Harrison Kirkland is a force of nature. Tall and broad through the shoulders, the man radiates strength. Whatever he puts in his coffee must be amazing because the energy bursting out of him is tornadic. He’s so confident and sure of things, not to mention dominant and sexy. I’ve never encountered anyone like him before. I want to trust him, I do. But after everything I’ve been through, it’s hard to believe this idea of his is going to work. And then there’s the whole other issue of foster care. He can’t dig into that. If they open up that part of my life, there’s not a chance in hell I’ll make it through.

Plus I’m worried about what he thinks of me. Even though I shouldn’t give a damn, I don’t want him to think I’m just some washed-up piece of shit. I can’t end up back in the porn industry earning a living, sucking and fucking. Even though ultimately it was my choice, it certainly wouldn’t have been my first. It was a dirty and disgusting way to earn a living. I won’t tolerate it again, so his plan has to work. Besides, if it doesn’t, I’m not sure how I’ll be able to pay his hefty fee. When Rita told me how much he charged, I nearly died.

We break for lunch and then reconvene in the little conference room with more questions and answers. Harrison leaves a few times, only to return with information about when I’m going to make this bogus announcement. He wants it done tomorrow. My gut cramps as dizziness nearly overcomes me.

“Are you okay?” someone asks me.

“I don’t feel well.”

“Did you eat?” Harrison asks, as he leans down on the table, resting his hands close to where I sit.

“Not much. It’s a little difficult when my stomach is in knots.”

“Emily, call the doctor. She needs something to calm her down.”

“No drugs.” I grit out the words. I won’t take any of that shit. It’s a Band-Aid for a gaping wound and solves nothing.

“Fine, but you should probably be seen anyway. At least to make sure everything is okay,” Harrison says. His voice is kind, and it’s the first time I’ve paid close attention to his face. His eyes are warm. They’re dark brown, so dark it feels like I’ve taken a dive into an abyss. He wears a suit and is very professional looking. Handsome is what I’d call him. Not super good looking like that asshole, Holt. But he’s a whole lot nicer, that’s for sure. But then again, why wouldn’t he be? He’ll be making an assload of money off me. My bank account will be drained after this ordeal. The good thing is I won’t have to pay him if his plan fails. He must be confident it won’t.

“Okay. If you think so,” I say. One of them calls a doctor and all I can say is they must have some serious connections. Thirty minutes later, a doctor shows up with one of those little black bags. Usually it takes forever to see a doctor where I come from.

He ushers me into the other room, probably Harrison’s bedroom, and examines me. My blood pressure is low and he tells me I need to eat and drink because I’m probably dehydrated. Without the benefit of blood tests, there isn’t much more he can do.

When we come back out, Harrison explains I tested positive for heroin. This is news to me as they hadn’t shared this yet.

“Nice of you to tell me.” My tone bears more than a hint of sourness.

“We were getting ready to, but then you became ill,” Misha says.

“It’s not a surprise, really. When I felt the sting of the needle hit my vein, I couldn’t imagine what else it could be.” Because of my mom’s drug abuse, I’d read enough about it to know what the effects were.

“There were also traces of GHB present, which is what they hit your drink with. It’s a date rape drug.” Harrison hands me the report of my urine screening. No other drugs were present.

“I hope you believe me now that I don’t use drugs,” I say.

He’s seated at the big table, but he rises out of his chair and stands before me. “You need to get something straight. It’s not a question of whether I believe you. I’m not your judge, jury, and executioner. The public is. And for your information, I did believe you when you told me. That’s why I urged you to go to the police.”

Does that make me feel better? Not really.

The doctor steps forward. “Under those circumstances, you’re probably still feeling the aftereffects of both drugs. I advise you to drink plenty of fluids and eat, Ms. Drake. You’ll feel better tomorrow,” he says.

A hysterical laugh leaks out of me but I clamp a hand over my mouth. I’m sounding a bit crazy, and feeling that way too. It’s hard to believe less than twenty-four hours ago, I was on top of the world, thinking things had finally shifted in my favor. Another laugh threatens to burst past my lips, but I press them together and hold it at bay. This isn’t the time to let my crazyville loose. I need to hold my shit together. The tears can flow when I get back to my own room later tonight.

“Eat. Drink. Got it. Thanks, Doctor.”

He nods, and Harrison escorts him to the door. I’m sure they have a few words about me, but who cares. I’m doing my best not to let all the pieces of me come tumbling apart.

My phone rings, sending me almost shooting to the ceiling. Snatching the thing, I check the caller ID. Unknown. I won’t be answering that.

“Answer it,” Harrison says harshly. “And put it on speaker.”

“No. I don’t know who it is.”

“That’s why you’re going to answer it.”

I pick it up. “Hello.” I tap the speaker button as Harrison instructed.

“Ms. Drake?”

“Yes.”

“We just wanted to see how you’re feeling today.”

“Who is this?”

“A friend.” He chuckles. The voice sounds vaguely familiar.

