Rare and Precious Things (13 page)

Bingo.
I cringed at the idea. “My wife will never agree,” I told him, picturing how I’d left her in bed after crying herself to sleep. Drained and exhausted, and very emotional from the argument with her mother. That insensitive bitch had stretched my patience to its last reserve today. What sort of fucking cow thinks so little of her daughter’s emotional and physical welfare? And now this arsehole. I stubbed out my ciggie and lit another.

“Make her agree, Blackstone.”

“I know you care for nothing but the success of your campaign, Senator, not even what’s happened to your son, but I don’t give a maiden queen’s first fuck about your politics, or your rapist son.”

I’d give Oakley points for laying it all out on the line. He wasted nothing on words. Just went straight to the issue
in that tonal American accent of his that seemed almost devoid of humanity. “Don’t you think it’s better to be a couple of indiscreet teenagers who had a lapse in judgment years ago, and who’ve put it firmly behind them, than to worry about extortion should their shameful secret be brought to light? If they are still friends, then no crime ever occurred. Simple insurance, Blackstone. I think you should care very much.”

As much as
I hated to admit it, Oakley’s “insurance” scheme was really very clever. But the cleverness of it wouldn’t help Brynne. It would hurt her. “I care about the welfare of my pregnant wife, who was made ill tonight by this whole shitstorm blowing up in media. And that, Senator, is not going to help you one iota. I can’t make her go and see him. She won’t do it.”

He responded with, “Within the week
, please,” and cut the line.
Fucking bastard
. I stared at my mobile, sure the number he’d called from was already deactivated. The tingle of fear scratched its way down my spine. I lit another Djarum and filled my lungs. I didn’t know how to fix this problem, and it had grown exponentially in a matter of hours. The US presidential election was propelling this one. How in the goddamn shitting hell did one fight that monstrous beast?

So I got up and left my offic
e. I went to sit outside on the balcony, where I started smoking in earnest. One Djarum after the other, until I was high from the pumping nicotine and spice that fueled the addiction I couldn’t deny.

The smoke drifted away on the cool nighttime breeze in lazy
, wafting swirls. I had a flash of longing that my problems could magically do the same. Wishful thinking. Real life never worked that way. My hand was being forced in this. Sometimes my experience with poker was a curse…because I knew the odds here. I could see when folding was the only option.

It wouldn’t help Brynne to bring her into Oakley’s circle, but I feared it was already too late for that.
My poor girl was going to be hurt.

“I
found Ethan outside on the balcony smoking a few nights ago. I’d been upset earlier about…the Lance Oakley situation…and woke in the middle of the night to find the bed empty. I got up to use the bathroom, and then went looking for him. He’s been trying to quit smoking, and was doing well from what I knew, but a few nights ago…I could see that he’d fallen off the wagon.”

“N
icotine addiction is no less difficult to break than drugs or alcohol,” Dr. Roswell said in her non-judgmental way.

“I think it’s more
than nicotine addiction in his case, though.”

“How so, Brynne?”

“Umm, he once told me about his time as a prisoner of war in Afghanistan.” I hedged with what to tell her because it felt like a betrayal to share Ethan’s story without his permission. I decided my need for information superseded his privacy. “He was held and tortured for twenty-two days. During his time in captivity, he suffered cravings for cigarettes to the point he nearly went mad. He told me that the cigarettes were a reminder that he survived. That he was alive after all that he endured—able to smoke another day. He has terrible nightmares and suffers through them, and when I try to help him he shuts down. He won’t tell me very much and I think he feels ashamed. It’s horrible…I worry so much about him.”

“I imagine it is very hard for Ethan. So many soldiers suffer with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.” I noted that she wrote it down in her book.

“So, what can I do for him?”

“What you have to understand about victims of trauma, and from what you’ve just told
me, Ethan has suffered—and survived—trauma in the extreme, is that they will do almost
anything
to avoid having to be reminded of what traumatized them in the first place. It’s too painful.”

“So, when I press him to tell me, it’s just making it harder for him? Asking him to speak of what happened, hurts him even more?”

“Well, think of it in your terms, Brynne. You have suffered a trauma. It’s affected your life in every way. You just told me about how the coverage of Lance’s injury in the media this week has upset you terribly.” Dr. Roswell never was one to sugarcoat anything. “How hard do you work to avoid being reminded of what happened to you?”

Really fucking hard, Doctor.

LEN held the door for me as I left Dr. Roswell’s office. “Shall I take you home, Mrs. Blackstone?”

I sighed at my
gentle giant of a driver. “Len, please. We’ve been through this over and over again. I want you to call me Brynne.”

“Yes, Mrs. Blackstone.
Home then?”

I
shot him a slow nod, and muttered, “I give up.” The man was as stoic as they come, and yet I always felt he was teasing me when we played this little game of ours. I settled into the seat and pondered what Dr. Roswell and I had discussed about PTSD. I had a lot to think about. For Ethan and for myself, but mostly, I just wanted to be a good wife and supportive of him. Letting him know I was there, and loved him no matter what he’d shouted out during a bad dream, or needed from me in order to feel better. If it took some pounding sex to help him relax after a bad dream, then I could do that. The sex was always superb, and right now my body was on hyper-drive with the hormones, so…

My phone chirped and I fished it out of my purse.
From Benny.
You okay, luv
?
It made me smile when I read it.
Ben hadn’t stopped looking out for me just because I was married to Ethan now. We kept in touch religiously. He was a friend I loved with all my heart, and knew I could just be myself when we were together. Ben and I were different in a way that I couldn’t be with Gaby. Ben and Gaby were also very close, but she wasn’t without her own demons, either. We both teased Ben that he attracted women friends with mountains of emotional problems. He said it gave him “pussy points” knowing what made us females tick. That he may not be into pussy himself, but it did make the world go round, so it was worth understanding. Sadly, his jest was very true. Ben would have seen Lance’s story splashed all over the news. Hell, a person would have to live under a rock not to have heard it. So he was just letting me know that he was in my corner.

