The Lies I Tell(43)
I buckle in and say, “What exactly are you in the market for, Mr. Ashton?”
Ron doesn’t bother looking at me as he responds. “My dream scenario is to find something in need of repair—I’m a developer and contractor at heart—evict the welfare queens and drug addicts, do a quick and cheap rehab, double the rents, and lease to college students too dumb or drunk to know better.” He laughs. “David, my campaign manager, would kill me if he knew I just said that out loud. ‘Optics are everything.’ I’m not even allowed to compliment Meg’s outfit or tell her she has the best set of legs I’ve seen in twenty years. Because once the media gets ahold of something, it’s impossible to walk it back.”
I don’t know if it’s Ron’s tone, or the casual way he objectifies Meg, but it yanks me back in time, images like a broken filmstrip flashing through my mind. The way Nate looked at me, his eyes raking up and down my body. The way his knee pressed against mine under the table. A hand on my lower back, guiding me toward a dark car, the smell of his expensive leather seats so similar to the smell of Meg’s car I almost vomit.
I crack my window, quietly practicing the breathing technique that helps to regulate these attacks before they can take hold. I haven’t had an episode in over a year, and as I breathe, I remind myself that I’m safe. That as awful as Ron might be, I’m not alone with him. He’s not Nate.
“Running for public office means you have to follow the rules,” Meg teases, unaware of my growing anxiety.
We ride in silence for a little while, but when we reach a freeway underpass with several homeless tents under it, Ron has to comment. “These encampments are everywhere,” he says. “Druggies, rapists, crazies.”
Meg glances at him. “What’s your plan for that?” she asks.
He sighs. “Since we can’t scoop them up and dump them somewhere else—like out in the desert—my plan is to let the mayor and city council deal with it.”
“What, no social service platform?” she asks.
“We’ve got the bare bones of one,” he admits. “But only because we have to. I’m big business; that’s why people are going to vote for me. Oh sure, LA is a liberal enclave, but a majority of the residents in Malibu, Brentwood, and the Palisades are in the top 1 percent income bracket. While they like to put signs up in their yards about ‘Black lives matter’ and ‘Love is love,’ they don’t actually want to fund those initiatives if it will cost them more in tax dollars. Los Angeles is the capital of lip service and illusion.”
Meg is taking surface streets, the late afternoon traffic making the freeway almost impassable, and the start and stop of the car as we move through Culver City and beyond adds to my queasiness. That and Ron’s cologne, which feels as if it’s seeping into my skin.
“I’m assuming all of this is covered by agent-client privilege, correct?” he says to Meg.
Her eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror and hold. “Of course,” she says, giving me the smallest of winks as she pulls up in front of an apartment building just off Normandie Avenue—a stretch of concrete, graffiti, and decay.
“Kat and I will wait out here and enjoy the sun,” Meg says. “I called ahead and had the manager open up Unit 4 for you.”
“Back in a flash.” He bounds up the front steps, his expensive suit in stark contrast with the cracked stucco, rusted hand railing, and trash gathered at the base of the building. When he’s gone, I say, “He’s awful. How can you stand spending so much time with him?”
Meg sighs and leans against her car. “Believe it or not, I’ve worked with worse.”
Who? When? What did you do, and are you doing it again? The questions dance inside of me, aching to be asked. “There’s no such thing as client privilege with real estate agents, is there?” I ask instead.
“Of course not. The only thing I’m not allowed to do is disclose his financials—assets, bank account information, routing number—to anyone outside the context of a deal.”
I search her face for a hint of what she might be thinking. Emptying his bank account? Making it vulnerable somehow? But her expression is unreadable as she tips her face toward the sun.
We stand in silence for a while, the sound of traffic and the distant crash of a trash truck somewhere behind us, before she says, “Were you okay back there, in the car? You looked like you were going to bolt at the next red light.”
She looks at me, waiting, and I wonder what she’d say if I told her about Nate. How she’d played a role in it, and whether she might want to make amends. She’d had no trouble tearing Cory Dempsey’s life apart, and it’s obvious she’s planning something similar with Ron. What might she do on my behalf? The question jolts through me, electric and raw. “Men like him make me feel boxed in,” I finally say. “Like I can’t think clearly enough to get away.”
“Did someone hurt you?”
I savor the warmth of the sun on my shoulders, glad to be out here instead of trapped inside somewhere with Ron. “Yes, but it was a long time ago, and I don’t like to talk about it.” I have to remind myself that I’m not here to confide in Meg. She hasn’t earned the privilege of my secrets, no matter how much I might want to tell her this particular one.
Meg’s expression softens into concern. “I never would have brought you along if I’d known.”