Authors: Amber Kay
“I said I was sorry,” I say while staggering out of the bed with a headache that makes my skull pulse. Adrian watches me attempt to put on my shoes. I plop atop the mattress and fumble with the laces like a clumsy drunk groping through the dark.
He kneels in front of me and grasps my ankle. I don’t brace myself in time for the abrupt physical contact. A chill falls over me, inciting a spastic twitch of my arm. I watch as he ties each of my shoes then peers up at me through a veil of disheveled hair. I'm not used to seeing him so untidy. In fact, he’s dressed quite casual for a day at the office. A blue polo shirt with no tie and khaki shorts. It’s stupid, but I didn’t think he owned any casual wear.
“You’re not dressed for the office,” I say. “You look like you’re going golfing or something.”
“Golf then lunch,” he replies with a half-smirk. “The usual boring scenario that most of my clientele enjoys.”
“You don’t enjoy spending the work day playing golf?”
“My job isn’t to enjoy. My job is to make sure that others enjoy. I'm good at helping people enjoy themselves. It’s what I do best. I hate my job, but I love my occupation…if that makes any sense.”
“To you, I'm sure it does,” I say, wincing the words as a sharp ache pierces the back of my skull.
“You’ve never had a hangover before, have you?” he asks, smiling.
I shake my head.
“Does it always feel like this?” I ask while pressing my fingers against my temples to soothe the dull ache. His hand slides up my calf, slowly, clasping my leg for a moment before releasing me.
“You’ll get used to it,” he says. “I promise.”
“I don’t see how you drink that stuff. It’s awful.”
“Like I said, you’ll get used to it. I’ll have to get used to corrupting you. We’ve both got our crosses to bear.”
He rises to his feet, never once blinking to break his stare from mine. As he heads toward the door to leave the room, he turns at the last second to add, “I will be waiting downstairs to drive you home.”
“Okay,” I say as my stomach remains in knots. “Just give me a minute.”
With a nod, he smiles and hesitates once more with hand gripping the doorknob.
“Oh and…I have never sought pleasure from rape,” he adds. “If I wanted you, I wouldn’t have had to take you by force.”
I say nothing and he leaves the room. As the door closes behind him, I sit dumfounded along the edge of the mattress, mouth hung open, lips parted and mouthing words that I should’ve said aloud to him.
19
Adrian takes the long route back to my apartment.
I know this is intentional and strategic. Beethoven plays from the car radio as I watch Orange County pass us. An onslaught of expensive, sporty cars and McMansions fade into the backdrop as we head out of the suburbs and into the city limits.
The city is alive with its usual activity. Jammed traffic. Sidewalks occupy with jogging mothers pushing strollers, elderly dog walkers and high school students filing in line en route to the buses collecting them for the day. A morning sun climbs into the sky, cloaked by a veil of clouds and smog.
I observe the outside world, feeling the need to distract myself with it to forget the fact that Adrian Lynch is sitting less than three feet away. Beethoven’s orchestra blasts a symphony of trumpets, pianos, violins and cellos. I can’t find focus. Without thinking, I switch off the radio.
“You don’t like Beethoven?” Adrian asks me as I sit back with my arms folded, staring out the windshield.
“My roommate is a music major,” I say. “She used to play her violin at the apartment nonstop, rehearsing. To tell you the truth, I’d like to never hear another classical orchestra piece ever again.”
Adrian nods and flicks the radio back on. While flipping through the stations from jazz to pop, he glances at me, seeking approval.
“What’s more your pleasure?” he asks and though I sense a different context behind his words, I hesitantly reply, “Aerosmith, Journey, Bon Jovi, anything reeking of the 80’s would be good enough for me.”
He presses buttons on the touchscreen dashboard panel until a new station appears on the illuminated screen. After hearing Steve Tyler’s voice croon from the speakers, I lean forward and notice my name scrolling across the screen.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“Your new playlist,” he replies. “I think you deserve some enjoyment since you’re stuck in a car with me.”
I slide my finger across the screen to browse the listed songs. It’s a retro paradise.
“U2, Genesis, Billy Idol
and
Depeche Mode? This is pay dirt,” I say. “I am in love with your radio.”
“It’s nothing a subscription to Sirius radio can’t solve.”
I allow myself to smile.
“I can’t afford this kind of luxury,” I say. “We normal people have to work to acquire the things we want.”
Adrian frowns. “You don’t think I work for a living?”
