CHAPTER NINE

 

There was a banging on his hotel room door. “Sam?” It was Lola’s voice. She sounded panicked.

He went and opened the door. “Hey, are you all right?”

“Did you see?” she said. “Did you see the news?”

He nodded. “I did. It’s kind of scary.”

Lola dragged her hands over her face. “Kind of? It’s bad, Sam, it’s really bad.”

“I’m sure they’re going to pick him up again right away,” he said. “Besides, he’s in Pennsylvania. He’s not even that close. People who do prison escapes like this always get caught.”

“No, they don’t,” said Lola. “They do not always get caught. Sometimes they get away, and they never get caught. Anyway, I don’t think he cares if he gets caught or not. I think he escaped for one reason.”

“What?”

She gestured at herself. “Me, you idiot! He hates me for turning him in. He wants to kill me.”

Sam remembered what Todd had said when he’d gone to see him in jail. I’d wrap my hands around her pretty little neck and squeeze until she turned purple. He cringed. “He’s far away, Lola.”

“He has friends here,” she said. “They’re all over the place. People like Patrick, that jackass you talked to. And they all think it’s my fault too. They all blame me, and they’ll help him, and—”

“Lola, no, they won’t.”

“I have to get out of here.” She ran her hands through her hair, glancing around nervously, as if she expected Todd to jump out of the closet or through a window. “I can’t stay in Keyser. I can’t be here. I know he’s going to come back here.”

“Okay,” he said. “Well, that’s probably a good idea. You never had to come here in the first place.”

She rubbed the back of her neck, still looking around anxiously. “I don’t want to go alone. What if he’s on the road? I’d never be any match for him. He’s so strong. You don’t even know how strong he is. And he wants to kill me. He wants to kill me. I swear to God, he does.”

He took her by the shoulders. “You need to calm down. You’re freaking yourself out.”

“You need to come with me,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere by myself.”

He wasn’t sure that he was done with his interviewing in Keyser, though. “Lola, there’s got to be someone you could call.”

“Only Nissa,” she said. “And what kind of chance would she stand against Nick?”

Sam scratched the back of his head. “You don’t think I would be—”

“Yes, I think you would be better than Nissa.” She was desperate. “I read your books, Sam. You wanted to protect Daphne, I know it. You would have done anything. You’d protect me too. You would.”

He heaved a huge sigh. She had to play that card, did she?

* * *

Lola wanted to get back home, but she didn’t want to leave her car in Keyser, which meant that Sam had to follow her back in his car. She wasn’t an easy driver to follow, considering she took I-68 at about eighty miles per hour. It was an interstate, but it had a lot of twists and turns, since it wound up and around the mountains. It was still technically possible to go really fast around the banked turns, but it didn’t make Sam comfortable at all. He spent the entire trip trying to keep up with her breakneck speed.

If he ever got too far behind, she called him on his cell phone, terror in her voice, wondering where the hell he was.

She was very afraid of Nicholas Todd, and Sam didn’t think she was acting.

When they finally merged back onto I-70, Lola was practically home. Sam needed to take I-81 to get back to Harpers Ferry, so he called her and said that he’d done his part. She didn’t need him. He was going to take his exit and go home now.

Lola wasn’t having it. She said that Sam had promised to take her home, and that he needed to follow her all the way.

So he did.

But when they pulled into Lola’s apartment complex, the parking lot was teeming with news vans. All of the major networks seemed to be represented.

Lola parked her car and got out, and the reporters leaped out into the winter air, clutching their coats closed with one hand and their microphones with another.

Lola ignored them but didn’t go into her apartment, either. Instead, she marched over to Sam’s car and banged on his window.

He rolled it down.

“This is why you didn’t want to come back to my apartment with me, isn’t it?” Lola’s eyes flashed.

He had no idea was she was talking about. “I wanted to go home. Coming here adds a good half-hour to my trip.”

“You knew they were going to be here.” Lola pointed at the mob of reporters, who were now surrounding Sam’s car.

One reporter thrust a microphone at Lola. “Ms. Ward, how do you feel about the news that Nicholas Todd has escaped?”

Lola pushed the microphone out of her face, never taking her eyes off Sam. “You told them where I live, didn’t you?”

“What?” said Sam. “How would I do that?”

“Publicity for your damned book,” she said.

“My book isn’t going to be out for at least a year,” he said. “In a year, no one’s even going to remember this.”

Lola’s nostrils flared. “I never should have trusted you.”