I shot back:
I will be :) I miss u tho. Take me shopping 4 pregger clothes sometime soon?

I grinned wide at
his quickreply.
Yes, sexy mum. x
o
He had the very best taste, in regards to all things fashion and design. Ben would do me right in the clothing department, I had no doubt.

London traffic dictated that the time spent getting me home
would be taking much longer than it ought to, so I checked emails and responded to texts until my inbox was cleaned out. Len was not a chatterer, so I didn’t have to keep up conversation as he drove the Rover expertly through clogged streets and autumn drizzle.

It
hadn’t escaped my notice that my mother never tried to call me back either. Not a surprise really. I’d said some pretty harsh things and hung up on her. It would be a while before we talked again. Our relationship was just so messed up. I hated believing that, but the truth was often ugly, and for my mother and me, the truth was a succubus with raging PMS.

My phone alerted m
e to an incoming text. I dug it out of my purse once again and read it.

It was a media message that included a screenshot of my Facebook profile. I looked closer, feeling my heart sink like a stone when I deciphered exactly what had been sent to me
. A post I’d made on my profile, when I’d used the GPS on Facebook to lead Ethan to where Karl had me. I’d also tagged Karl Westman in
Who are you with?
soEthan would know who had taken me. Below the screenshot was a single sentenc
e
:
Karl Westman has been missing since August 3rd and his last known contact was you.

HYSTERICAL,
was the only way to describe her when she arrived at my office. Len ushered Brynne up to the forty-fourth floor and I met her out in reception. From there I took her straight into the
en suite
adjacent from where I worked.

She lo
oked around the studio flat in confusion, probably wondering why she’d never been in it, or heard me speak of it. Telling her this was the place where I would fuck all the women
before
she came along, didn’t seem appropriate at any time, but right now? Out of the motherfucking question.

So I
held her in my arms instead. “Tell me you’re all right, baby.”

“Ethan,
why are they doing this to me? Are they
ever
going to stop? Her questions broke my heart. As if a meat cleaver was put to my chest and given a hearty whack, shattering bone and obliterating flesh.

“Brynne
, I need you to calm down and listen to me.” I took her face in my hands and lifted it up, forcing her to focus on me. “Senator Oakley rang me that night after the news hit the wires. He wants you to visit his…
son
in the hospital, and show the world what good friends you are.” It made me ill to have to even say the words to her, but I’d realized a few nights ago, there was no other way out of this mess.

“He called you? You spoke to him and didn’t tell me?” she shouted accusingly.

I shook my head. “I’m sorry, but I made a judgment call—”

“—But why? I don’t ever want to see Lance Oakley again as long as I live. Don’t
you dare ask me to go to him,” she spat. “You’re no better than my mother!”

With her eyes flaring wildly at me,
I could tell she was ready to bolt, so I shut that idea right the fuck down. “Nope, not true,” I said, gripping both of her arms, forcing her to focus on me. “I told him no. I said I wouldn’t ask you to do something that would upset you, but they sent that Facebook screenshot today.” I lowered my voice and told her the brutal truth. “This shit won’t go away until you go on the record as a close family friend.”

“No…” she said pitifully.

“Brynne, baby…there are others who know about the video—you told me so yourself. This visit to see Oakley in the hospital will make it
worthless
. I can’t risk you any more than you already have been. Please just listen to why.”

The look she gave me? The
tragic expression on her beautiful face, streaked with tears and devastation…really fucking hurt me.

After a moment she closed her eyes and nodded almost imperceptib
ly.

I kissed her long and slow. Just to bring us close, and show her first and foremost how much I loved her. Then I sat her down and told her about my conversation with the Senator. About how
important it was to keep any others who knew of the video’s existence, from trying to do what Karl Westman had attempted.
Blackmailing degenerate motherfucker.
And, also to neutralize any negative effect of the video by declaring friendship with Lance Oakley.
Rapist dog with two dicks.
How, if they were seen to still be friends, then a crime never could have occurred—just a youthful indiscretion between two kids, in the event the video ever surfaces to embarrass the future Vice President of the United States.
Cocksucking immoral maggot.

Brynne took it all in, liste
ning to me speak without interrupting or dragging everything down with more questioning. Her clear brown eyes held mine, quietly processing the situation. God, I admired her strength. Never a doubt about my girl’s bravery, or her intelligence.

But I was also hurting her right now.
I knew about facing the things that scared you. For Brynne, being forced to visit Oakley’s bedside scared her.

It’s fucking killing me
too.

She seemed to think about everything I’d told her, and
got up and walked into the bathroom, stopping before the mirror. She stood there and stared into it, with seemingly little emotion, looking, in some ways, nothing like the passionate girl I’d met back in May.

Finally she turned to look at me. L
ips trembling, eyes filling with tears that would taste salty if I licked them, she opened her mouth to speak. Her throat swallowing reflexively, her voice cracked, “I—I have to go and see Lance…don’t I?”

I crin
ged at her question, knowing there was only one answer I could give.
Clusterfuck motherfucking load of steaming shit.