Sugar Free (14 page)

My fingers slide over the track pad on my laptop, the cursor arrow going where I want it to, choosing a new article to read.

(AP) San Francisco—The business and tech worlds were stunned Thursday night when multimillionaire founder and program developer Beckett North was arrested for the brutal murder of his partner, Jonathon Townsend. Booked and then arraigned on Friday with a five-million-dollar bond, North was released on his own recognizance but had to surrender his passport.

Just four days prior, Townsend's body was found in his home by his personal chef, who stumbled onto what she describes as a scene “straight out of a nightmare.” While the police have yet to release details about the crime, Rosalinda Patane said that Townsend was on the floor of his den with stab wounds in his neck. Sources within the Sausalito Police Department have refused to disclose the murder weapon, which led many to believe it hasn't been recovered.

Townsend and North, who were childhood friends, went on to open up the controversial Sugar Bowl, a dating website that pairs older, wealthy men with younger women. Many claim the site is nothing more than a means to provide paid prostitution, but Townsend had repeatedly denied that claim in interviews, maintaining no money is exchanged…

“Jesus,” Beck says from behind me in irritation, and I jump in the dining room chair that I'd been sitting in for the past half hour, spending Sunday reading news stories about Beck's arrest. “You've had your nose buried in that laptop for the last three hours. Quit reading that shit.”

Okay, so maybe it was three hours, not thirty minutes. But I can't seem to keep track of time this weekend. I'm in a constant state of worry, internal debate, and problem solving.

I get up from the chair and my back screams in protest, confirming that I had indeed been sitting there way too long. I follow Beck into the kitchen and watch as he pulls the refrigerator open and pulls out a beer. He twists the cap, puts it in the garbage, and takes a long pull while looking at me.

“I read a piece by one of the analysts at Court TV and they seemed to think without a murder weapon, it would be difficult to—”

Beck slams the beer down on the counter and foam shoots out the top. His face contorts in anger and he yells at me, “I don't give a flying fuck what reporters or analysts are saying, Sela.”

He throws his arms out to the side in frustration and continues his rant against me. “I don't give a shit what anyone thinks about this. What I do give a shit about is that my girlfriend has been moping around this place all weekend and won't even look at me because she's too busy reading shit that's written by a biased media. I'm tired of it, Sela. Tired of you sitting in front of that computer reading stories or constantly flipping channels on the TV, trying to find something that will make you feel better about this shitstorm. Well, I'm here to tell you, babe…none of that stuff is going to make it better. It's only going to cause you more anxiety. So give it up and get the fuck on with your life. You're driving me batty.”

Outside of that one afternoon when Beck kicked me out of the apartment, I've never seen him angry like this before. Never seen him so close to being out of control. His face is red and his chest is heaving.

“What would you have me do?” I ask quietly, because I'm thinking he's geared up for a fight and I don't want this to escalate.

He takes a deep breath, seems reasonably mollified by my request, and says with a release of air, “Let's go out and do something. Get out of this place for a bit.”

“I don't feel like it,” I say automatically, and then wince the minute the words are out.

Beck advances on me, coming to a stop when we're toe-to-toe. His lips peel back into an ugly grimace and he snarls, “You don't feel like doing anything. You've shut down and you've shut me out. You wouldn't even let me touch you last night or the night before. Just moping around like you're half dead, waiting for the sky to fall.”

A tiny flare of anger pulses within me. “Well, the sky is fucking falling if you haven't noticed, Beck. You're in some serious fucking trouble and I don't know what to do.”

He makes a scoffing sound and turns away from me.

“I'm scared,” I say pitifully.

“Well join the goddamned club,” he growls as he spins back on me. “It's my ass on the line right now, but you don't see me pulling away, do you? You see me trying to keep on living life, right?”

I want to accept his words and give them credence. Hell, I'm sure he's 100 percent right. But right now, I feel similar to the way I did after my rape. Completely lost, unsure of what to do or how to feel, and trying with all my might to resist the urge to just curl inward. I want to ignore all of this mess and live in a world where tomorrow doesn't come, because tomorrow means we are back in court listening to evidence that could take this man away from me forever.

Beck looks at me expectantly, hope in his eyes that I might just step forward and tumble into his arms. Apologize for my bizarre behavior over the weekend and snap myself out of it.

But I can't. I know things are hard on him right now, but they're equally as hard on me. Not only am I terrified of what will happen, I'm loaded with guilt so heavy I feel like my back will break from the sheer weight of it. Because let's face it…this is all my fault. One could even take it right back to my sixteenth birthday, where it all started. Had I just listened to Whitney at the mall and never gotten into the car with those boys, wanting to prove how grown up I was, Beck wouldn't be in the position he is now.

“Fuck this,” Beck mutters when I don't say anything, and stomps out of the kitchen. He grabs his keys off the foyer table and pulls the door open.

“Where are you going?” I ask, because our building is surrounded by reporters and I'm worried about him facing that.

“Out,” he says curtly, and then he's gone, slamming the door behind him.

