Pretty Baby Ch. 05

Cleo sighed, pulling me to her. She brushed my hair back. "You never believe it when it's someone you know," she said. "It's harder that way, I think, because you don't want to hate them."

I took a shuddering breath. "H-he loves me," I said.

"Alyssa," Cleo said firmly, turning my head to look at her. Her eyes were dark and hard. "He doesn't love you. He wouldn't have done that if he did."

"I-I should've listened to him," I said, feeling a tear trickle down my cheek. "I should've—"

"Don't," she said warningly, her voice edgy. "It wasn't your fault, Alyssa. Don't try to think you could have stopped it. You're just gonna drive yourself crazy. It's done, baby. All you can do now is go on."

Like you? I thought. "How'd it happen?"

Cleo sighed. She understood what I meant. She unwrapped her arms from my shoulders and got up. I watched her head into the kitchen, come back with my bottle and another glass. She topped of my drink, poured one for herself, sat back down.

"My father," she said.

I gasped, covering my face. I winced a little, touching my broken nose.

"I was pretty young," Cleo continued, staring at the TV. "Just a girl. I really didn't know anything about anything. My father was a dock foreman, worked a lot. When he wasn't working, he was drinking. Sometimes, he'd come home at two, three in the morning. I'd hear them fighting. My mom and dad, I mean. Then I'd hear her crying, and . . . I'd hear him . . . grunting."

I watched Cleo, saw the pain and lingering disgust on her face, the way she steeled herself against the memory. She tapped her cigarette over the ashtray.

"My Mom was pretty sick," she continued. "At least, that's what Dad always told me. Every once in a while, as I was growing up, Mom would go away for a few weeks, sometimes months. I didn't know it then, but she was schizophrenic. Sometimes, she would stop taking her pills, and that was when she had to go away."

Cleo finally looked to me. "Finally, she never came back," she said. "I didn't find out until years later that she had snuck a bunch of pills while in the hospital and overdosed."

"Oh, God," I gasped. "Cleo—"

She kept going, cutting me off: "So then 'Daddy' tells me that, since Mom wasn't going to be around anymore, I had to take up the slack. I thought that just meant washing the clothes and dishes."

She shook her head ruefully. "One night, he comes home, drunk off his ass. Calls me into the bedroom and tells me I need to learn how to . . . 'take care of a man.'" She huffed. "Bastard didn't even tell me when he was gonna cum. I almost choked on it."

"After that," she said, looking to me again. "Well, let's just say I learned a lot."

"I'm sorry, Cleo," I said, suddenly feeling that what Gary had done to me was almost nothing compared to being raped by one's own father.

Cleo forced a smile. "Hey," she said. "Let's get drunk."

***

I wobbled out to the living room the following day, groaning at my hangover. Cleo was still passed out in the bed. We had fallen asleep together, holding one another, giving each other comfort. If we had not been drunk, I had the feeling that the soft kisses we had shared might have turned into something more. I was glad it had not.

I fell down on the couch, turned on the TV. I mixed some Ovaltine for breakfast and slowly began to sober up. I watched the stupid 'Judge' shows before the news came on, peripherally listened as the pretty fake blonde talked about car crashes, the latest political scandal . . . and the discovery of a body at an apartment complex.

"Police are looking for information relating to the execution-style murder of a local technologies administrator," the anchorwoman was saying. "Gary Andrew Jackson, 35, was found dead late last night in an apartment on the city's north side—"

I snapped my head up, staring at the screen. Oh, my God!

The TV screen showed an image of Gary's face – my Gary's face – taken from some photo, before the image was minimized. The anchorwoman continued: "Neighbors report that they heard some arguing from the apartment, but never heard gunshots. No one was seen entering or leaving the apartment other than Mr. Jackson. He was allegedly killed by a single gunshot wound to the back of his head—"

I stared at the screen, trembling, shaking. Gary? Dead?

"Jackson, an administrator with APS Computer Solutions, was last seen on Halloween night at the Tenth Annual Halloween Ball to benefit muscular dystrophy, and had not been seen since. He is survived by his legally-separated wife, and his two children—"

"Oh, God!" I exclaimed, and scrambled from the couch. I found my little red purse, dug out the cell phone within. I was glad the number was on speed-dial; I could not have remembered it if I tried.

"Ian Holloway."

"You son of a bitch!" I screamed into the phone. "You didn't have to kill him!"

