Chapter Twenty-One
It’s fine, I tell myself. It’s better this way.
Because if I don’t have my lies, what will I have left? Gabriel reminded me where I stand with him. Someone to serve him, something he purchased. I can keep him at a distance regardless of what he does to my body, as long as he doesn’t cradle me close like I’m something worthwhile again.
I should be focused on Daddy, anyway. He’s the reason I’m doing this. I call Mr. Stewart at the nursing home using his personal cell phone. He assures me that my father is in excellent health, which seems like it must be a lie until he conferences in the day nurse.
“Hello, pumpkin.” My father’s voice sounds rusty, tired, but undeniably aware.
“Daddy? Are you okay?”
“I’m working on getting better.” He gives a hoarse laugh. “They’ve got some good meds hooked up. And there’s this devil of a physical therapist coming every day now. I’ve called him every name in the book, but I managed to sit up on my own yesterday.”
My breath catches. “Are you serious?”
“Don’t you worry about me. You focus on your studies.”
With a sinking heart I realize he thinks I’m at school. “Oh. Right.”
When Mr. Stewart comes on, I can’t help the strange sadness that creeps into my voice. “He sounds great.”
“It’s very common,” he says, his voice sympathetic. “We see it all the time. Family wants to tend to their own, but it’s a huge burden, a constant stress, and all without the necessary training. Our nutritional counselor has worked with a private chef to develop meals that are best for him. And the physical therapist is our very best.”
Somehow that makes me feel worse, even though I know that doesn’t make sense. I was killing myself making sure my father’s meds were right, that his IV was right, that he was comfortable and clean. And it had all been making him worse because I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. These trained people know what they’re doing. And the only way I can afford them is by fucking Gabriel Miller.
Only after I hang up do I see the string of increasingly urgent texts from Harper.
It’s me. What’s going on??
Justin just called me. He might have cried. He’s very drunk. CALL ME.
Were you in an auction? Type OMFG for yes or n for no.
Pigeons. Flags. Letter in a bottle. All acceptable forms of communication in this FUCKING EMERGENCY.
I have to laugh at the last text, because it’s so perfectly Harper. And it’s a laugh-or-cry situation, realizing that Justin found out exactly what I’ve done.
And apparently he’s sharing the news.
I’m ruined in Tanglewood. Of course I knew that from the moment I accepted Damon Scott’s proposition. Even if somehow the auction remains a dirty little secret, I can’t face the wealthy upper crust of the city ever again.
But I hoped it would be contained. Like a tiny explosion under a metal dome in a cartoon. Boom! And all that’s left is scorch marks in the shape of a circle.
Except if Justin knows, if Harper knows, then the circle is spreading. I don’t think Harper is going to gossip about me, but shit like this is wildfire. All it has to do is spark to the next tree to keep going.
She answers on the first ring. “Tell me everything, starting from the very beginning.”
Debt. Bills. An auction and a million dollars in escrow. I tell her everything, because I’m desperate for some advice here. “So that’s the story of how I became Smith College’s first hooker.”
She snorts. “You’re definitely not the first, but that’s a story for another day. Now you need to tell me about this Gabriel Miller motherfucker. Is he old? Mean? Has a gold tooth?”
I smile. “Not exactly. He’s actually…”
I’m not sure how to describe his golden eyes, how they can pierce me from across the room. How can I explain the way his broad shoulders and large hands make me feel delicate? “He looks okay. That’s not the problem.”
“Uh-oh,” she says. “Angry wife?”
“God, you are the most jaded. No, he’s not married.” At least I don’t think he is. “He’s the man who turned my father in. Who gave all the evidence to the attorney general so they could prosecute.”
“Oh my God. A do-gooder?”
“It was a revenge thing. My father cheated him.”
“Thank God,” she says, sounding relieved.
“No, we’re not thanking God. Because he hates me.”
“He hates your dad.”
“He hates my family. And he’s already ruined my dad. Money. Reputation. Even physically. In every way possible my father has lost everything.”
“Except his beautiful daughter.”
I wince. “Something like that.”
“And you think he just bought you to get back at your dad.”
My fingers trace lavender flowers carved into the bedpost. “I don’t know what he’s thinking. Is buying me revenge enough or does he have something worse planned?”
“Worse, like…sex. The auction was two days ago, right?”
“Right, but he hasn’t done that yet.”
“He hasn’t touched you?” She sounds incredulous.
“He’s touched me.” I feel my cheeks flame with the memory of his touch, the memory of his tongue. “But he hasn’t taken my virginity. And the way he talks about it…it scares me. Like he’s planning to make it awful. Is that crazy?”
I want her to tell me that’s crazy, that a man like Gabriel Miller wouldn’t resort to that. That it would be too cruel, too kinky, too something to be real.
“It makes sense,” she says, musing. “How much did your dad steal from him?”
“I don’t know.” A lot. More than I can ever repay, even with the money from the auction—which came from him, anyway. “And it’s more the principle of it. He has a thing about people who lie.”
“Really? Well, do you think you can get him to talk? If he has a thing about lying, he might be honest with you.”
I’m not sure if it would be better or worse to know he has something awful planned for me. “I can try. But look, I need you to be honest with me. People say it hurts, the first time. Does it?”
“I think everyone is probably different,” she says, but she’s hedging.
“Harper.”
“My first time was with the gardener. I was fourteen. He was nineteen.”
I wince because I didn’t know that about her. It’s a pretty big age difference. “Wow.”
“I bled so much my mom gave me this awkward talk about what periods are while she was stoned out of her mind. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I’d gotten my period a year ago.”
My heart clenches. “Oh, sweetie.”
“Here’s what I think you should do. When you think he’s going to do it, take a pill. Or have a drink. Something to dull the edge, you know?”
Despite my growing fear of actual penetration, I crack a smile. “I already tried that. The first night. He ended up tucking me into bed.”
“That’s pretty sweet for a motherfucker.”
“Yeah.” My smile fades. “He can be sweet one minute. Then the next he’s dismissing me from the room, telling me he’ll call me when he wants to use me. His actual words: use me.”
She makes an outraged sound. “Who does he think he is?”
“My owner.” At least for the next twenty-eight days.