to the hope that her father had passed on some good genes, normal genes. But Chris had used the word “heinous.” That didn’t bode well.

  "Imagine Lauren learning the truth from the tabloids. I can see the headlines now. ‘Senator Sex Toy’s Secret Sordid Parentage,’ along with the inevitable regurgitation of the photos from the Redwood. Is that what you want?”

  Every word was like a nail being hammered into my coffin. No lie--he'd found the perfect way to control me. "What is it that you want?" I finally managed to choke out.

  "God, it's so easy, you're going to laugh. You're going to say, 'Uncle Chris, why didn't you just ask me instead of hiring some German dude to whack me over the head in Thailand?"

  I stared at him stonily, absolutely refusing to be amused.

  "I'm not asking you to sign over control of the trust. You'll come forward and claim your inheritance. I'll pretend to be thrilled. You'll play the prodigal returning son. You're going to throw your weight behind a merger between the McAllister Group and the Van Sants. Remember them? I'm the CEO of the McAllister Group, so I don't need you. But it will be good PR."

  "That's it?"

  "Not quite. Van Sant has a problem. Remember his daughter Izzy? She's headed down a bad road. Drugs, parties, reckless sex with unsavory characters. Her reputation needs some rehabilitation. She needs a good man standing by her side. You two used to be pals back in the old days here at Loon Lake. You'll help her out. That will grease the wheels of the Van Sant merger."

  "Help her out, how? The last time I was in the news I was with a naked woman in a restroom. I'm no good for anyone's reputation."

  "That was some time ago. Since then, you've fallen head over heels for your old childhood friend Izzy Van Sant. You're now engaged. People will eat it up. But don't worry, it's just for a short time. Once the merger is signed, you can break up. You can do whatever you want."

  Izzy Van Sant … I didn't remember much about her. She was closer to Annabelle's age and she giggled a lot. That was about it.

  "Izzy's okay with this?"

  "Yeah, she's okay. It's her last chance to hang on to her trust fund. She'll play her part, never fear. You play yours. The quicker we make this merger happen, the quicker you'll be done. Then you can get back to your little tropical paradise. It'll be easy, Rye. A few smooches, a signature, smile for the camera, and boom. You're done."

  A camera flashed, bringing me back to the Loon Lake Country Club. A smile fixed on my face, I stepped toward my uncle's silver 612 Scaglietti Ferrari. After this little photo op, we'd go back to his sprawling Tudor-style home on the edges of Loon Lake. His guards would accompany me down to the basement den, which doubled as my dungeon. And they'd activate the specially modified electronic bracelet on my ankle. He didn't trust me in his house at night. Besides, he had a sadistic streak.

  Five yards out of bounds and a shiver of electric current would drift across my skin. Ten yards, that current would increase to a teeth-gnashing level. Fifteen yards, and I'd be unconscious. I knew because I'd tried it.

  Tonight, I'd try again. Not because I wanted to escape. But because no matter how my uncle tried to control me, I was still Rye McAllister, and testing limits was what I did.

  My nerve endings still shrieked from the pain by the next evening. For the sake of my sanity, I knew I should take a break from my nightly near-electrocutions. I also knew that my uncle had set it to a level that wouldn't actually kill me. If I could tolerate the pain, I could possibly get all the way to his office. Maybe I could find something there that I could use.

  It was a long shot, but it was all I had.

  In the meantime, I had a job to do. Driving my uncle's Ferrari, I was escorting Izzy to a cocktail party at a tech magnate's summer home. This was our first unchaperoned outing—"unchaperoned" meaning without either the Van Sants or Uncle Chris watching our every move. But we both knew we'd be monitored by someone. I glanced over at her, noting her heavy eye makeup and the constant twitch of a nerve in her cheek.

  "You feeling okay?"

  "No. But it doesn't matter. Can we just not talk until we have to?"

  "Sure thing, sugarplum."

  She smiled faintly. We were both hostages in this situation and had formed a macabre bond as a result. They wanted us to use endearments. We used ours as code words. "Sugarplum" meant "following orders." "Honeybunch" meant "help, I need a break." "Darling girl" meant "please don't take that drink/hit/pill."

