Page 45 of Work It Out
September 18
L.A. Chronicler
“Police have yet to release the name of the victim in Friday night’s fatal crash. The twenty-three-year-old male’s blood alcohol level was over double the legal limit. Eyewitnesses report he’d been driving erratically before hitting the overpass pylon at a high speed…”
Logically, Jake knew it was over; Vicky was safe now. Too bad his adrenal glands weren’t getting the memo. His chest wall felt beat to shit, and his blood thrummed with the need to burn off the excess energy. His body wasn’t particular, either. It would’ve been perfectly happy to find the bastard so he could chop his corpse into miniscule pieces or strip Rayah naked and lose himself inside her for a day or three. Since neither was an option, he squeezed Vicky to his side and prayed she’d be able to forgive him someday.
“All right.” Rayah’s no-nonsense tone jerked him from his maunderings. “Zandar, Fran, I’m tabling your problem. Hopefully, we can pick it up tomorrow, but don’t hold your breath.”
“Come on, Frannie. Ain’t no use trying to talk to that one when her mind’s set.” The twitch of Zandar’s mustache suggested he was downright proud of Rayah’s stubbornness. And he was right. There’d be no swaying her once she’d chosen a course. Why was that so hot?
She ignored their exit and turned to Vicky. “I’ll ask Jean and Quin to leave if you want, but they won’t go quietly.”
“We won’t go at all,” Granny snapped, arms crossed over her ample bosom.
“Now, darlin’,” Gramps began.
“Don’t you ‘darlin’ me, Quinton. Our girl’s in trouble, and I’m not leaving until I know what happened.”
Our girl. Jake smiled to himself. Granny had met Vicky twice when she and Gramps visited L.A. Length of association meant nothing to people like Granny, however, people from weird little towns where everyone mattered. That inherent value also extended to the people their people cared about.
“Your call,” Rayah said. “You’ve seen my guys. I’ll have them escorted out if that’s what you need.”
“Well, I never…” Granny huffed.
Vicky’s smile was infinitesimal, but it was there. “They can stay. But thank you. I appreciate the offer more than you know.”
“I’d offer to leave myself, but this is my livelihood.” Rayah shrugged unapologetically. “I need to know what’s coming my way.”
She’d gotten to him in a number of ways over the last few days, but this, seeing her treat Vicky with such care and kindness, made him ache to kiss her again and maybe never let go.
“That’s fair.” Vicky pulled out of his hold, reseated herself in the chair, and stared at her hands fisted in her lap. “And you don’t have to worry about the cops beating down your door. I didn’t kill Mark.” She curled in on herself, growing smaller and smaller. “It was my fault, but they don’t arrest you for breaking someone’s heart.” Rayah snapped a tissue free of the box on her desk and handed it to Vicky, who swiped angrily at her cheeks. “Friday, after the wrap party, Mark accused me of cheating on him with some PA. I hadn’t left his side at all that night, so I’m not sure how I was supposed to have pulled that off. When we got back to my house, I told him to pack his crap and go.” Pointing to her blackened eye, she added to Jake, “He hit me once before one of the bodyguards you made me hire dragged him out.
“I meant it this time. I swear,” she whispered, trying valiantly to pull herself together, to be stronger than anyone should need to be. “He was finally gone.”
She was wrong. All of this was his fault, but what else could he have done? Gramps and Pierce were the only ones who knew the whole truth. Jake hadn’t just come to Bigbone to work with Pierce. Weeks ago, Mark had beaten Vicky pretty badly. He’d stayed away from her face, but a few days before he left L.A., Jake found faded bruises on her torso when he hugged her too hard.
He’d lost his fucking mind and put the piece of shit in the hospital. Mark hadn’t attempted to press charges. Jake’s lawyer had pointed out that Vicky would return the favor, and they’d all known that if it came down to her protecting one of them over the other, Mark would lose. Gramps, however, had worried that if Jake didn’t put a few hundred miles between them, he’d break down and finish the job.
He’d tried to get Vicky to come with him, but she was still filming. Then she’d taken the asshole back. So he’d left her there with an around-the-clock security detail. He’d also asked his agent and a couple of friends on the crew to keep an eye on her (no doubt he was in for a deluge of phone calls this afternoon), and made sure she knew exactly where to find him if she needed him. In the end, none of it had done a damn bit of good. She’d gotten hurt again, and he hadn’t been there.
Vicky sniffled. “He’d been drinking. I tried to get him to let someone drive him.” Her voice broke, and she sobbed into her hands. “It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.”
Hold on. The wrap party had been Friday. Today was Monday. Had she dealt with all of this on her own for three days? Why the hell hadn’t anyone called him?
Rayah sat in the chair next to Vicky, handing her tissues and murmuring to her. She didn’t placate her with meaningless nonsense about everything being all right, didn’t try to shush her. She told her how strong she’d been, how brave, how she’d done the right thing in leaving. Gramps nodded occasionally, though the women weren’t paying him any mind.
When Granny Jean took a step toward Vicky, Rayah silently shook her head, warning in her eyes. She watched over Vicky like a guardian angel, willing her own strength into her charge even as she gave Vicky what was likely the first safe moment to be weak she’d had in days. She took care of her with the same ferocity with which she’d nursed Jake and mother-henned her crew, the way he should’ve done.
It had taken months of Mark-related episodes for Jake to figure out how to handle them. Too much sympathy made them worse; too little felt cruel and sent her to the jerk’s defense. Touching her when her mind was in a dark place made her flinch. Why did Rayah seem to know all that and more? His gut churned, and he pushed the question away. His sanity might not be able to handle the answer just then.
Finally, Vicky hiccupped a few times and blew her nose. She looked around without meeting anyone’s gaze. Ah, they’d moved on to shame—shame for her tears, shame for her tolerance of a man who hadn’t been worthy of her. The last thing she should be feeling, yet she’d struggle to break free of it. He understood this stage better than ever because he was so damned ashamed. His choices had been go to Bigbone and make a career jump or keep her safe and risk jail time and a tanked career. He’d chosen wrong.
Rayah sat up straight and charged past Vicky’s shame and Jake’s poorly attended pity party. “Has the story hit the press yet?” She looked at Vicky, then him. “I haven’t watched the news or done much with social media for years. Jared handles our online presence.”
Vicky shook her head. “I don’t think so; at least it hadn’t when I left last night. Several stations covered the crash, but the police kept his name out of it. He doesn’t—didn’t—have any family. I haven’t checked today, though.”
“It doesn’t really matter,” Rayah said. “I can’t imagine no one recognized you when you came in. We can’t keep either of you completely out of the public eye; it’s too late for that.”
