Authors: Amber Kay
34
When the silver limo pulls up, I'm standing beneath an awning outside the restaurant.
The rain picks up, releasing a downpour that thoroughly soaks the concrete ground. The limousine stops in front of me. I don’t react until the window rolls down and I spot Adrian in the backseat, greeting me with a smile that brings me no immediate comfort.
“Get in,” he orders after flinging the door open for me. I don’t move, wondering if I should reconsider this. I have the power, but he has the artillery. Once I'm inside that limo, I’ll be a sheep in his lair.
“Cassandra, you’re getting wet again,” Adrian tells me and I realize that I'm no longer beneath the awning. Without thinking, I had wandered out into the rain, lost in thought. I'm drenched through my clothes, hair sodden against my face.
“You’ll catch pneumonia,” he says. Finally, I stagger toward the limo and plop onto the backseat beside Adrian. He must have just arrived from somewhere swanky—dressed in black slacks and a grey button down, crisp collar, the silver buttons like fragments of a pearl. The top two are undone; a white bowtie dangles limply around his neck.
The car door slams behind me. Adrian leans forward against the little window between the front and backseat. As I shiver in my wet clothes and examine the surroundings, he whispers something to the driver upfront then turns to me when the window slides close between them. A touch screen panel occupies the armrests on each of the car doors.
Carpeting covers the floor. Velvet curtains frame each of the windows, adding a touch of elegance to the interior. Before the gala, the last time I rode in the back of a limo was of course for prom. This limo makes the prom limo look pathetic. The Lynchs never cease to amaze me with what they buy with their money.
The leather seats make squishing noises as I fidget to get comfortable in my soggy clothes. I glance at the sunroof window and watch rain smudge the glass with immediate condensation. Adrian places a small gym bag atop my lap.
“What is this?” I ask while staring at the gym bag. When he doesn’t answer, I open the bag to examine the contents. Inside, there is a fresh pair of jeans, a cashmere sweater, a pair of socks and a full supply of toiletries, including a toothbrush, body wash, tampons and several brands of face wash.
“I wasn’t sure whether to buy Olay or Aveeno,” he says. “So I purchased both.”
I stare at him, briefly speechless and surprised by this random chivalrous gesture.
“Um, Olay is fine,” I say after stuffing the clothes and toiletries back into the bag.
Adrian presses a couple buttons on the touchscreen panel until it begins to feel warmer inside. He presses another button and a small sliding door on the back of the front seat pops open, revealing a mini refrigerator. He leans forward, removes a bottle of water and some yogurt from inside then hands them to me.
“Here,” he says. “Eat up.”
I don’t argue with his generosity, but I do inspect the yogurt, still unsure of his motives.
“Are you ever going to be convinced that I'm not trying to roofie you?” he asks.
I dip the plastic spoon inside and while swirling it around the plastic cup, I keep my eyes on him.
“Ever since you told me about how you sedate Vivian, I can’t help feeling a little…uneasy around you.”
He chuckles unexpectedly then removes a bottle of lemonade from inside the mini refrigerator. After he twists the top off and swallows a mouthful, I gape at him, trying to make sense of what I'm seeing.
“What’s wrong?” he asks me.
“You’re not drinking liquor?”
He shrugs. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. Some of it made sense.”
“What could I possibly have said to make you pick lemonade over booze?”
“You called me an alcoholic, remember?”
After a moment of reflection, I nod.
“Oh,” I reply and it’s hard not to blush at the recollection. I’d gone off on an entire rant about his budding alcoholism.
“I decided that maybe you were right,” he says. “I
do
drink too much. I feel like I'm becoming my father.”
“You’re quitting cold turkey?”
“Baby steps,” he says. “And only if you promise me something in return.”
I narrow my eyes in suspicion.
“What?”
“That you’ll stop vilifying me and at least try to trust me a little more.”