Harrison, who motions to everyone as they scramble around like little mice, distracts me. I’ve never seen people move so fast in my life. Then the line goes dead.

“Fuck,” Harrison explodes. “Why didn’t you say something? It was him, wasn’t it? You should’ve kept talking.”

“I didn’t know what to say. He freaked me out.” My voice sounds small even to my ears. Even he’s frightening me now, yelling at me like that.

“If you get a call like that again, try to keep the guy on the line. Just keep talking. Talk about anything, the weather, your cat, I don’t care what. Just say something.”

“I don’t want to talk to him. Would you want to talk to your rapist?”

He blows out a long, frustrated breath. I know he’s trying to help catch the guy, but he doesn’t know what it was like. He can’t possibly know. I was violated and I don’t know by whom. It’s disgusting, but I still want to see their faces. I want to look in their eyes and ask them if they’re proud of what they’ve done. I also want to get back in the shower and scrub every inch of my skin until I’m raw and bleeding. Maybe then I’ll feel something again. Maybe the pain will lessen the numbness that’s invaded my brain cells.

“What are you thinking?” Harrison asks.

The vehemence that explodes out of me makes me step back, but I tell him.

“Anger is better than feeling sorry for yourself,” Harrison says.

I lose my temper again. “Just shut up for one damn minute. You think you know everything, but you don’t.” And I stomp out of the room. I need space ... need to breathe, to get away for a minute. My room isn’t far from his and I don’t stop until I get there.

My chest heaves and my cheeks are wet with my tears. Standing in front of my room, I try unlocking the door but then I feel a presence behind me. I nearly scream.

“It’s only me,” Harrison says.

“Damn you!” I say, slapping at him like I would a bug. I hit anywhere I can, only I’m weak and ineffective, plus his hands lock around my wrists, bringing everything to a halt.

There’s a slight upward curve to his mouth. Is he laughing at me? “You’re such a jerk, laughing at me like that.”

“I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing at the way you’re swatting at me. I’m not a mosquito.”

“You motherfucker.” I try to pry my hands loose, but he has them in a death grip.

Suddenly, I’m bawling my eyes out at the helplessness of this situation and it pisses me off. I don’t want to ask why me, but why the fuck me?

Harrison takes the key from me and opens the door, leading me inside. Then he sits me down and stuffs a wad of tissue into my cupped hands. He’s not exactly the warm-and-fuzzy type, but right now, I don’t care. All I want to do is curl up in the bed and cry myself to sleep.

Next thing I know, a glass of water is shoved into my hand. “Drink this.”

I don’t have the strength to object.

“I said drink, not nurse the damn thing.”

Lifting my eyes, I ask, “Do you have to be such an asshole?”

“Right now, I do. You’ve been drugged, you’re probably dehydrated, and you’ve eaten enough for a baby bird to barely eke by on. If you don’t fuel yourself, you’ll have more of these breakdowns and tomorrow will be shit.”

Is he for real? I sniff, and then say, “Has it occurred to you that I’m dealing with a lot right now?”

His voice softens. “Yes, and it’s only going to get worse over the next twenty-four hours. That’s why you need to drink and eat.”

I swallow more of the liquid, but my belly rebels. “I’m nauseated. It’s hard to put anything in your stomach when you feel like it’s going to make a return appearance.”

“It feels like that because you haven’t eaten.”

“Oh, are you a doctor now too?”

“No, I just happen to know you need this. Now drink.”

I guzzle the damn water just to get him to shut up. Maybe I’ll puke it up all over his fancy suit. Unfortunately, I don’t.

I shoot him a nasty look. “Satisfied?”

“Yes. Now, tell me more about foster care.”

I stiffen and look the other way. He won’t get that information out of me. “There’s nothing to tell other than I went and as soon as I turned eighteen, I got the hell out. End of story.”

“No, it’s not. There’s more.”

I pierce him with a glare. “Listen to me. I’ve bared enough to the public, no pun intended. I’m going to tell them a pack of lies, because you think it’s the best thing for me to do. But what I won’t do is open up my teenage life for them to dissect. You can yell, you can beg. I don’t give a fuck what you do, but that book stays closed.”

A tiny muscle twitches on his cheek. He’s pissed, but too bad. My life is fucked anyway. If he salvages it, I’ll eat my own damn underwear. But I am adamant about not sharing that part of my life.

“You obviously don’t give a fuck about that contract, then.”

“Yes, I do. But what I give a bigger fuck about is everyone and their brother knowing things that should never be revealed. So thank you very much, but that book will remain closed. And please don’t bring this up again.”

He rubs his jaw, his scruff scraping against his fingers.

“How would you react if you were in my shoes?” I ask.

He walks to the chair next to mine and takes a seat. His long legs stretch out in front of him, and then he crosses his ankles.

“I would hate every second of it, but I would listen to the experts. It’s hard to eat a shit sandwich but sometimes you do what you gotta do.”

Don’t I know that? How many times have I dined on shit in my life? Too many to count and from the looks of it, I’ll be living on it for who knows how long.