  I used that one a lot. Izzy was an addict and rather than get her some help, her parents were using her to further their financial empire.

  The party was being held on a terrace overlooking the lake, which glimmered like a sheet of hammered gold in the sunset. A valet took the Ferrari as Izzy and I walked hand in hand toward our hosts, who were greeting guests just inside the entrance. A gothic chandelier made of welded copper candleholders hung overhead.

  "Rye and Izzy, so happy you could be here." Asher Shapiro shook my hand while Izzy received a kiss from his wife.

  "Wouldn't miss it!" Izzy chirped. When she was in good form, she could really pull off the clean-cut Midwestern perky act. When she was jonesing or high, she transformed into someone very different. I had to keep a pretty close eye on her, especially at events like this. Already I saw her eyeing the open bar.

  "Darling girl," I said by way of warning. "Should we go out on the terrace and watch the sunset?"

  She dug her fingernails into my hand. "Absolutely. That sounds so romantic."

  "You two are quite the lovebirds, aren't you?" Mrs. Shapiro's sharp blue eyes made me nervous.

  "We try," said Izzy, which was not the response I would have recommended. A waiter passed by with a tray of champagne flutes. Before I could prevent her, she had one in her hand and was toasting me. "To love!"

  All it took was one sip and the edge of tension left her face. "Come on, hot stuff, let's go watch that sun you're so excited about. Bye, Mrs. S.! Thank you SO much for inviting us."

  She dragged me toward the terrace, where most of the party guests were gathered. The men wore white dinner jackets, the women form-fitting cocktail dresses. Izzy fit right in with a strapless sheath in rose-pink. The sunset light surrounded the scene with an amber glow, like a physical aura of wealth. This, I knew, could have been my life—it could still be. These people lived in the world I'd been born into. And yet it felt so alien, so wrong.

  My feet dragging, I followed Izzy toward a cluster of guests in our age range. One of them probably had something narcotic on hand. She had a nose for drugs. The TSA should have employed her as a backup for the drug-sniffing dogs at airports. If someone was holding, she'd find them.

  As we stepped onto the terrace, I caught a flash of a profile from the corner of my eye. Elegant nose, gracefully curved neck. Slight slump in the shoulders.

  Lauren.

  I whipped around and scanned the crowd closely.

  Ted Dance, with his cheeks the color of raw beef. Peony Vickers, drawing her silk scarf around her neck. Several other guests I didn't know by name, none of whom looked like Lauren.

  I was hallucinating. I had to be. My longing for Lauren, combined with the currents of electricity frying me on a nightly basis, were causing a visual disturbance in my brain. What would Lauren be doing here?

  "Rye!" Izzy tugged impatiently at my hand. "Would you come on, sweetpea?"

  “Sweetpea” meant “I'm about to lose my mind.” Well, that fit.

  "I'll be right behind you." Her hand slipped from mine as I searched the crowd one more time. I forgot about Izzy, forgot about watchful eyes everywhere, forgot about my uncle.

  If Lauren was here, by some crazy freak chance, I'd find her. And I'd get her out of here before my uncle caught on.

  3

  Lauren

  I dumped the tray of hors d'oeuvres and slipped behind a half-open door. That was much, much too close. I didn't want Rye to see me yet. This
was a reconnaissance mission.

  The McAllisters and I wanted to know what was really going on with Rye. Elijah, Annabelle and I had agreed that I had the best chance of infiltrating one of these parties unnoticed. After all, I was used to adapting my appearance to suit the occasion.

  Even so, Rye had spotted me. I didn't understand how he’d managed it. My hair was completely different. I'd given up my sun-streaked bleach job for a dull russet brown that made me look like an acorn. I wore aviator sunglasses, same as many of the guests. And most of all, I wore the basic black and white of a server. Most people didn't notice servers.

  Then again, Rye wasn't most people.

  Sure, he dressed like the other people here. His dinner jacket set off his wide shoulders beautifully. His perfectly ironed light gray trousers hung on his lean hips with the help of a buttery leather belt. I recognized the watch he wore as worth about two thousand dollars.

  I knew wealth. I knew the signs. He was dripping in it.

