A Girl Called Fearless (11 page)

See what you've done to me
.

But I couldn't silence Ms. A's voice in my head. “Try and look as young as you can. Remind your father you're still a child, one he's supposed to protect.”

I drenched a cotton ball in makeup remover. When I finally came downstairs, I was Daddy's little girl in a yellow cardi, and a touch of Pink Innocence gloss.

The table was set in the dining room—spinach salad with out-of-season strawberries and grilled salmon. For some reason, Dad had told Gerard to cook my favorite foods.

I sat down, and when Dad looked up, I gave him a trying-to-be-brave smile.

“I'm glad we could have dinner together,” he said. “I haven't seen much of you lately.”

I shrugged. “It's okay. I get it. A lot's been going on.”

Dad hated spinach salad, but he speared it onto his fork like it was his absolute favorite. “Big day tomorrow.”

I picked at my salad. “Yeah, big day.”

Dad ignored my pitiful voice. “We had a breakthrough this week. Our research results suggest we've finally found a cure for opiate addiction.”

I put down my fork. Beating cocaine and heroin was Dad's quest. The reason he'd started Biocure. “Dad, that's incredible.”

“You don't remember your uncle Mike—” Dad shook his head. “Your mom was so close to getting him off Skid Row before he disappeared.”

“Uncle Mike made it to the minor leagues, didn't he?” I said, quietly.

“Yes, before the drugs messed him up.” Dad squeezed my hand. “I don't know how to say this. You're a big part of this success, honey. Without Jes Hawkins' investment, we'd have had to shut the research down.”

My mouth fell open, and I drew my hand away.
I'm the sacrificial lamb. My life taken so others may live.

Dad launched into a soliloquy about dopamine and serotonin and the blood-brain barrier. As if I cared one
milligram
about the biochemistry I paid for!

“Thousands of patients and their families won't suffer the agony of addiction, and they have you to thank. Not to mention the hundreds of Biocure employees whose jobs you saved. You're a hero.”

Thousands of lives saved. Mine ruined. “I'm not a hero. I didn't choose to save all those people.”

“Doesn't matter, you're still a hero to me.”

“I'm not a hero!” I tore off my yellow cardi and ran for the stairs.

“Avie!” Dad called after me.

I slammed my door and wiped the gloss off my lips. To hell with him. I was stupid to think he cared.

I put in my earphones and played the song Yates sent me. The words drummed in my head and took my feet with them. I stomped to the beat, because “Better Learn My Name” gave my anger a soundtrack. Those six black girls were my voice in a world that didn't care what I said.

“Better Learn My Name”

By Survival Instincts

Wifey. Mistress. Angel. Babymaker

Honey. Vixen. Helper. Housekeeper

I've got a hundred names,

But it all comes out the same

I'm someone's prize possession

Not a person. An obsession

I'm not. Yours to own

Think again 'bout what you call me

I'm not yours to chain and ball me

Not your mommy. Not your whore

Not your freaking doormat

Not your sweetcakes

Cherry pie

Twinkle in a daddy's eye

I'm me!

So call me

Ninja. Warrior. Templar. Gladiator

G.I. Ranger. Samurai. Terminator

I resist your classification

Gonna build a brand-new nation

And I won't be second-class

Gonna kick you in the ass

Cause I'm a

Ninja. Warrior. Templar. Gladiator

G.I. Ranger. Samurai

And get this:

I'm your terminator

Hawkins

26

Roik waited with me by the French doors in the library for Hawkins' helicopter. The plan was Dad and I would fly out, and Roik would follow later in Big Black after showing the photographers at the community gates that I wasn't inside.

“You smell nice,” Roik told me.

“Fifty million dollars nice?”

The way his eyes narrowed, I thought he'd smack me. “Don't mess this up,” he said slowly. “Let me tell you, you want the deal with Hawkins to go through.”

A chill shimmied down my back. “Why?”

“That guy in his fifties who bid on you. He's still interested. Keeps calling the broker and offering more money.”