I glance into his eyes, finding a shade of sincerity staring back at me. As I glance at the yogurt once more then back at him, I realize that he’s trying to be nice and I'm being a bitch about the yogurt.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll try.”
“Then eat your yogurt.”
He watches me until I swallow a spoonful of yogurt. Then he smiles and turns away, seemingly pleased with himself.
“Does Vivian know I'm staying the night?” I ask to break ensuing silence.
“She will in the morning,” he says. “I medicated her earlier than usual. She won’t be awake for another seven hours.”
“You sedated her again?” I ask, thinking only of Sasha’s circumstances.
He sighs and takes another swig of lemonade.
“She lost her temper with one of the maids tonight. If I hadn’t intervened, we’d have an assault charge to deal with.”
“She’s slowly deteriorating, isn’t she?” I ask.
“More like self-destructing,” he replies. “Seeing you first thing in the morning should get her back on track.”
I sit aside the yogurt to drink my water. It does nothing to fill the empty void in the pit of my stomach. Adrian says nothing as I sit listening to his words amplify inside my head. Vivian is self-destructing. I don’t know if I worry more for her mental or physical state.
“You can’t abandon her,” he says and the dejected look in his eyes transfixes me before I consider his words. “I know she’s a pain in the ass, but she needs you.”
“Don’t say stuff like that to me,” I mutter. “I feel bad enough without you making me feel worse.”
“I don’t like having to beg you to befriend my wife,” he says. “I have never had to beg anyone for anything. You have no idea how much of my dignity and pride that I'm sacrificing to adhere to Vivian’s wishes.”
“You have no idea how to feels to be caught between the two of you,” I retort.
Adrian’s eyes widen. I immediately shut up, fearing that I’ve said too much.
“What do you mean by that?” he asks.
“Nothing.”
Adrian moves closer with deliberate intent.
“Has Vivian been ordering you to spend time with me?”
I bite my lip to keep from blurting the answer.
“She made me sign a contract,” I hedge. “I can't tell you anything she reveals to me in confidence. Not after what happened to Sasha. I told her too much and now she’s dead. I won’t let that happen to anyone else.”
“Vivian made your conversations with me a clause in some contract?” he asks. “Has she given you a rehearsed list of things that you can and can't talk to me about?”
I stuff my mouth with a spoonful of yogurt, refusing to look him in the eye. “I can’t tell you.”
“You damn well will tell me!” he snarls. I flinch at the harsh tone of his voice. I notice his hands and watch his fingers flex as he takes a deep breath before exhaling aloud and counts down from ten to one.
His hands clench into fists. I take a deep breath to oust the anxiety in my bones. He faces forward once more and continues drinking his lemonade. I turn away to focus on the passing scenery outside. There’s nothing much to enjoy with nightfall eating the view and shrouding the buildings in shadows cast from the streetlights.
Storm clouds thicken, forcing more rain to shower the city as we speed into the overcast in silence with nothing, but the usual orchestra droning from the surrounding speakers. Several minutes pass with no other words exchanged between us. I spot Adrian in my peripheral humming to the music.
I don’t resist stealing a glance at him. I can't even think straight. I hate feeling so tongue-tied, so disordered and out of control of my own senses, but he’s somehow tightened a pair of imaginary reins around my neck in a noose that has me speechless.
“What did you do?” I ask myself. Adrian obviously overhears. I can tell by the flicker of his left ear.
“Hmm?” he replies amidst his continuous humming to the music.
“Did you have anything to do with what happened to Sasha?”
He turns to me abruptly, glaring. “What?”
“They found drugs in her system.”
“What does that have to do with me?” he asks.
“You are the only man I know that uses drugs to subdue women,” I say. “You were also in the garden right around the time they say she died. Why? What were you doing out there in the middle of the night?”
“Use some commonsense, Cassandra,” he retorts. “You and I both know what I was doing when Sasha died. I was with you…remember?”
