fight me every goddamn step of the way.” He leans in, and as much as I’m repulsed by the fear I have that he’s going to try to kiss me, I don’t call chicken. I stay perfectly still and don’t back down. He stops, his lips an inch from mine, his breath feathering over them. “I get off on that. I’ll get off on you. I’ll use every inch of you, and then you’ll beg me for more. And depending on if you’re a good girl or not—if you fulfill the needs I’ve already paid for and then some—I’ll decide if I should let good ol’ Priscilla know about who exactly Madam Vee is,” he says, and panic springs to life. If he’s investigated my neighbors, I shouldn’t be surprised that he knows who Lucy’s social worker is . . . but I am.
“You wouldn’t dare—”
“Oh, but I would. And while I’m at it, I might even fill her in on what you did to good ol’ Uncle James.”
If I had any fight left in me, hearing that name knocks the wind out of my sails and fills me with shock and confusion and disbelief.
“See? I do know everything. I do have eyes everywhere. Give me what I want, Vaughny, or else I’ll find a way to get it myself.”
He presses a kiss to the corner of my lips that I’m too stunned to reject and turns to walk toward the limo, throwing over his shoulder, “Oh, and if this little conversation gets out to anyone? The same threat holds. Good to see you again. It’ll be even better next time.”
He climbs into his limo without another look my way. The security guard slides behind the wheel, and the limo pulls away.
But I’m the one standing in my front yard staring after red taillights in the distance like I just saw a ghost. I’m the one finally feeling an iota of the fear my sister used to endure. Not only fear of the physicality but more so the uncertainty and constant threat, knowing he could come after me at any moment.
I’m in my late twenties, and I’m petrified. I can’t imagine what living with this fear—day in and day out—would have felt like when I was a teenager.
When I was Sam’s age.
I stagger in the door, flushed and shaking and needing a drink, and Joey more than senses that something is wrong.
“Vaughn?”
I hold my finger up as I go to the fridge and take out my half-finished bottle of rosé and drink straight from it.
“Vaughn? You’re kind of freaking me out,” he says, his voice behind me.
I gulp in air once I swallow and shake my head, my hands braced on the counter in front of me. “I’m fine. Just fine.” And I’m not sure if I say it more to convince him or myself.
“You really should report him as a stalker,” Joey says.
“Who?” I ask, totally distracted as I attempt to calm my nerves.
“Ryker.” I jolt when he says the name, grateful my back is still to him. “Who else has been waiting out there for hours for you? He even left and came back in a different car. Does he turn into a pumpkin after—”
“It wasn’t—” him. But I stop myself from saying it. From telling him differently. First, because I don’t want Joey to know anything about the senator being here. Second, Ryker came here? He came to my house looking for me earlier while I was at his house waiting for him?
“It wasn’t what?” Joey persists as he moves to stand beside me at the counter, turning to rest his hips against it so we’re facing each other. “Ryker? Then who was it?”
“No. Yes. Just let it go, Joey.” I finally lift my eyes to meet his and force a smile. “Everything is—”
“Don’t say fine. Creepy is more like it.” Joey chuckles sarcastically, while I just want him to go so I can down the rest of this bottle in peace and then maybe even open another one.
“We needed to air some differences is all,” I lie.
“You know if you need to talk about anything . . . I’m here for you.”
When Joey puts his hand on mine and gives it a reassuring squeeze, it takes everything I have not to jerk it away in a delayed reaction to Carter doing almost the same thing just moments ago.
“I know.” Please go. “Thank you.” I just want to be alone. “It’s late. I’m sorry I lost track