Blow this deal and the next one was right there, waiting. “Good to know,” I said.

Hawkins' helicopter came up the canyon toward our house, then it dived for the paparazzo neighbor's roof, and hovered until the satellite dish rattled so hard it almost tore off. Ho's instructions, obviously.

The copter landed on our lawn just as Dad appeared. “Let's go.”

The helicopter took off and L.A. shrank beneath us. We flew over downtown and the westside and out Pacific Coast Highway. Any other day, I would have enjoyed the perfect blue sky, and the white ribbons of waves unfurling on the water.

Beach houses lined the highway. We passed the Colony where the stars used to live and Pepperdine University. The town of Malibu disappeared, and the houses got bigger and farther apart until they perched like castles on the cliffs.

Dad pointed. “Look, you can see Hawkins' compound.”

Of course Hawkins had a compound. Domestics. Security personnel. Everything and everyone right where he wanted them 24/7. From here, I could see the high gate and quarter mile of iron fencing that sealed his compound off from the road.

There wasn't a single tree or flower or blade of grass, just grey scrubby brush that clung to the rocky slope.

The main house was long and low, built into the cliff, made of glass and stone, and spread out so every window faced the water. A terrace cut into the hill like a knife blade and a sleek pool overhung the edge. The drop to the rocky beach was a hundred feet at least.

If I wanted to get out of there, I'd need a SWAT team to extract me.

The pilot touched down on a helicopter pad in the parking circle behind the house. Ho met us and led us down some stone steps past a subterranean garage big enough for twenty cars, and over to a set of double doors.

Ho threw open the doors and the ocean filled our view, a blue wall of wind-chopped waves.

“Wonder what this set him back,” Dad muttered. We stood on a landing above a big room walled in floor-to-ceiling glass.

Hawkins appeared at the bottom of the stairs. “Ah, you've arrived.”

Dad looked from me to him. Go on. Get down there.

My ankles wobbled in the stilettos.

I'd seen pictures of Hawkins, but they didn't prep me for the hair slicked back like an Italian race-car driver, or the European golf shirt the color of carbon steel. The Intimidator. I'd overheard Roik call him that. Now I got why.

His eyes were dark. Cold. Rust-stained concrete. And they were fixed on me like he owned me.

My thoughts flashed to the warm blue depths of Yates' eyes.

Dad gave me a little push. Go on!

“Fine.” I watched Jes
observe
me all the way down the stairs.

“Magnificent view, isn't it?” he said when I got to the bottom.

“It's beautiful.” I tried to ignore the thought beating its wings in my head:
I'll die before I let his lips touch mine.

“Not nearly as beautiful as what is standing before me. Welcome to my home, Avie.” He held out his hand. My muscles went tight like even my cells wanted to get away from him. I forced out a smile and shook his hand. Hard. “Thank you, Mr. Hawkins.”

“Call me Jes.” He wasn't inviting me, he was telling me.

“Jes.”

Jes. How many times will you make me say your name? Say it like I love you, desire you? What will you do if I don't?

“Shall I show you around?” he asked.

“Yes, please.”

He leaned in close and took a deep breath and I heard him moan faintly like he'd tasted me.

Nausea flooded me and visions of Becca flashed before my eyes. I could barely hear what Hawkins was saying as he led me through the room, angling around the big steel coffee table and skinny leather benches as he pointed out the huge modern paintings on the back wall, and rattled off the artists' names.

I circled the room, because the last thing I wanted was to sit down and have him wrap his arm around me. I couldn't stop imagining his lips pressed against mine or how he probably tasted like imported mouthwash.

Make him think you like him. Make him feel the admiration you have for him and his mother,
Ms. A had instructed me. Our goal is to keep you away from him as long as possible.

I recognized the huge, translucent blue fish speared on a tall, metal pole, its body curled like it was fighting to get away. “Isn't that by Giacomo Perretti?”

Hawkins beamed. “My mother commissioned it.”