"Alyssa, calm down—"

"No!" I shrieked. "I'm not gonna fucking calm down! You killed him! You murdered Gary!"

"Look, why don't I come over, and we can—"

"No! Stay away from me! I don't ever wanna talk to you again!" I slapped the phone closed and threw it across the room, falling to my knees on the floor. I sobbed and bawled, burying my face in my hands.

I had forgotten that Cleo was there. I didn't hear her approach, and cried out when her arms came around me from behind. I started to pull away, but she drew me back, wrapping her arms and legs around me.

"Shh, baby, it's okay," she whispered, stroking my hair, rocking against me.

"H-he killed him," I blubbered, crying. "H-he killed Gary . . . ."

"I know, baby, I know . . . ."

***

I didn't go back to class for the rest of the week. Cleo left late that second night, after giving me a sleeping pill to knock me out. I awoke the following day with a dry taste in my mouth, still groggy from the narcotic. I took a shower, touching between my legs. It hurt a little, but not as much. I would heal, I knew . . . at least physically.

I finally took a look in the mirror. Only two days had passed; my eyes sported dark circles beneath them. My nose was red and raw, a little crooked beneath the bandage, and my upper lip showed the dark congealed blood of a split. There were fading red welts and bruises around my breasts, my right thigh, and the base of my neck.

I really didn't feel anything as I looked at the evidence of violence upon me. I just felt detached, removed, as if looking at someone else.

I lowered my eyes, brushed my teeth, rinsed, spat. I was just heading out of the bathroom when I heard the knock at the door.

I froze, slowly licking my lips. I recognized the cadence of the knock; it was Julie's typical tap-tap-tap. She had called a couple of times, but I had not answered once I read her name in the caller ID window. I didn't want to go through the pain of explaining what had happened.

I approached the door, looked through the peep hole, saw her cherubic face. I sighed.

"I'm not feeling well," I said through the door.

"Alyssa, let me in, please?" she asked.

"I'm really pretty tired . . . ."

I saw the expression on her face as she sighed heavily. "Alyssa, I know what happened."

I was quiet a long moment. I leaned my forehead against the door, then slowly turned the bolts. I pushed away and headed into the living room, allowing Julie to let herself in. I heard the door open and close, the whisper of movement as Julie set her backpack on the floor.

I turned to face her in the room, fell into the couch. Julie gasped slightly, seeing the bruises on my face. She took a tentative step closer, her eyes wide and round.

"How did you—" I began.

"Cleo."

I nodded. Of course. I frowned. "You two been talking?"

Julie deflected the question with a small smile, and sat down beside me. "God, I wish there was something I could do," she said.

I let out a sharp laugh. "Get me some more booze, that would help," I said.

"That's not the answer, Alyssa," she said.

"Oh, yeah? You ever been raped?" I asked bitterly.

Julie wasn't fazed. She shook her head slowly, giving me nothing but sympathy and compassion. "I'm sorry," she whispered, lightly settling her hand on my back.

I huffed, reached for my cigarettes. "Why? You didn't do it."

Julie groaned in frustration. "God! You make it so hard to be your friend sometimes, you know that?"

I sighed. "I'm just so . . . ." I struggled to find the words.

"Pissed off? Ashamed?"

I frowned, looking at her round, pretty face. "Yeah."

Julie nodded. "I know," she said, then smiled sheepishly. "I mean, I don't know, but . . . I've done a lot of reading. And, you know Lindsey . . . ."

I gave my friend a surprised look. "She was . . .?"

Julie scrunched her lips together. "Yeah. About a year ago. Couple'a gangsters, I think. She doesn't really talk about it."

I stared down. Lindsey seemed so sweet, so innocent! She had been raped? How did she go on? How could she be the way she is, all 'bubbles and sunshine,' after something like that?

"Look, I don't know what it's like," Julie said. "And I pray to God I never will. But from what I've learned, it's like . . . being in a really bad car accident. It hurts, and it leaves scars, and you feel like you never wanna go for another ride. But, after a while, the pain goes away, and the scars fade, and . . . next thing you know, you're getting behind the wheel again."

I lit a cigarette, blew out smoke. Julie kept massaging my back.

"It's gonna take a while," I said at last.

"I know," Julie said. "I'm your friend, Alyssa. That means I'm gonna be here, no matter what."

I couldn't help but smile. Cleo had been supportive, but she was more like the hard-edged bitch whose words were often pithy and rough. Julie was different. She was a true friend, one who accepted me no matter what. I couldn't help but love her for that.