His hand rests atop mine on the car seat. His thumb strokes my knuckles. My body turns to stone, my insides liquefying, churning like cream in a blender. I'm numb, cool to the touch like a sculpture made from ice.
The tip of his thumb draws circles on my palm as I sit, trying to soothe the savage thump of my heart, the heat on my cheeks. We sit in silence for a moment. I cross my legs and tug at my skirt to shield my exposed thigh.
Adrian grimaces. I pull away, removing my hand from beneath his to neutralize the situation. “It won’t happen again,” I say. I have no defense or offense. Accusing him for Sasha’s murder isn’t fair since I'm his alibi. I turn away, allowing my damp rainwater hair to shield my reddened cheeks from his view.
I glance out the window at the Lynch manor as it emerges into view, half-shrouded in shadow by the darkness of nightfall. All the shades are drawn. I spot a third floor window with a human shaped shadow standing between the opened curtains.
“I thought you said that Vivian was still asleep,” I say.
“She is,” he replies. When I turn again to glance back at that window, I notice that the shadow I’d seen before has vanished.
“Nevermind,” I reply after rubbing my eyes with to clear my vision as the limousine pulls into the manor’s teardrop driveway. Adrian exits first. Before I can open my door, he’s already outside opening it for me. I'm hesitant to move even when he reaches out for me, expecting me to take his hand. A clash of thunder roars from the sky, provoking a flash of lightning to frame his body in white light.
I flinch at the noise, gripping his hand to steady my nerves. With one effortless tug, he whisks me from the car and leads me toward the manor’s front doors, releasing my hand once we’re within the foyer. A dim light spills in from the adjoining room. Adrian hands me my gym bag full of toiletries then heads upstairs, prompting me to follow him.
“Right this way,” he says and I trail him to the third floor, pass several rooms toward a room at the end of the hallway. “This is our best guestroom,” he says after opening the door for me to enter.
It’s a massive, fully furnished master bedroom with an adjoining bathroom. The canopy four-post bed takes up most of the room along with a mahogany nightstand, a dresser with a mirror attached and a walk-in closet.
“Does anyone ever actually sleep in here?” I ask after sitting atop the bed. Adrian saunters over to the window and pulls the curtains open. He gazes out for several minutes before turning to acknowledge me.
“I have a few times, but frequently it’s abandoned.”
“You sleep in the guest room and not with Vivian?”
He sighs at my question then appears disappointed by the answer he’s about to give.
“It’s a necessity sometimes. She doesn’t always sleep through the night.”
“Most happily married couples sleep in the same bedroom.”
“I never said I wasn’t happily married, Cassandra. Being married to Vivian is a tiresome marathon, but I do love her in every way that matters. Otherwise, I’d have filed for divorce years ago.”
“As if,” I mutter. “You would file for divorce and risk living a life of perpetual alimony payments? I don’t believe that.”
“You think I'm only married to Vivian so that I don’t have to pay her alimony?” he asks with a lilt in his voice. He saunters toward the bed, but doesn’t sit as I expect him to. He lingers at the foot of the bed, standing in front of me, his arms folded with a smile of mild amusement on his face.
“No, I don’t think that’s the whole reason,” I say and it occurs to me now why he’s so amused. My clothes haven’t yet dried from the rain so the fabric sort of clings to my skin and my shirt appears see-through.
His eyes trace the outline of my bra through my blouse. I ignore the immediate urge to shield myself as I realize that this is the only time I’ve ever been able to get him in a vulnerable position. Allowing him this harmless peepshow just might help me fish the information I want out of him.
I scoop backward atop the bed and uncross my legs. His focus remains on my dampened shirt, puckering around my waist. I fidget around on the mattress to get comfortable. With him watching me, I can’t help feeling awkward. Surely, he notices my inexperience, which is why he seems to be suppressing laughter. I feel like a child playing dress-up in her mother’s clothes, pretending to be an adult.