“She had amazing taste.”

“Yes, she did.” He leaned in. “Which artists are your favorites?”

I'd memorized Letitia's, and I should have said, “Boyle, Simcha, and Veragatzi,” but the me that refused to be her answered, “I love the Renaissance more than anything. Botticelli, Michelangelo, Raphael.”

Hawkins' lips flattened, and in my heard Ms. A snap, “Don't bait him.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I'm not very sophisticated about art. Maybe you could teach me?”

“Gladly.” He studied my face, appraising me like a new painting. “Care to go outside?”

“Yes, I'd like that.” Anything to keep moving.

Stone steps led from the dining room down to the terrace. I stopped at the top, surprised there wasn't a railing. Waves crashed on the rocks a hundred feet below.

“It can be a little unnerving—the first time,” Hawkins said.

I got the feeling he
wanted
me to be afraid. “It's really dramatic.”

“I'll walk on the outside so you can get used to it.”

What do you want from me, I thought. What kind of game are we playing?

We started down. The wind came up, fresh and clean and I ripped off my headband, and let it blow through my hair. At the bottom of the steps, Hawkins took the headband from me. “Put it back on,” he said, his voice very quiet and controlled.

I looked him in the eyes, smiling ever so slightly while the rebel in me made him wait. Couldn't he see that I wasn't what he wanted, I thought as I swept my hair back and set the headband in place.

The terrace was a couple hundred feet long, completely bare except for the pool. “Where's the furniture?” I asked.

“It mars the view. Right now the view is perfect. Pristine. I like things in their places.”

Pristine? I thought about my unmade bed, the clothes on my floor, and the papers and pictures on my desk. I could never fit in his pristine world.

I wiped my damp hands on my skirt.
He would make me fit.

Hawkins steered me to the edge of the terrace. Waves dashed the rocks below us, sending my stomach into spasms.

“No railing,” I said. “I guess that would mar the view, too.”

“Exactly.” His hand pressed the small of my back. “You understand me.”

I held my breath, caught between him and the rocks. “I'm getting a little dizzy. Can we back up?”

“Yes, of course,” Hawkins said, and he took my hand and kissed it.

I slid my hand away too quickly.
Blush. Look away. Pretend you're overcome. You're a virgin. Make him respect that,
Ms. A had said.

“Sorry,” I said, “I'm—”

“It's all right. I understand.” He touched my cheek and I'm sure he felt me flinch, so I smiled at him like I couldn't believe I was the one he'd picked.

Lots of girls would want him. Good-looking, powerful, rich.

And twisted. Only someone truly twisted would search until he found a girl who he could mold into a replica of his mother.

“Mr. Hawkins.” Ho strode toward us. “The photographer and his stylist have arrived and are setting up in the great room.”

Hawkins gestured to an open door. “Shall we?”

27

Upstairs, the stylist combed my hair and fussed with the headband, consulting a photo of Letitia on his phone until he got it right.

Ho slunk over to me while I waited for Hawkins to change. “Your job is to look pretty,” Ho said. “You are not to speak to the reporter, not even if he asks you a direct question unless Mr. Hawkins indicates you should. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly.” I'm a prop. “So where's the golden retriever?”

Ho glared at me.

“Joking,” I said.

“This isn't funny.”

“Okay. I get it.”

Hawkins returned in a sport coat and a light blue shirt, his collar open like he wanted people to believe that even though he's rich, he's an okay guy. He smiled, and his teeth were too white.

The photographer seated Hawkins on the leather bench beneath the struggling turquoise fish. Then they arranged me, curled up at his feet, my hand on his knee like I worshiped him.

Feeling his body heat through his pants made my skin crawl.

Jes squeezed my hand and I looked at him over my shoulder. He smiled, and I caught the flicker in his eyes. Behave. Play your part.

I smiled back. Of course.

The photographer got off a hundred shots before the reporter from
People
arrived, and Dad and everyone else leaped up in adoration.