  But something was wrong. I saw it in the deep grooves next to his mouth and the tightness around his eyes. I saw it in the jumpy way he responded to the girl, Izzy. Behind that sexy smile, he looked on edge, tense, watchful. As if he needed to be on guard every minute. As if he was playing a part.

  I recognized that look. I'd been in that position too many times to count. Was he being coerced in some way? Or was he doing what he had to do in order to get access to the family trust? I didn't know, but I planned to find out whatever I could.

  If I could chase away the image of him holding hands with the heiress of the Van Sant fortune.

  I peered past the edge of the door and saw Rye's tall figure walking away from me. Obviously I needed to adjust my disguise before I went back out there. I couldn't let him spot me again, not until I was completely prepared.

  I slipped out a side door and made my way toward the Shapiros’ garden shed, where I'd left my bag. The Shapiros would just have to adjust. I'd never been officially hired anyway, so no one would notice my temporary absence.

  As soon as I slid into the shed, I relaxed. The rich aroma of soil and seedlings grounded me. No one would come out here. No gardeners were on duty during a party, after all. Anyone looking for a love shack would choose the boathouse or the gazebo.

  Except—it turned out—the one and only Izzy Van Sant.

  I heard her first, laughing and shushing someone as they ran across the lawn. Crap. There was nowhere to hide in the shed. It was spacious enough, with plenty of tools propped in the corner and bags of fertilizer stored against one wall. A potting table stretched the length of the other wall. Finally I crouched behind a wheelbarrow and hoped for the best.

  Two people tumbled through the door. First came Izzy, barefoot and breathless. Then came a guy who looked like he was barely out of college. Good looking enough, but no Rye McAllister. Izzy went right for his belt buckle, but she kept missing the loop and laughing hysterically.

  The guy took another hit off a joint, then tapped Izzy on the shoulder. She stopped messing around with his belt buckle and took a long drag. They alternated hits for several minutes. I tucked my nose into my elbow to avoid getting a contact high. I hadn't smoked anything since the night Rye had walked into the Smithsonian. But before that, I'd developed something of a habit. It didn't take much to get me high.

  I watched curls of smoke filter through the still air of the tiny shed. My eyes stung and my nostrils flared. The scent was so familiar, so enticing. I inhaled a mouthful and nearly coughed. That shit was strong. It went right to my head, making my thoughts drift. I jerked to attention when Izzy finally spoke.

  "Hey. We're smoking weed … with weeds!" She burst out into stoned giggles.

  "No. No, we're smoking grass … with grass."

  "Omigod you're right! We're smoking grass while we're surrounded by grass!"

  I peered from behind the wheelbarrow. Izzy was sitting on the floor in a puff of pink silk. She was working on his belt buckle again but having no more success than the first time. Finally he pushed her hands away and did it himself, shucking his pants faster than a monkey peeling a banana. He clamped his hand around the back of her head and pulled her toward his cock.

  She was still giggling, a manic, unreal sound that gave me the creeps. Did she want this? Was she too stoned to give her consent?

  I jumped to my feet, secrecy be damned. No matter how I felt about Rye being with another woman, I couldn't stand by and watch her be forced into a blowjob.

  "Hey," I said, as if I belonged there and they were the party crashers. "None of that now."

  But they were so stoned that my voice of authority didn't register at all. The guy squinted at me vaguely. "Did you know there's a girl here, Izzy? She's very pretty."

  Izzy closed one eye, then the other, then back and forth once more. "I think there might be two."

  Oh my God, they were so wasted. The guy still held the joint. I watched its slow spiral of smoke rise into the closed air of the shed. I was getting pretty stoned myself just from the secondhand smoke. But not as bad as them. "I'm just one girl," I corrected. "And you shouldn't be in here. Especially smoking. And especially …" I waved at the man's lower half. "Almost naked."

  Izzy swiveled her head back to her companion. "Freddie, you're almost naked," she said gravely. "Did you know that?"

  "I can fix that. I can get all naked."

  They both exploded into gales of laughter. I wanted to get out of there, but I was still worried about Izzy.

  She crawled toward me until she reached the wheelbarrow shielding me. She fixed her starry blue eyes on me. "I saw you naked."