“I don’t think you
have
to work,” I reply. “‘Lynch Enterprises is a multimillion dollar conglomerate with several subsidiaries and sister companies located all over the world.’ That’s how Wikipedia describes it. You were voted number five on Forbes list of most influential people in the country with a net worth of 2.6 billion dollars. You never have to work another day of your life.”
“So you’ve researched me?” he remarks with a quirked left brow.
I turn away, my cheeks colored with embarrassment. Red, like a fresh bruise.
“Vivian offered me an internship,” I say. “Did you really think I wouldn’t
Google
you at some point?”
He drives the next several minutes in silence, taking us further into the city then onto the highway to dodge a morning traffic jam. I skim the songs on his Sirius playlist, listening to one 80’s gem after another.
“Running a company is more than just about making money,” he says after a Cyndi Lauper song transitions to a Def Leppard classic.
“You’re gonna sit here and complain to me about how hard it is being rich? Good luck with that.”
“I wasn’t born wrapped in money, Cassandra. As a teenager, I worked many odd jobs for a mere two-fifty an hour,” he says.
“Really?” I ask.
He nods. “Unfortunately, the only decent paying work where I come from is farm work. Someone always had a plow job available. I pushed plows and pulled vegetable crops for years. At seventeen, I bought a bus ticket to New York, attended Cornell and established my company right out of college. I
have
worked to get to where I am.”
I glance at him. He’s almost glaring at me. I notice the slight twitch of his bottom lip and realize, he’s offended. I have underestimated him. He’s built a business from the ground up. You don’t get to be as successful as him by being an idiot. As smart as he seems to be, how did he end up roped into a murder rap? Smart people don’t commit murders and get caught. Smart people don’t get caught unless they
want
to.
“What line of business is Lynch Enterprises anyway?” I ask since he appears to be a semi talkative mood. This drive is bound to be a long one. Might as well fill the awkward silence with some trivial small talk.
“Lynch Enterprises specializes in high-stakes stockbroking,” he says without looking at me. “Selling, purchasing and collecting stocks then earning commission from the interest we charge our clientele.”
“In other words, you got rich by convincing
other
rich people to give you their money.”
His lips pull into a smile that he tries to fight. “Something like that, more or less.”
“Ah, then you’re just fancy con-artist,” I tease.
Again, he smiles and a chuckle seeps out of him.
“I’ve been called worst by some of my more disgruntled former clients.”
“Disgruntled?”
“My line of business has been known to attract a certain sense of danger,” he says. “Some clients get in over their heads, invest too money into the wrong account and find themselves disappointed when they lose it all. Some have fallen prey to bankruptcy. Others have lost their entire life savings, pensions and 401ks. By then, people tend to scapegoat someone else for their mistakes.”
“Any of these disgruntled clients ever get violent?”
“Open the glove compartment,” he says abruptly.
I blink at him, confused.
“What?”
“The glove compartment,” he repeats. “Open it.”
I reach forward, popping the compartment open. Inside, I find a pistol. Coated black with a silver-colored trigger.
“Jesus Adrian, why the hell is
that
in your car?!” I say.
“Money can complicate things,” he says. “I’ve had some past indiscretions that I'm not proud of. Had to do things to safeguard my livelihood.”
“Have you ever used that thing?” I ask in a state of momentary awe.
“Never on a human.” He reaches across my lap and closes the glove compartment. “Does that put your mind at ease?”
“Not really, honestly,” I say. “I mean—I knew that you and Vivian didn’t exactly live some wholesome, clean-cut life, but driving around with guns in your car? That’s fucking extreme.”
“I have to protect my own,” he says. “I hope that doesn’t scare you.”
“You must have taught Vivian everything she knows,” I say.
“Sometimes, I wonder if I’ve taught her too much,” he murmurs to himself as if I wasn’t meant to hear it.
“Vivian owns a few shares of Lynch Enterprises, doesn’t she?”
“Vivian’s job is to be what she already is,” he says in a patronizing tone. “She’s an excellent trophy wife and arm piece for me to show off to potential investors. All that is required of her is that she look good, flirt with the clientele to ensure finalized deals and to pretend she loves me more than anyone else.”
“She
does
love you,” I say as I'm reminded of her many declarations. “She’s not faking or pretending.”
Adrian smirks at my remark.
“I don’t doubt Vivian’s commitment, but I refuse to believe it’s reserved for me.”