Now Sam was trying to get out of the car, but the reporters were pressing close, making it tough. He managed to get the door open just enough to squeeze out. “Lola, let’s go inside and talk about this.”

Lola laughed, high and wild and angry. “You stay away from me, Samson Black. You exploit girls like me. No wonder your wife is divorcing you.”

Now all the reporters were looking at him.

“Samson Black?” said one of them, proffering his microphone. “Are you writing a book about Lola Ward?”

Lola grabbed the microphone. “Whatever he writes, I’ve got nothing to do with it, you understand?” Her gaze shot daggers at him. “And I thought you cared about me.” Her eyes filled with tears.

What the hell? Sam furrowed his brow. Why would she say something like that?

Lola dashed away her tears angrily. “Get out of my life.” And then she stormed through the gathered reporters, pushing them aside. She got faster and faster until she was running, sprinting for her apartment.

The reporters seemed unsure of whether they should follow Lola or stay with Sam. They wavered, looking back and forth.

“Mr. Black, what’s your relationship with Lola Ward?”

“Mr. Black, can you comment on Ms. Ward’s reaction to Nicholas Todd’s escape?”

“Mr. Black, what’s your book going to be about?”

Sam yanked open his car door and dove back inside. He slammed the door against them, his heart pounding.

She’d done that on purpose, he thought. She’d made it sound like he was involved with her.

He glared out at the reporters, the cameras peering through his windshield, capturing him on film. (Well, technically, he guessed everything was digital these days.)

He threw the car into reverse and backed up, scattering the reporters. He tore out of the parking lot.

Why had she done that? Why was Lola screwing with him like that?

Why had she contacted him to tell her story?

* * *

Sam sat in the living room that Daphne had decorated and watched himself on the news. They kept showing the way he’d glared at the cameras, and he looked unstable and unhinged. And they were all already speculating on the innuendos that Lola had thrown out. Furthermore, they’d looked into her accusation that Daphne was leaving him, and now that was splattered all over the news too.

Someone had even dug up the fact that he’d visited Todd in jail, and now there was speculation that Sam had helped Todd escape in order to create more notoriety for his book.

The whole thing was ridiculous.

Sam was sipping liquor to deal with it.

His phone rang.

Sam muted the TV and picked up the phone. It was Petra. “Hi, Petra.”

“Sam, what’s going on?”

“Nothing’s going on,” he said. “Lola Ward’s trying to destroy me for her own amusement, I think.”

“She’s trying to destroy you?” said Petra.

“What do you want?” He rubbed his temples. Petra was probably concerned with the future of the book.

“You can’t back out of this one just because you pissed off another of these girls,” she said.

“What?”

“The book,” said Petra. “I know you backed out of the book with Rachel out of respect to her wishes, and because the two of you had an intimate relationship while you were married. We all thought that tidbit coming out might sour the world on the book. But Sam, this is Lola Ward. And just because you two are in the middle of a lover’s spat—”

“For the last fucking time, I am not sleeping with her.” Sam got up out of his chair and stalked into the kitchen to get some more ice for his bourbon.

“That’s not how it looks,” said Petra. “We’ve got everyone on television replaying her yelling, ‘Get out of my life,’ at you. Who says that to someone they aren’t fucking?”

Sam opened the freezer. “She did it on purpose. She said things like that to make me look bad. She’s messing with me. She’s been messing with me ever since I met her.”

“You don’t have to lie to me about this stuff.”

He grabbed a handful of ice and headed back into the living room. “I’m not lying, Petra. There’s something off about this chick, and I don’t know what it is yet. I don’t know if she really did manipulate Todd into killing for her, but… but I don’t think she’s a particularly nice person.”

“Well, good. Great,” said Petra. “I think the book will sell more copies if she’s not a nice person. But you’re going to write the book, aren’t you, Sam?”

He dropped the ice into his glass. “I don’t know if I have a book yet. I have a bunch of conflicting stories from different people. I don’t have the truth. And I guess you noticed that Lola’s basically done with me. She’s not going to let me interview her anymore, I can guarantee that. And I really didn’t get much from her. She barely told me anything.”

“Make it work,” said Petra.

Sam poured himself more bourbon. “I don’t understand her. I can’t figure her out. She knows things about me. She enjoys throwing her knowledge of my past in my face. It’s like a game for her. But why would she do that? Why me? What does she want from me?”

“Did you tip off the reporters to Lola’s location?”

