I much prefer to cry into a bottle of whiskey by myself every night.
I’m already thinking about that whiskey when I pull into my apartment’s parking lot Thursday evening. I’m exhausted, both physically and emotionally, and I’m considering treating myself to a bath as well.
I glance around for reporters as I get out of my car. A few of them have been coming by here, but most have realized that, outside of my fling with Calder, I live a pretty unremarkable life. Plus I’m significantly more likely to answer their questions over at the Center. Those that believe it’s okay to harass me at home don’t even get the time of day.
The coast looks clear tonight. I lock up my car and head over to the stairs. I’m halfway up the first flight when the man comes out of the shadows and shoves a digital recorder in my face.
“Ms. Frazer, just a few questions.”
“No,” I tell him, brushing past.
He follows me. “I’ll be quick, Ms. Frazer, I promise! Tell me, what is the current state of your relationship with Calder Cunningham?”
I ignore him. Usually they get the hint.
But the man continues his pursuit. “Did he take advantage of your desperation? Did he promise you anything in exchange for sex?”
This guy’s even worse than the usual bunch. He makes my stomach turn. Thank God I’m almost to my floor.
“Did he make you beg for it?” he asks my back. “Or did he just pay for it outright?”
That’s it. I spin around and face him. He’s a smallish man with a red beard and squinty eyes that make my skin crawl.
“I’m not going to answer any of your questions. Now leave me alone or I’ll call the cops.”
“Oh, come on, slut. I thought you wanted the attention.” Wentworth Cunningham" to make
The next few moments are a blur.
Something inside of me snaps. My hand darts out, and I don’t know whether I’m trying to push him away or smack him upside the head, but I knock the digital recorder from his hand. It flies from his fingers, soaring over the side of the stairway and shattering against the concrete of the parking lot below.
“You bitch!” he screams. Before I even have the chance to throw up an arm in self-defense, his fist flies at my face.
I don’t remember the impact. But I remember white lights flaring across my vision, and after that the sensation of falling—down, down, down, until suddenly the white lights were gone and my entire world was darkness.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
If I thought the Center might benefit from the sympathetic press we’ve received since the Intown Voice story went live—well, it’s nothing compared to the attention and support coming our way now that I’m in the hospital. If I’d have known, I might have let myself get pushed down a flight of stairs even sooner.
Dad tells me I have a mild concussion. I also had to get a total of twenty stitches: eleven on my scalp, five on my arm, and four on my cheek. I broke two fingers on my right hand and cracked my radius on the same arm.
In other words, I’m pretty damn busted up.
I’ve never been in the hospital before. And I never thought that my first trip would end up making the news. But when you’re the ex-lover of an ex-billionaire and you were attacked by a reporter, well, people apparently pay attention to these things. My room has been flooded with flowers, mostly from people I don’t even know, and according to Dad money has been pouring in. Now there’s no way I can refute Asher’s words—people love a victim.
In a way, I know it’s probably a good thing for me, being forced to take some time off. But I’m not used to lying around in bed all day. They release me from the hospital two days after the accident, but the doctor has ordered that I take it easy for a while. Dad’s insisting that I stay with him while I heal, and he’s determined to keep me on bed rest for as long as possible. He claims that he has everything under control at Wentworth Cunninghaman0.00% 0.at the Center, but I can see the circles beneath his eyes and I know better.
“Think of it as a mini vacation,” Morgan tells me. She’s been stopping by every other day, bringing me food when Dad has to work late and bringing me the gifts and flowers that have been showing up at the Center.
“I don’t want a vacation,” I tell her. “I need to do something.”
“You’ve done plenty. Do you want me to bring over some books? Maybe one of those giant jigsaw puzzles that takes a week to finish?”
I shake my head. Books and games are only temporary, superficial distractions. They might preoccupy me for a while, but they won’t make this restlessness go away.
“Look at these,” Morgan says, holding up the latest bouquet. “I think these are my favorite so far.”
It is an especially beautiful bunch—baby’s breath and soft pink tea roses.
“What do you think?” she asks, snatching up the card. “Perv or no?”
It’s a game we’ve been playing, she and I. The vast majority of gifts coming in each day offer sympathy and support, sometimes even a little bit of money. But there are always a couple that offer, er, other services—or at least profess some sort of affection. I’ve even had a few strangers propose marriage to me. I imagine there are a number of incoming letters and emails calling me a slut, too, but either my dad or Morgan makes sure I never see those. It’s a very strange sort of attention, and I’m not sure how to handle it, but Morgan and I have decided to have a little fun with the situation.
I tilt my head and study the bouquet.
“It looks like something a woman would choose,” I say. “It doesn’t really say ‘perv’ to me.”
“Are you kidding me? People don’t send roses unless they’re trying to get into your pants. And you could always have a female admirer, you know.”
“I’ve made my guess. Let’s hear it.”
Morgan tugs the card from the little envelope.">’m saved from hav“Dear Lily,” she reads. “You don’t know me, and I only know you through the news. But your story has touched me. You’ve touched me. You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, inside and out, and I’d love the chance to get to know you better. Best wishes, Sam.”
She looks up at me. “This one actually sounds really sweet. And he’s included his email address and phone number. It looks like he’s local.”
“He’s still a complete stranger. A stranger who probably thinks I’m willing to sleep around to save the Center.”