"Hey, what's that?" she asked, touching my chin. "Is that a smile?"

I laughed softly, ducking my head. I felt my cheeks stretch. The bruises beneath my eyes stung, and I winced.

Julie chuckled and hugged me. For a moment, just a moment, I shuddered at the feel of her full breasts against my arm, the warmth of her skin, the sweet, girlish perfume she wore . . . .

"Well, as it just so happens," Julie said, her voice upbeat. She uncurled her arms and stood, heading to the foyer to pick up her backpack. "I don't have anything to do all weekend, so . . . ." she pulled out two bottles of strawberry vodka, grinning ear to ear.

I laughed. "I thought you said drinking wasn't the answer," I said.

"It's not," she responded cheerfully. "We already got the answers out. Now it's just girl fun time. 'Sides, I'm planning on taking my share."

I just shook my head.

"And," she added, setting the bottles down and reaching back into her pack. She produced a couple packs of cigarettes.

I laughed again.

"Not only that . . ." she pulled out some DVD movies and a pack of playing cards. She bit her lip. "Ca-ching!" She laughed. "But you buy the pizza."

I smiled fondly upon my friend. "Deal," I said.

***

Being around Ian, Cleo, and just about everyone else in my life, I had always been constantly reminded of what I was. But with Julie, I felt like just another teenaged college student, even with what had happened. Her bubbly effluence, her simple outlook on life . . . Julie was no bimbo airhead who thought everything was black and white, but she had a very concise philosophy. Good things and bad things alike happened in everyone's life, period. It was how you dealt with them that mattered.

"So what's the worst thing that ever happened to you?" I asked.

Julie shrugged as she dealt another round of Gin. We sat on the floor before my TV, the first bottle of vodka half-full between us. The half-finished pizza – pepperoni, mushrooms, and Italian sausage, what Julie called a 'PMS' pizza – sat to the side.

"When my folks died," she said casually.

I stared at her.

Julie made a little smile. "It happened when I was thirteen," she said. "Car accident. We flipped over and over and over . . . mom died right away; she broke her neck. Dad, well . . . it took a while. All he wanted to do was hold me. He kept telling me that everything was gonna be all right; I just kept crying the whole time. The firemen had to pry my arms off him."

"Jesus Christ," I breathed. "God, Julie, I never . . . ."

She shrugged again. "Bad things happen, Alyssa," she said simply. "They happen to everybody. I lost my mom and dad. You got raped. Other people get shot, or robbed, or . . . whatever. You can't go through life thinking it's always gonna be cherries."

I looked down, staring at the cards. "Yeah. Guess you're right."

"Don't get me wrong," she said, flipping down cards. "I was pretty fucked up for a while. Just ask my Aunt Jesse. But . . . well, you just gotta go on. Right?"

I sucked my lip, nodded. "Right."

***

I found it strange that, as long as I had known Ian, I had never been to his office. I knew where it was, of course. Cleo had casually mentioned going to the Pyramid Building a few times to see him. From what I understood, Ian owned most of the space in the building, and it was his central headquarters for his ventures.

Most of them, anyway.

I was nervous about heading out. I had been a recluse for over a week, afraid to show my face. I'd had Julie and Cleo get groceries for me, afraid to even let a delivery driver see my bruises. But the time had come. I had to find out what happened, and Ian wasn't going to come over to my apartment and tell me.

I didn't know what to think of Ian now. He'd always had that air of quiet intimidation about him, giving the impression he was a dangerous man to cross. But to actually murder someone?

That wasn't the Ian I knew. But then, did I ever really know him at all?

I felt like everyone in the world was watching me, whispering under their breath and making comments about my bruises as I got out of my car in the lot of the Pyramid Building. My hair was down around my face, and I wore dark sunglasses even though it was a cold, cloudy day. I no longer needed the bandage for my nose, but it was still tender and blotchy, no matter how I applied my makeup.

The Pyramid Building was impressive, all steel and glass, the bluish windows reflecting the ominous sky. It sat on a hill overlooking the highway, like a king on his throne overseeing his domain. How appropriate, I thought.

Keeping my head down, I stepped into the lobby, dodging businesspeople and couriers. I knew I was out of place in my jeans and leather jacket, but I certainly wasn't going to wear any of my dresses. Just wanted to get to Ian's office and get this over with.