I'm tempted to insist otherwise, but all I hear is Vivian’s voice pleading with me to shut up. She’d hate me for exposing her morbid plans to him, for mentioning the martial proposition she offered me, but I don’t like hearing Adrian insult her.
“Take my word for it,” I say. “You’d be surprised by the sacrifices she’s making to keep you happy.”
“Hmm, she’s managed to fool you after all,” he replies.
“Adrian, your wife is dying,” I say. “Don’t you even care?”
He remains faced forward, focus set on the traffic ahead when he speaks.
“What is your role in this?” he asks.
“What?”
“Vivian doesn’t need an intern to handle her wifely duties,” he says. “Her share of Lynch Enterprises is less than half a fraction. Nothing she chooses to do with her division will affect the company overall. Her sole occupation is to organize fundraisers and charity drives. She can handle that alone.”
“What’s your point?” I ask.
“Why did she
really
hire you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, scrambling to alibi myself. “She needed an intern and I accepted. Why does there have to be some sinister ulterior motive or conspiracy?”
“I’ve known Vivian for twenty-five years,” he says. “Nothing she does comes without an ulterior motive.”
“How long has Vivian been taking mood stabilizers?” I blurt to change the subject. The Miata picks up speed. Adrian’s hands clench in fists around the steering wheel. This is becoming an odd habit with him.
“Everything is a mystery to you,” he replies with laughter at my expense. This, I'm sure, is a defense mechanism.
“Vivian involved me,” I say. “I deserve answers.”
He murmurs something beneath his breath. And I realize that he’s counting down from ten.
“Adrian?” I say. “Are you…
counting
?”
He glares at me.
“One day you’re going to ask a question that you won’t like the answer to,” he says.
I watch his left hand flex in and out of a fist. As his right hand clutches the steering wheel, it trembles.
“What’s wrong with your hands?” I ask.
He slows the car. At the next stop sign, off the highway, the car stops abruptly. Adrian turns me to with some semblance of a polite smile and he replies, “For now, let’s stick to the subject of Vivian.”
Judging by his tone, he’s adverse to any discussion concerning his hands. I decide to cut him a break. The last thing I need is to piss him off by reminding him of the things he doesn’t like about himself.
“What is wrong with Vivian?” I ask. “Other than what I already know?”
“She was diagnosed after our second wedding anniversary,” he says with a sigh. “Doctors said she had bipolar disorder.”
I sit with the words for a moment, allowing them to sink in before speaking.
“Why didn’t she tell me?”
“Because she’s in denial about it herself,” he says. “She has a crazed image obsession. There is no way in hell she’d want the world to know that she’s mentally ill. It would destroy her reputation.”
“Has she been taking her medication?”
He shakes his head.
“She refuses to take her meds. Sometimes I have to drop them into her food or drink to force her,” he says. “I do
not
drug my wife. I do everything that I can to keep her from hurting herself and others. If I have to trick her into taking her medication, then so be it.”
“How long have you been secretly medicating her?”
“Ten years,” he says. “She lost her way during my murder trial. Neglected her meds and ran off in the middle of the night. She refused to sleep for days at a time and the police brought her home twice a week claiming they’d picked her up from some sleazy bar. It was a constant battle with her. Sometimes I couldn’t keep up.”
“So you had her committed,” I say.
“I knew that the doctors would force her to take her pills and I couldn’t handle her on my own anymore. She was virtually a child that I couldn’t take care of during the trial so yes, I signed her into the hospital. I regret abandoning her, but I couldn’t help her anymore. That’s why I'm beginning to rethink this arrangement with you.”
“Me?”
“You’re good for her,” he says. “She doesn’t usually keep an intern around for long. She likes you.”
“I can’t be what Vivian wants me to be,” I say. “I’m not a doctor. Or a psychiatrist.”
“Just be her friend,” he replies paternally like a father advising his kid to socialize at summer camp. “She has developed an attachment to you. Abandoning her could push her over the edge. You haven’t seen her at her worst.
I
have. Do you want to be held responsible for anything irrational she might do?”
I glare into the windshield, then at him.
“No,” I snap. “You can’t just make her my responsibility.”
“You don’t care about her…even a little?”
“This is ridiculous.” I face away, staring out the passenger door window. Adrian grips my chin, turning my head to face him. I jerk away.
“Don’t touch me!” I say. “Never touch me without permission again.”
He pulls away, heeding to my orders without objection.
“Okay,” he says after placing his hand back atop the steering wheel. “I won’t touch you anymore.”