“What? No, of course not. I don’t know how they got there. Hell, I’m not convinced she didn’t tip them off herself so that she could be dramatic in front of the cameras.” He took a drink. “She made herself look good, didn’t she? I look like an asshole. She looks better by comparison. Was it only about that?”

“Why would she tip the reporters off? Now her apartment’s on TV, right? Doesn’t that make her more vulnerable to Todd?”

She had seemed really frightened, and Sam hadn’t thought she was pretending about that. Plus, when he’d met Todd, that man had seemed pretty intent on actually hurting Lola. “You know, she probably wasn’t that hard to track down. Maybe the reporters found her apartment on their own.”

“Promise me you aren’t giving up on this book, Sam.”

He sighed.

“Promise me.”

“No, I’m not giving up,” he said. There was too much he didn’t understand yet.

* * *

Sam was working on remaking his playlist. He’d deleted half of the songs, but he remembered some of them. He was filling the rest of it in with songs like “Black Magic Woman” and “Cold as Ice.”

He was pretty pissed off at Lola.

How dare she make it look like he’d had an affair with her? He wouldn’t. He didn’t even find Lola attractive.

Well, maybe a little bit.

But Lola was a mess. And he…

Well, so he was attracted to women that were a mess. Sometimes, anyway.

He thought of Rachel. He clicked over to Rachel’s playlist, which was full of soft, acoustic songs—most of them sung by female singers with lilting, breathy voices. That was Rachel, all right. She was beautiful and ephemeral, like a fairy’s wing or a soap bubble. Touch her and she bursts.

That was quite possibly what he’d done to her, anyway. Destroyed her. Ruined her.

When Rachel was twenty years old, she’d been kidnapped by a group of men looking for a hefty ransom. Rachel’s father was an oil tycoon. He was worth an awful lot of money, and the men who took Rachel banked on his being quite willing to pay a lot of money to get his daughter back.

Before the kidnapping, Rachel had been a typical rich girl. She’d partied a lot, flirted with starting a clothing line, even attempted to act in a few movies and television shows. But she was Rachel Fletcher, and what fame she had came from the fact that she had a lot of money. She wasn’t particularly talented, and she was even a wee bit chubby—at least by Hollywood standards. That meant, of course, that she looked like a normal-sized woman in the flesh. But when she was around other Hollywood-sized women, she looked a bit large.

All that changed when she was held captive over the course of two months in a basement somewhere in rural New York state.

The kidnapping should have been easy and quick, but the kidnappers got greedy. Instead of releasing Rachel after her ransom had been paid, they decided to try to milk old Mr. Fletcher for more cash.

Mr. Fletcher hadn’t reported the crime in the first place, since the kidnappers had threatened to kill Rachel if the police were involved. Once he was given assurances that Rachel was, in fact, still alive, he attempted to get together the second sum of money that the kidnappers wanted.

But this turned out to be more difficult, because his assets were not quite as liquid as the kidnappers would have liked. He had to sell things, rearrange things, try to hunt down the money.

Meanwhile, Rachel was locked in a dank basement with one tiny window. One window that she couldn’t squeeze through.

Not at first, anyway.

But two months of barely eating slimmed Rachel down quite a bit. The kidnappers brought her food, but Rachel hardly ate it, monitoring her progress every day, trying to get through that window when the kidnappers were asleep.

And eventually, she did manage to shimmy through the tiny window, now so thin that she would have been considered skeletal even by Hollywood standards.

Half-starved and weak, considering her body had used all her fat and most of her muscle to keep her alive, Rachel took off over the country landscape. She wandered for days until she finally found a lone gas station and got help.

The experience had changed Rachel.

She suffered from a pretty bad case of PTSD and a strange kind of anorexia.

Rachel had told him that she’d never quite been able to control her eating. Even when she was under the spotlight and gossip columnists all over America were remarking on her weight, she hadn’t been able to diet.

Denying herself food in that basement had switched something in her brain. She’d convinced herself that food was going to kill her, and that the only way she would be safe was if she didn’t eat.

Now, even though she had no windows to squeeze through, it was very hard for Rachel to eat.

Several times since the kidnapping, she’d been hospitalized and fed intravenously because she was dangerously thin.

Rachel now got almost all of her nutrition from liquid meals. She couldn’t eat food, so she blenderized everything.

Sam remembered her strange smoothies, full of odd protein powders and avocado. She would sip them during all their interviews.

She was still thin—painfully so—but drinking the smoothies had at least added enough pounds to her bones that she didn’t look like something near desiccation.