That wasn't our first argument, but it was the nastiest and it leaves me completely restless. I pace the entire condo several times, resisting the urge to call Beck. I eventually give up the compulsion because at this moment, he probably needs distance from me.

My phone ringing startles me and for a moment I can't tell where the sound is coming from. But then I notice it's muffled and realize it's in my purse, which is on the floor in the bedroom. I run back to it, figuring it's Beck and I intend to say “I'm sorry” when we connect.

When I pull my phone out, a tiny thrill of excitement flushes through me at the prospect of making things better for him with a genuine apology and hearing his beautiful voice on the other line, but instead I see an unrecognizable number with a 408 area code. That's Santa Clara, my home county.

“Hello,” I say hesitantly after I tap the answer button.

“Sela?” a man's voice asks me just as hesitantly. “It's Detective Bruce Remmers.”

I immediately recognize the deep baritone voice of the incredibly nice detective who investigated my rape ten years ago. I called him on Friday afternoon and left a message for him. Calling Dennis was out of the question so we could keep him off the police's radar, and Beck and I knew we needed to push forward with verifying that JT was indeed Caroline's rapist. Thus we had to match him up to the DNA in my case.

“I got your message,” he says jovially. “Had to come into the office and catch up on a few things. It's nice to hear your voice. You doing okay?”

“Yeah,” I say with a breathless murmur, both relieved he called me back but also nervous to be opening up this can of worms. “I'm doing fine, actually.”

“That's good to hear,” he says kindly. “Always knew you were a tough girl and that you were going to make it. So where are you now?”

“I live in San Fran,” I tell him, not wanting to waste time with the necessary small talk, but knowing that because he's a nice guy and he's truly interested in me, that he deserves it. “Going to Golden Gate and working on my master's in counseling psychology.”

I can hear the pride and respect in his voice. “That is fantastic. Just really amazing, Sela.”

“Yeah…so, um…listen,” I say nervously, even though Beck and I thoroughly talked through how to approach my inquiry. “I wanted to ask you about the DNA that was retrieved off me. I mean…it's been over ten years now and there's not been a match, and I was just worried…you know…that maybe something got messed up in the system.”

“Sela,” he says with that pastoral tone he'd used on me in the past when he was delivering hard news. “You know sometimes rapists just aren't caught. They become more careful. Or maybe they don't rape again because that could have been a one-time-only thing fueled by drugs and alcohol.”

I know he's right. He's told me that before. But I press him anyway. “I know. It's just been bugging me lately, and what if it didn't get put into the system properly? I mean, those things can happen, right? Do you think you could maybe check, and just ensure that everything is good on your end? Then I could just put this out of my mind and move on.”

Detective Remmers gives a tiny sigh but it's not irritation with me. The man knew how to handle rape victims with the softest of gloves. No, his sigh is because he'll do it for me, and in his heart of hearts he believes he's going to find everything done according to protocol and that he'll be delivering bad news to me yet again that they have nothing on my rapist.

“Sure,” he says softly. “I'll head over to cold storage now and pull the file. Call you back soon.”

“Thank you so much,” I tell him with immense gratitude. After spinning my wheels for two days, feeling utterly helpless about everything, I feel energized now that something is moving. Even if it doesn't directly impact Beck's case, it's one step closer we have to verifying JT raped both me and Caroline, and then we can tell her the truth.

When I disconnect, I immediately dial Beck. He answers after the first ring. “Hey.”

“Hey,” I say softly. “I just wanted you to know that Detective Remmers just called me. He's going to pull my file and check to make sure the DNA was submitted properly.”

“That's great,” he says, and his voice sounds lighter. I'm thinking the anger's dissipated.

“When are you coming home?” I ask hesitantly, because I really, really want him to come home.

“In about ten seconds,” he says, and I can hear a slight smile in his voice. “I never made it past the elevator.”

I disconnect the call, run down the hall, pausing long enough to throw my phone on the dining room table. I scurry to the front door, open it, and see him standing there.

“I'm so sorry,” I tell him before flinging my arms around his neck. “I'm sorry I've been such a pain in your ass this weekend.”

His arms come around my waist and he hugs me tight to him. “I'm sorry I yelled at you.”

“I deserved it.”

“No, you didn't.”

He pulls back and then kisses me sweetly, a little tentatively. He's right…I told him I wasn't in the mood for sex the last two nights. Not that we have sex every night, mind you, but we do most nights. Or days. Whatever. So I get why he's hesitant and I don't want him to be.

I press my body in tight, my signal to him that I want more than just a kiss.

He doesn't hesitate further. Within moments, our clothes are gone and he's got me on top of the dining room table, pushing my phone down toward the other end so we don't knock it off. He's hot and hard, lodged deep inside of me. He rocks slowly against me, holding my arms pinned above my head while my legs are clamped tight against his ribs. Beck kisses me leisurely while he fucks me, but soon, as with most times we are wrapped up with each other like this, his moves become more forceful.