Dirty Little Secret (Dirty #1) Page 20
“I’m sorry things happened that way,” she replied. “If they’d known you were there, they would’ve handled the situation differently.”
“I don’t care how you would’ve handled it. I just want to know where he is.”
“He’s far enough away that he can’t get to you.”
“What does that mean?”
She put a gentle hand on my shoulder and I shook it off.
“Unfortunately, I’m not here to talk, just to deliver the pants. But you have nothing to worry about.”
Her words offered me no comfort, and as she left, I felt more dazed than ever. I slipped the pants on, cinched the waist up, and then sat in one of the chairs. It was cool, even through the fabric, and I pulled my legs up in an attempt to keep warm. When the door clicked open again, I didn’t bother to turn around.
“Lissa?”
Shelby’s tentative voice filled me with as much confusion as it did relief. I jumped up to hug her for a long second before she pulled back to examine me.
“Oh my goodness!” she exclaimed. “Your eye!”
“It’s nothing,” I assured her. “It doesn’t even hurt anymore. Why are you here? Do you know what’s going on?”
“I just – I’m sorry about me and Danny, and –“ Shelby’s eyes welled up with tears and sob cut off whatever she’d been about to say.
Seriously? I’m the one locked up and she’s the one crying?
I quashed my irritation and reminded myself that just a few weeks earlier, I probably would’ve done the same thing if I’d found her in a police station wearing the most God-awful prison pants and a paint-spattered, men’s t-shirt.
“I’m okay, Shel. I don’t care about you and Danny. I swear it,” I said as patiently as I could manage. “I just have no clue as to why I’m in here. Or why you’re here. Tell me what happened.”
“You’re really fine? You’re, like…still whole?”
What the hell did that mean?
“I’m fine,” I repeated. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”
She wrinkled her nose. “That’s such a terrible expression.”
“Sorry.” I couldn’t tell if the apology sounded as sarcastic as it felt.
Shelby didn’t seem to notice. She just pulled a tissue from her purse and wiped her eyes, then shuddered.
“They locked that animal up,” she told me.
“What animal?”
“The one who attacked you.”
“What?”
“The big – blonde – beast,” she elaborated, each word sound like an abomination.
I gasped. “Cutter Lane?”
“Cutter Lane. That’s what he told you his name was,” she replied. “It’s actually an alias.”
A laugh I couldn’t contain bubbled to the surface, and Shelby looked at me like I was nuts.
“Who told you that?”
“The police.”
“The same ones who hauled me out of his house in my underwear?”
“No. The ones I spoke to when I reported the assault. And the kidnapping.”
“Pardon me, Shelby…But what the fuck are you talking about?”
A mix of emotions – shock and horror being the most easily identifiable - played out on her face in a comical way that made me want to laugh all over again.
“I’m talking about you and that man who hurt you,” she stated.
I couldn’t think of a strong enough curse. Shit. Balls. Shitballsfuckchristonaracehorse.
“Why would you calling the goddamned police, Shelby?”
She added stunned and hurt to her expression. “I was protecting you. You didn’t come home last night, and after what happened with me and Danny – and I am so sorry - I found your phone out in the yard. Then a few houses up, I found your purse. I was worried.”
“And the police came, just like that? Because a grown woman was gone less than forty-eight hours after finding her best friend and her fiancé in bed together? I don’t think so.” I narrowed my eyes at her. “What else did you tell them?”
“About the nipple pinch,” she whispered with a red face.
“I made that up!”
“No, you didn’t,” my friend argued. “You were really upset about it and acting super weird.”
I stared at her, then put my head in my hands. I just wanted her to leave. The things she was saying were confusing. Exasperating. Overwhelming. I couldn’t find a tactful way of explaining that my weirdness was a side effect of my carnal reaction to Cutter. Or to find an appropriate way to confess that my lie about the assault was a defensive, kneejerk response to the same thing.
Shit. What did this mean for Cutter? Was he locked in a room somewhere, being grilled about touching my nipple? If I was this pissed off, I hated to think about how mad he was going to be.
“Lissa, you’re the victim here. I don’t know if this is some sort of step – anger, maybe? – in accepting what happened, but you’re my best friend and I just want to help.”
“I don’t know what you think happened, but I guarantee you it wasn’t something to call the police about.”
“It was an assault.”
“It’s not assault if I like it. It’s a consensual sexual act.”
“You liked it when a stranger pinched your nipple?”
If I hadn’t been feeling so screws-loose crazy, I might’ve giggled.
“Oh my God. Shelby. Listen. Cutter did not pinch my nipple that day in the parking lot, okay? I made it up so I wouldn’t look bad. So Danny wouldn’t get upset. I know I’ve been a bad friend for the last few weeks, and I’ll make it up to you, I swear. But right now, I need to see him.”
“Danny?”
“Jesus, no. I need to see Cutter. I need to make sure he knows this is my fuck up, not his. “
“I don’t want you to worry about him. He’ll have to answer for his behavior.”
I threw my hands up. There was no way for me to get around this without explaining myself.