There was a giant directory on one of the walls, opposite the bank of elevators. Predictably, Ian's office was on the top floor of the nine-story building. I tapped the button for the elevator, waiting amongst several others for the car to arrive. This time, it wasn't my imagination; people were looking at me, wondering what a teenaged girl was doing in a center of business.

I stood in a corner of the elevator car, my head bowed, hidden by my hair. A man stood beside me, simple dark suit and smelling of Old Spice. I stiffened a little. He didn't need to be as close as he was; there was plenty of room in the elevator.

"Hey," he said, casual and friendly. "Cold day, huh?"

I chewed my lip, barely seeing him from the corner of my eye. "Uh-huh."

"Your, uh, dad work here or something?" he asked.

I shook my head, feeling my blood pumping, my skin prickling. His mere presence was making me nervous.

I heard him smile. "So what's a pretty girl doing here?"

I bristled. I knew he was just being friendly, just casually flirting. But it seemed the most offensive approach in the world at that moment, as if he had slapped my ass and told me I had perfect dick-sucking lips.

I snapped my head up and took off my sunglasses, staring up at his face. He was middle-aged, handsome in a typical way, a little heavy in the cheeks. His amiable smile vanished instantly as he saw my dark eyes and broken nose.

"Still think I'm pretty?" I asked coldly.

He stammered something – an apology I guess – and backed off, giving me a sheepish look. I glanced around at the others, feeling stupid and girlish. I put my sunglasses back on and ducked my head once more.

No one else bothered me for the eternity it took to reach the ninth floor.

I stepped out as soon as the door opened, brushing past men and women in suits and power-walking down the corridor. I wanted to get it over with, as quickly as possible, even if I didn't really know what 'it' was.

I shoved open the glass door at the end of the hall, stared down at the woman in her white blouse and 'severe' bun as she sat behind the reception desk. She wore one of those wire headsets attached to the phone on the desk. An immense window behind her bathed the room in pale light.

"I'd like to see Ian Holloway," I said.

The woman gave me a look that said, 'and just who the hell are you?' Her lips curled in an amused smile. "Mr. Holloway is in a meeting right now, Miss . . .?"

"It's important," I said firmly. I slipped off my sunglasses and stared her down. Or tried to.

She didn't look the least bit fazed. "He's a very busy man, dear," she said in a condescending tone. "I'm sure that whatever you need to speak with him about can wait."

I didn't back down, no matter how foolish and out of place I felt. "No, it can't."

The receptionist sighed, rolling her eyes for effect. She tapped a couple buttons on her phone, touched the headset beside her ear. "I'm sorry to bother you, Mr. Holloway, but there's a young woman here to see—"

She paused, listening. "Yes, sir, I told her that. She seems to be very adamant."

"Tell him it's Yvette," I said, loud enough that I figured Ian could hear on the other end.

The receptionist frowned, annoyed, and listened to Ian's voice. Finally, she nodded and sighed, giving me a forced smile. "He'll be right out—"

"Thanks," I snapped, and stepped away, turning my back on her. I heard the receptionist mutter 'little bitch' under her breath. I entertained the idea of returning the insult, but forced my pride down. I was just nervous and scared, that's all. I breathed in, trying to calm myself.

I heard doors open, looked toward the far wall as wood-paneled double doors gave way to Ian. He looked the epitome of the Business Tycoon in his midnight blue, pin-striped suit and white shirt with black tie. He gave me a look that was at once sympathetic and confounded.

"Come on," he said simply, stepping to the side. I marched past him, into a short hallway. There were double doors about fifteen feet ahead, closed, and a single door to the right. It was to this smaller door that Ian lead me.

There was a small board room beyond, dominated by an oval mahogany table and several plush leather chairs. Ian closed the door behind us and I whirled around to face him.

"I wanna know how Gary died," I said, struggling to restrain my emotions.

Ian pursed his lips. "Read the police report," he said simply, stepping around me toward a little water tower. "From what I heard on the news, its was a robbery that went wrong. Very tragic."

I glared at him. "Don't you give me that bullshit, Ian," I said. I leaned on the table. "I wanna know what happened. I wanna know if he said anything before you shot him in the fucking head!"

Ian matched my glare with one that was ten times as intense, making me gasp and thoroughly destroying my self-righteous anger.

"Don't ever speak to me like that," he said darkly. He came around the table, every step and movement of his body deliberate, powerful, threatening. I scampered back, against the wall behind me, suddenly and totally aware that I was in a room, alone, with a murderer. I stared up at him in abject fear.