  "No, she's not naked. But she should definitely get that way. You both should."

  I dragged my gaze from Izzy to Freddie. His boxers were gone and his fist was wrapped around his stubby erection.

  Oh shit. A flare of panic shot through me. He was blocking the exit.

  Izzy ignored him. "I saw you naked," she repeated. "With Rye. On the Internet."

  Freddie perked up. "Are you a porn star? Awesome."

  "No no, moron. She's not a porn star. She almost married a senator."

  "Senator's son," I corrected, as if that mattered in this situation. It was getting harder to focus. Izzy had recognized me. That was bad, right? What if she told Rye I was here? What if she reported me for trespassing? I shook my head, trying to clear it. She’d been talking about Brian Clayton. "But I didn't love him."

  "You loved Rye." Izzy nodded as if she totally understood. "I'm engaged to Rye. You know what that means?"

  "I know what that means," Freddie announced. "It means I'll play the part of Rye and you two girls can fight over me. But you don't have to fight. You can both have me. I can share the Freddie."

  Share the Freddie? I wanted to vomit just thinking about it. “I’d like to leave now,” I told them. “Izzy, I think you should come with me. We should find Rye.”

  Izzy pouted. "Rye is never any fun. No, this is perfect, Girl in the Wheelbarrow. We both know Rye, so it’s like we know each other. I'm going to take my dress off now. Don't you think we should all be naked? It's no fun when someone has clothes on and the others don't. It's actually kind of rude, if you think about it. Freddie might start feeling uncomfortable if he's the only naked one."

  "I do already. Mucho uncomfortable." He puffed one more time from the joint and stubbed it out on the side of a clay pot.

  Oh my God. This was getting way out of hand. “I’m not getting naked, sorry. I’m just here to—“ I trailed off as Izzy slid off her shoulder straps and shimmied her hips back and forth. What the fuck?

  "You probably came to get Rye back, didn't you?” Izzy was said. “I completely understand. I understand all about the crazy things we do for love. You have no idea and I'll never tell. So sorry, though, you can't have Rye back. Even though I don't love him, it's all been arranged."

  Arranged. Rye's life had been arranged without me. I wasn't going to get him back, according to this blond cream puff o
f a girl who was now down to bra and panties.

  A sob bubbled from my lips. I put a hand over my mouth; my own face felt alien to me. One part of my brain knew the smoke was affecting me. The other grieved. Rye was lost to me. This girl had snagged him somehow. It was all arranged.

  "Don't cry!" Izzy danced over to me. "This is supposed to be a party. It's my party and I say no crying allowed." She put her hands on my shoulders and shook me. "You seem very stressed out, Girl in the Photograph. You really need to relax. Freddie, we should give her a back rub."

  But Freddie was busy rubbing something else. I averted my eyes from the sight. My sobbing had chased away some of the fog in my brain and I urgently wanted to escape. But he was blocking the door with his naked form and lascivious eyes. And Izzy stood between me and Freddie. I looked over my shoulder, hoping to find a window I could climb out.

  No escape that way. I turned back to Izzy. Freddie had his arms wrapped around her from behind and his hands clamped over her breasts. She wiggled her butt against his groin.

  She was engaged to Rye. How could she do this? I felt furious on Rye’s behalf.

  "I’m out of here. Last chance, Izzy."

  I stepped from behind the wheelbarrow and tried to edge past them. But Freddie shot out one arm and snagged my waistband. "Oh no, you don't. Not going anywhere, girl. Not until I feel your mouth around my dick."

  I tried to tug my arm away but he managed to hold onto my wrist. "Fuck you."

  "That’s fine too."

  "Oohh, Freddie, I love it when you go all caveman." Izzy leaned the back of her golden head on Freddie's chest and bumped him with her butt. She still thought this was a game, obviously. And maybe it was a game for her. So far, I didn’t think much of Rye’s fiancée.

  "Let me go."

  "Sure, you can go." Freddie jerked my wrist so I stumbled against him. "Just gotta pay the toll. Mouth, dick. Get on it, girl in the wheelbarrow." He pushed me to the floor, onto my knees.