“Try to listen, Shelby,” I pleaded. “He doesn’t have anything to answer for. I like Cutter. A lot. More than I’ve ever liked anyone. My own stupidity and unwillingness to tell you that is what landed him in jail.”
“Then why were you crying that morning when you came home from the walk?” she wondered out loud. “Why did you say he assaulted you again?”
“Because I was upset. And because I was embarrassed. I should’ve trusted you to understand. But I was afraid that you wouldn’t, because I didn’t trust myself. This is my fault.”
“A lot of victims feel that way,” stated a feminine voice from near the door.
It was the detective who’d given me the blanket at Cutter’s house. The one who’d given me a kind smile, but who’d clearly had a problem with Cutter. I didn’t know what to make of her.
“Can you excuse Miss Hanover and me?” she asked Shelby.
“Sure.” Relief flooded my roommate’s face, but she still gave me a hug before hurried out.
The other woman waited until the door clicked shut, then gestured toward the table.
“Should we sit?”
“Do I need a lawyer?”
“For what?”
“I don’t know.”
She smiled and ticked off on her fingers as she responded. “First of all, yes, I’m a cop, but I’m also a woman and a doctor. Secondly, you haven’t committed a crime. Lastly, I really just want to chat.”
I narrowed my eyes at her. “You’re a shrink.”
“I’m Lydia Blythe, both a detective and a psychiatrist contracted by the police department,” she replied. “Do you have a problem with authority, Miss Hanover? Officer Juarez said when she dropped off the pants, you were a little confrontational.”
I laughed, and made my own list. “First, someone dragged me from my boyfriend’s bed, pants-less and explanation-less, and dropped me at a police station. Second, my best friend thinks I was kidnapped. Third, you’re here, asking me questions instead of letting me go. So, no. My problem i
sn’t with authority. It’s with this whole, fucked up situation.”
“Your boyfriend?”
My face reddened. I’d used the term unconsciously.
“My friend. Who is a boy,” I amended.
“So I take it that means you don’t know much about Mr. Prescott’s past?” Lydia pressed.
“Who?”
“Can we sit? Please? I’ve been on hand at the station for nearing twenty-four hours.”
For a second, I debated telling her to screw her tiredness, but I really just wanted to get out of there and to get back to Cutter. I pulled out a chair and she did the same, sighing as she sunk into it.
“Much better,” she said. “I need to be upfront with you. Privacy laws mean that I can’t discuss Mr. Prescott in detail with you, but before you decide not to press charges, I want to give you a bit of insight.”
“I don’t know anyone named Mr. Prescott.”
“I’m sorry. When I opened his file, he was listed as Cutter Prescott. It’s hard to break the habit.”
“You’re lying.”
She shook her head. “It’s fine that he changed his name. People do that all the time to disassociate from their pasts, or to give themselves a fresh start. In this case, I believe he took his mother’s maiden name and there’s nothing odd about it, really. I can call him Mr. Lane if it’s easier for you.”
I didn’t know what to say. Neither the former, good-girl me, nor the new-and-improved, halfway in love with Cutter Lane-maybe-Prescott had a response. Our collective heart was settled somewhere around our collective feet.
“I’m concerned that Mr. Pr – err, Mr. Lane, may be manipulating you,” said the doctor.
“How?”
She gave my bruised eye a pointed nod, and I bristled.
“Some drunk chick gave me that. Cutter wouldn’t hit me.”
“Miss Hanover, I’m just going to come right out and ask you this. Did Cutter Lane hurt you? Did he force himself on you sexually, or force you to perform any sexual acts?”
“No.”
“Miss Hanover – “
“I said no.” My voice had that flatness to it, that tone that comes right before a breakdown.
“The police – and quite frankly I’m on their side - are convinced otherwise. They’re after him for a third strike,” she stated. “I don’t share that desire, but I would be even less happy to assist in protecting him if he was guilty.”
“Everything Cutter did to me, he did because I wanted him to.” Because I begged him to. “Please let him go.”
“Take some time to think about it.”
“I don’t need to think about it.”
“Miss Hanover…”
“Are you allowed to keep me here?” I asked.
“You’re a witness,” she replied.
“Not if there’s no crime.”
“Then you’re free to go,” she admitted. “But I urge you to reconsider.”
“There’s nothing to reconsider.”
The woman’s face changed abruptly, kindness replaced by cold irritation.
“Fine,” she snapped. “I’ll see what I can do about the paperwork.”
CUTTER
“Mr. Lane.”
My head snapped up at the sound of my name.
“Judge Stover.”
She gave me a cool-eyed nod, and shot a dismissive wave toward Galini and the boy-toy lawyer.
“You two can leave,” she told them, waiving any doubt that she expected absolute obedience.
“Go,” I said agreeably, as if it was my idea, and as if the thought of being alone with the she-devil didn’t make me feel like a caged animal.
When the two men were gone, Judge Stover closed the door – a little too quietly – and turned to face me.
“So you weren’t kidding then,” I said. “About fucking up my life.”
She smiled. “Mr. Lane, I never kid when it comes to my daughter.”
“You daughter?” I scoffed. “You wanna amend that?”
For one, very satisfying moment, Judge Stover’s mouth drooped, and worry crept into her eyes. Then it was gone.
