A Harmless Little Game (Harmless #1)(40)

“Sir? You what?” Drew snaps.

“I didn’t technically call Lindsay a slut,” Daddy says evenly. How he stays so calm, so flat and matter-of-fact in every situation is a wonder to me. “I was explaining the public perception of her.”

“And I reacted on impulse.”

“I don’t blame you,” Drew says from the corner of his mouth, like a ventriloquist throwing his voice.

Daddy points to me, but it’s not an angry gesture. It is, however, a warning. “Any other security detail on me would have had you on the ground, a knee between your shoulder blades, and cuffs around your wrists.”

“A position I know all too well, only I’m used to it naked,” I retort.

Daddy blanches.

“Jesus, Lindsay,” Drew mutters.

“Fuck off,” I say to no one, to everyone, to the world. With my newfound freedom, I sprint down the hallway, bursting through the double French doors into the sunshine, aware of only one thought:

I’ve blown it.





Chapter 29





Drew doesn’t follow me, but Silas does, hovering at a discreet distance to give me the illusion of privacy. My palm thrums with the expelled energy from slapping Daddy, and my own cheek burns where Mom hit me.

We’re a freaking Brady Bunch, aren’t we? One big, happy family.

There’s a moment when I’m walking around one of the fountains near the shore when it hits me: nothing can be worse. Not a single thing. I came home timid and worried about making sure everyone thought I was a little people pleaser, a go-along-get-along gal who wouldn’t rock the boat.

Instead, day two and I find out I’ve been slut-shamed for a violent sex act I never asked for. The victim has been media-massaged into being the aggressor.

I deserved what happened.

And Daddy and Mom have to make the presidential campaign work in spite of Lindsay the Slut.

I almost feel bad for them.

Almost.

I start to shiver. It’s eighty degrees outside and the air is still. There is no reason to shiver. The feeling comes from the inside out.

Slut.

For four years I wondered why the guys who raped me were never brought to justice. For four years I thought that I needed an extra-long time to heal from the horrible injustice of being their victim. For four years I thought my friends didn’t write or call because they were being blocked by staff at the Island, or for some reason that would make sense when I got home and was able to piece it all together.

I never imagined it would be like this.

Daddy knows. Daddy knows who did this, and yet didn’t pursue charges against them. Daddy knows Drew was there, watched the footage where my own boyfriend did nothing to save me—and hasn’t said a word. In fact, he hired the man who betrayed me to protect me now.

Daddy knows everything.

And I have to act like all the lies are true, in order to help him achieve his larger goal.

The vomit rises up like a cannon being shot off, the explosion gross and gritty. I lean against a tree trunk for support and puke my guts out until all I have left are dry heaves. A rustle behind me indicates Silas’s presence, and as I sit down, dizzy and burning from the effort of vomiting, he offers me a much-appreciated bottled water.

“Thank you.”

“I wish it could be more.”

I half bark, half laugh at t hat answer. “Silas, when did a stranger like you become the nicest person in my life?”

He sits down next to me, yanking up on the black wool of his trousers before crossing his legs like a kid in kindergarten. “Drew’s nice to you.”

“Drew is an *.”

He nods. “Sometimes. When he has to be.”

That stops me from saying anything more.

“He cares about you.”

I give him a sour look. “He has a funny way of showing it.” I start to say more, but stop.

“I know you two had a past. I don’t know more than that, Ms. Bosworth, but I’ve worked for Drew for almost a year now. I did three years in Afghanistan. I’ve seen some bad people. Drew isn’t one of them.”

I look up and squint, closing one eye to focus on him. The sun blinds me from over one of his shoulders.

“What if I am?”

“What if you are—what?”

“One of those bad people.”

I figure he’ll smile, but he doesn’t. He just shakes his head. “You’re not,” he says.

“How do you know?”

He shrugs. “Three years in Afghanistan taught me when to trust my gut.”

“And your gut says I’m a good person?” I’m amused by this. I’m not sure why.

“My gut says to trust Drew. He’s never wrong. So if Drew says you’re good, you’re good.”

I want to tell him that trusting Drew is a bad, bad idea, but instead I reply with, “And if other people say I’m bad?”

“I don’t care what other people say. All you need is one clear-headed person who has good instincts. You find one like that, you hang onto them and follow them anywhere.”

He stands and offers me his hand, pulling me up.

I start walking, slowly, down to the beach, where I run six miles before my cheek stops burning.