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The two men stare off, and I finally look at Ezra. His eyes are on mine, and he’s glaring. My skin crawls a little, but I don’t look away, not even when he inclines his chin. “What is she accusing me of? Not looking twice at a piece of beach trash?”
I want to laugh. His words are ridiculous. Seeing him here—in this kind of setting where it’s obvious that he’s not respected, and not a strong man since his dad has done all of the talking—should make me feel relieved. Except, men like Ezra find different ways to show their authority—raping me was his way.
And it worked—because even now, when I’m standing up and trying to be strong, I remember what it was like to be weaker than him, to not be able to defend myself, to not be heard or treated with basic human decency, and it makes me ill.
When I feel a hand at my back, I jump slightly, and Ezra smirks. When I turn, Thomas Richards is looking at me, and his eyes are no longer calculating, but full of red hot fire.
“What are your terms?” My face must be blank enough that he understands I didn’t hear a word of what was said, so he repeats it. “To not go to the police, to not go to the newspapers with your story—what are your terms?”
I clear my throat, wishing like hell I had some water to ease the dryness. “Drop the suit against Malcolm Brady.”
“That’s it?” This from Thomas. I nod. “You don’t want compensation for what was done to you?”
I shake my head, forcing myself to look across the table at both men. “You can’t compensate someone for raping them.” Mr. Shields’s face gets darker, but his son only continues to smile, as if he knew he would get off like this.
“I want to talk to our lawyer.”
“It’s now or never. Take this deal, or we walk out and go straight to the police to pull up the report and press charges.”
Mr. Shields doesn’t miss a beat. “I want it in writing that you will never, ever come after my son again, with this or anything else.”
I start to agree and Mr. Richards steps in. “No. You get this offer, not in writing. Drop the charges. You have until the end of the day to contact me and tell me it’s done. If not, expect to read about exactly what your son did in the papers tomorrow.”
He doesn’t wait for me to respond; Thomas steps back, keeping a hand on my back and guiding me through the lobby.
“I’m sorry, I need a minute.” He nods, and I escape to the ladies’ room, throwing up my lunch. At the sink, I run cold water and splash it onto my face, blessing fancy restrooms and their never-ending supply of toiletries while I use mouthwash as well. When I finally return to the lobby, Mr. Richards is still there, his phone in his hand. He looks up when I approach, eyes assessing me.
“I’ll call the best criminal lawyer in L.A. and have charges pressed by end of day if you want.”
“Why? You don’t know me. You haven’t seen the police report. How do you know I’m not after money?”
His answer is simple. “My daughter trusts you, and she’s a strong woman. Stronger, I think, than either I or her mother gave her credit for. She’s smart, and she wouldn’t ask for a favor if it wasn’t important.” His eyes change, and that anger is back, the one that tells me this man aims to win, every time. “And because my secretary just emailed me a copy of the police report, and I would be a criminal to let this go without asking.”
I turn and begin walking, and he falls into step with me. Briefly, I wonder if that’s some sort of rich-boy etiquette—knowing how to shorten or lengthen your stride to someone else’s so you’re directly next to them, ready to open doors or put your hand at the small of their back.
“Thank you, for believing me. I think I got used to assuming everyone thought I was a liar, or at fault. For the record, your daughter was the first person outside of family I told and she never once doubted me.”
“Jordan knows who’s false and who’s not. It’s why we trust her so much.”
I don’t mention that she could use a little of this knowledge, but I file his words away to share with his daughter later. “I’m not going to press charges, not if they drop theirs. I’m ready to be done with this,” I say. He nods, though it’s clearly not what he wanted to hear. “Thank you, for everything. I now see I wouldn’t have stood a chance without you.”
He hands the valet his ticket, and then turns to someone and motions them forward. I see Jordan’s car, and my knees almost buckle with relief. “You would have done fine—Shields Sr. isn’t an idiot—he knows his son’s an immoral human being. He just can’t make himself give up on him yet. You’ll have your deal by morning. I hope this Brady is worth it.”
Jordan reaches me then, murmuring thank you to her father. When she pulls me in for a hug, I don’t cry, but I do lean on her. “Are you all right?”
I nod, because I am. I’m all right. I faced down someone who made me a victim, and I survived. But there’s a hole inside, a gap that leaves me feeling hurt and nauseous, and I know it’s because whatever I solved for myself tonight, I haven’t solved anything with Malcolm.