“Before you say something to damage me, and inadvertently hurt Melissa…I think you should know that it wasn’t me who put you in here.”
“Right.”
“I’m a subtle woman. A connected woman. And I’m not fond of showmanship.”
“The pictures,” I stated.
“Yes, that was me. But why would bother to send armed policeman when I could make one call and send a court order instead?” she asked.
A small – terribly fucking annoying – part of me thought she had a point.
“Thankfully,” she went on. “Melissa’s best friend, while big-hearted, has more of a flair for the dramatic than I do.”
“Why the hell would Melissa’s friend call the cops on me?” I demanded.
Judge Stover’s tight-lipped smile was back in place. “It seems that Melissa gave her the impression that you made some unwanted sexual advances.”
I laughed. “Bullshit.”
“Do you think I wanted to be called down here?” she snapped. “To be forced to tell my friends that I would be missing lunch in favor of a visit to the police station? The allegations against you – whether Melissa retracts them or not – are now attached to my family. Your name is going to follow us around for years. It’s going to coat my daughter with a cloud of doubt. And the fact that it was she who made the claim in the first place should make you as angry as it does me.”
Maybe the judge was trying to push my buttons, and maybe she was just stating the facts as she saw them. Either way, she was right. I was angry. Royally fucking pissed off.
Melissa had said that ever since I walked into her life, things had been fucked up. Where was she now, though? Sitting in some room somewhere in the station with her head on Detective Blythe’s oh-so-willing shoulder? At home already, with a cup of tea, crying to her best friend about how I’d tried to take advantage of her?
Fuck.
It wasn’t her life that was messed up. It was mine. I was the one chained to a table, facing charges for a crime I’d rather fucking die than commit. I was the one losing. Again.
A cool hand closed over mine, and I jerked my eyes toward the judge in surprise.
“Cutter, I think we see eye-to-eye on this. Melissa isn’t good for you. You can see how it will play out. Eventually, she will be the one who loses.”
I didn’t want her to be right. But the words to argue against her statement wouldn’t come. Bit by bit, I would destroy all that was good and nice about Melissa, until she was just as much of a fuck-up as I was.
“Right now,” the judge said softly. “There’s a group of detectives getting ready to show Melissa your record. Do you think when once she sees what you’re capable of, she’s going to want you?”
“Jesus. She doesn’t need to see it.”
“I’m glad we agree.”
She turned to leave, but I called her back.
“Judge?”
“Yes, Mr. Lane?”
“Just one more thing,” I said. “That check you gave me? I’m going to need to give it back.”
“You’re sure about that?” Joan asked.
I nodded. “I’ve walked away from money before. I’ve got no problem doing it again. I’ll make sure it comes back to you.”
She nodded. “Once you we’ve let you go, you’ll have thirty minutes to get home. Then your house arrest begins again.”
“Of course it does.”
I put my head into my hands, and when I looked back up again, the woman was gone.
A while later – maybe minutes, maybe an hour, it was hard to say - a cop, fresh-faced enough to have a zit in the middle of his chin, came into the room. Every other cop who’d come my way had been big, mean, and meant to intimidate. The slip in pay grade didn’t get by me.
“Did I get a demotion?” I asked.
The kid frowned. “You’re free to go.”
He shrugged. “No charges. I’ll take you out so you can grab your stuff at the front counter. They told me to hurry.”
“Where is she?” I asked.
“Who?”
“The girl. Pretty. Perfect. No fucking pants.”
The kid’s face reddened. “No idea. I’m just here to let you go.”
I didn’t want to run into her on the way out. One look at her and I’d probably lose whatever tenuous grip I had on my resolve for a clean break.
“Are you coming, Mr. Lane?” the cop asked.
“Well. I’d like to.”
I rattled the cuffs emphatically, and the young cop leaped forward to unlock them. I smiled sardonically. I hoped that he was looking forward to a long career in traffic control.
I let him lead me down the hall, careful to keep my head high, but not to meet any eyes. If I spotted the female detective who’d accused me of assaulting Melissa, or the cop who’d held me at gunpoint, I might lose my shit.
“Hey, there’s your girlfriend!”
My gaze snapped forward, but instead of Melissa, I saw Brandy. She was grinning right at me, and had my wallet and my phone in her claw-like, manicured hands. She was wrapped up in that stupid, goddamned raincoat, her long legs sticking out the bottom.
What the fuck.
“No pants. I get it.” The rookie was a little pink again, but he gave me a slap on the shoulder anyway. “Though I’m not sure pretty does her justice. Good luck, Mr. Lane.”
I stood ten feet from her, closed-mouthed, and royally fucking confused. I willed her to just disappear. No such luck. In fact, she moved toward me, arms out like she wanted a fucking hug.
“Get the hell away from me,” I growled as soon as she was close enough to hear me.
One of her hands closed over my arm. I shook her off.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded.
She smiled that predatory smile of hers. “Your cutie-pie lawyer called me. He seems a bit confused by our relationship.”
“We don’t have a fucking relationship.”
“That hurts a little.”
“I don’t care. Give me my things, and fuck the hell off.”
“We need to talk,” she said.