She was pretty.

She was tiny.

She was nervous.

He remembered the way she’d whispered when she first told him about the basement. Dank, dark, musty, infested with insects and rats. It was cold down there, and the humid air had seeped into her body, so that she never felt quite warm.

Rachel never did any socializing anymore. Even though she wasn’t locked up by others, she locked herself up by choice. She never left her apartment. She barricaded herself inside the space—which was always ten degrees too warm and full of only soft, plush furniture.

That was Rachel herself. Soft. Barely there. Wispy.

Sam remembered her body under his own, how he’d been frightened that if he pressed too hard against her, she’d shatter.

But it hadn’t stopped him, not in the end.

He’d gotten soft too. He’d spoken to her in a soft voice. He’d laid his hands softly on her shoulder to console her. He’d softly rubbed her back.

And so he’d coaxed her, one step at a time, getting a little bit closer to her with every interview. His comforting, soft hands straying from her shoulder to the curve of her waist, from her knee to her thigh, his fingers dancing flutter-soft over her clothes, and then under her clothes, and then…

In the end, she hadn’t shattered.

In the end, he’d dragged the softness from her voice, wrenching groans from her lips as he’d rocked against her, rocked into her, pierced her.

He’d gotten soft. And then he’d gotten hard.

And then he’d had his fingers on her naked skin, digging into the scant flesh of her hips, crushing her close, jamming in and out of her, while she groaned under him. And he hadn’t been sure if the groans were pain or pleasure, and…

He hadn’t cared.

* * *

“Sam?” Rachel’s voice was insubstantial, floating through the phone. “Why are you calling?”

Sam scrolled through her playlist on his computer. “I was thinking about you.” His voice was soft too. That was his talking-to-Rachel voice, tentative and soothing.

“You’re not supposed to call me,” said Rachel. “I thought we agreed it would be best if you didn’t.”

“I know.” He sighed. He thought of Rachel’s spine. Rachel lying face down in bed, nude. He thought of tracing the notches there. He thought of how prominent they were. He thought of her soft skin stretched tight against the bone.

He was turned on.

She didn’t say anything. She breathed through the receiver, and Sam’s cock started to pulse in time to the rhythm of her breaths.

“I miss you,” he said finally. It wasn’t true. He barely thought about her, and he never missed her, not really. If he missed anything, it was only the way it felt to fuck her. She was so breakable, and being with her had always been an erotic series of personal dares. How far could he take her? How much pressure could he use? At what point would she break?

“You shouldn’t call me, Sam.” There was no fire or anger in her tone, only a mournful sadness. Wistful regret.

“I couldn’t help it. I wanted to hear your voice.”

“I saw you on the news.”

He grimaced. He didn’t want to think about that. “You did?”

“What are you doing to her, Sam?”

“To who?”

“To Lola,” said Rachel. “Are you doing the same things to her that you did to me?”

“No, Rachel, of course not.” God damn Lola Ward. How had she managed to worm her way into every single part of his life?

“I thought you were so good, Sam,” said Rachel. “You seemed so sweet at first. But you aren’t sweet, are you?”

“Why would you say that?” he asked in his soft, wheedling tone. “I never wanted to hurt you, Rachel.”

“Yes, you did.” And she still sounded sad, not accusatory. “I think that’s all you wanted to do, Sam.”

And now, he was starting to feel uncomfortable and guilty. His arousal lessened, and it took his confidence with it. He found it easy to justify actions when he was turned on. They only seemed exciting and lush. But once the heady feeling had gone away, sometimes whatever he wanted seemed disgusting. Sometimes, he felt ashamed.

“I don’t know who you are, Sam,” said Rachel. “I thought you were someone different than you actually are. Underneath everything, you scare me. Don’t call again. Please.”

She hung up.

Sam put down the phone and massaged the bridge of his nose.

He thought of Rachel’s skin again, but then he realized it wasn’t Rachel.

It was Hannah. Hannah slipping her robe off her shoulders, showing her bare back to him, showing him the notches of her spine.

Do you think about touching me, Sammy?

He grimaced, even more disgusted now. There was a pack of cigarettes in the trash can of his office. He hadn’t gone to the trouble of breaking them up, even though he knew he should have. He dug through crumpled papers and tissues and candy bar wrappers until he found them.

The sting of the smoke at the back of his throat drove away all thoughts of skin and bone, even the blackened crispness of Hannah’s skin as he tugged her body out of the fire.