Still Into You: A Novel (Better Than Series Book 3)

Still Into You: A Novel

Emme Burton

Copyright: 2014

Still Into You

Emme Burton

Copyright 2014

All rights reserved.  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.  If you are reading this book and you have not purchased it or won it in an author/publisher contest, this book has been pirated.  Please delete and support the author by purchasing the e-book from one of its many distributors. 

Disclaimer:  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental.  The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Editor:  Sharon Korn

Cover Design:  © Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations.

Author Photograph:  Dana Colcleasure

Dedication

To ALL the Readers out there.

Not just of my books, but any books.  Those that stick to one genre and those that like to mix it up.  Thank you for loving books and supporting authors.

And of course, to my family-BC, Thing One, Thing Two and J-Dog.  After all this time, I’m STILL into you.

Still Into You Playlist

Cool-Gwen Stefani

Like a G6-Far East Movement

Closing Time-Semisonic

Every Breath You Take-The Police

Home, Sweet, Home-Motley Crue

You’re My Favorite Waste of Time-Marshall Crenshaw and The Handsome, Ruthless and Stupid Band

Look What You’ve Done-Jet

Say Something I’m Giving Up On You-Great Big World

Closer to the Edge-30 Seconds to Mars

By Myself-Linkin Park

Still Into You-Paramore

I Choose You-Sara Bareilles

Happy-Pharrell Williams

Crazy Lucky-Better Than Ezra

Chapter 1-Past:  3 ½ years ago

“The state calls to the stand, Elizabeth Connelly Brandon,” the bailiff announces.

I’m a witness in the case against Neil Ireland, in one of the biggest court cases to hit the metro area in a long time.  Neil Ireland, a man who, at one time, I believed to be my boyfriend. But as he has repeatedly stated in police interviews, “It was never like that.”  Neil is being tried for sexual assault, the production and distribution of pornography, and the transportation of minors across state line for both.  I’m the last witness of five women.  Well, one woman – me – and four teenage girls.  The girls each testified and told stories similar to mine, except in one case, where the girl’s father found her in time, was able to get her to the hospital and tested.  Tested for assault.  Which was positive via the rape kit.  And for drugs, namely Rophynol – also positive.  Getting that objective evidence, according to the prosecuting attorney, is what will probably put Neil away.  So why am I testifying?  To make the case stronger.  To show a pattern of behavior that has been ongoing.  And I have become the “face” of the victims in this case.  The court is closed to photography and filming.  Reporters can be present, but no sketches of any of the women are allowed, except me.  The other victims are all underage.  Their names and faces are being kept from the public.  I, on the other hand, am an adult.  This isn’t an accident. The prosecution wants a real person to whom the public can relate.  Me.

I walk to the witness stand as calmly as I can.  I know when I turn around I will have to look into the eyes of the man that used and violated me.  Some may not see it that way, but I’m here to make them understand.  When I finally get up to the stand, I turn and see him – Neil Ireland.  He is dressed conservatively, as am I.  That’s what happens when you are a defendant or witness, you’re dressed to present the image your attorney wants you to portray.  Neil has on khakis, a blue oxford shirt and a navy sport coat… something he’d never wear when I knew him.  Preppy.  He is still handsome.  It’s just a fact.  I’ve heard he receives love letters in jail from women who don’t know the monster he really is.

I’m sworn in by the bailiff and sit in the witness stand.  After the brief glance at Neil, I know I can’t look at him again, so I swiftly pin my gaze to the face in the gallery that I know is always on my side.  My husband, my rock, Davis.  We talked about it before we came to the courthouse today, and made a plan. I’m going to answer all my questions like I’m talking to him.

The prosecuting attorney approaches and asks me, “Ms. Brandon, how long have you known the defendant, Mr. Ireland?”

“About three years.”

He continues, “And what, Ms. Brandon, was the nature of your relationship?”

I pause and then answer slowly, like I’ve been coached, “At first, we were colleagues, I guess you’d say.  We were both Resident Assistants, RAs, at Weldon University. Then…” I begin to stammer a bit, “We, well, I thought he became my boyfriend…but I guess…”

“Objection!” Neil’s attorney yells out, “Speculation.”

The judge agrees, “Sustained.”

My head is spinning at the rapid-fire interaction and lawyer speak.

The prosecuting attorney tells the judge, “I’ll rephrase,” and then he turns his attention back to me, “Ms. Brandon, you said ‘at first’ your relationship with Mr. Ireland was as co-workers.”

“Yes.”  I say, a little more tentative now.

“Can you describe, without labeling, how your relationship changed?”

This next part is hard.  My husband, his parents, and MY parents are all watching.  I’ve told all of them this story before, but here in court, with others watching and reporters writing, it’s mortifying.  It’s a good thing I’ve been able to see Dr. Matt, my psychologist, more often, now that he’s moved to St. Louis.

I tell the whole story, with only a few objections and redirections.  I describe Neil pursuing me after knowing me casually for about a year and how he actively seduced me.  Elaborating on how our relationship became sexual and almost compulsive on my part was humiliating. 

“I thought he loved me,” I said.

  I knew it had to be said to support the other girls’ testimony. Their experience sounded much worse than mine.  I revealed how Neil Ireland drew me in and then, after announcing that I was merely a “plaything,” dumped me at his brother Randall’s house and had no contact with me again until he was arrested over a year later.  The prosecuting attorney allows me to describe my time at Randall’s house, but only to a point.  Enough to paint the picture that it was no mistake I’d wound up with Randall.  That I was set up to be moved in with Randall for purposes of eventually filming me during sexual acts.  It’s the same modus operandi the other girls described in their testimony.  I really don’t know how I’m keeping myself from vomiting or passing out, the recollection is so painful. 

I’m looking back and forth between the light on the ceiling and Davis’ compassionate eyes during the reveal of these most degrading memories.  I feel his support and empathy for me across the room.  When the prosecutor asks me if I have any memories other than passing out in Randall’s house and waking up naked with a video camera in the room, the defense attorney objects again.  The judge agrees and the questioning is halted.  Evidently, neither side wants me saying more about Randall.  I know it’s because if he is ever caught there are similar charges pending against him, along with the assault of Davis and me under the bridge.  I feel as if I’m going through it all over again – my time with Neil, whatever happened with Randall…all of it.  And again, I can’t remember the most important part.  What exactly happened to me in Randall’s house?  Was I drugged? Was I raped? Is there a video out there of me? Porn?

Strangely, the defense has no questions for me.  I’m dismissed by the judge and get down from the stand.  As I pass by the prosecutor, he whispers, “Good job, Biz.”

I say nothing.

I don’t look at Neil as I pass by him. I just keep my eyes on Davis.  I never want to have to see Neil Ireland again.  I’ve wished it so many times before, but maybe this time, he’ll be put away and I won’t have to.  Davis stands and pushes his way past his parents to meet me in the aisle of the court’s gallery.  We walk out of the court together.  I don’t want to stay and listen to any more testimony.  I have to remain available in case I’m needed for further questioning, but I don’t have to stay in the courtroom.  I can go home and be called back in for as long as the case continues.

The minute we move through the courtroom doors, I hear the whirr of digital cameras and questions being “whisper-shouted” in my direction.  Reporters that couldn’t get into the courtroom and all of the photographers are there – waiting for me.  Davis wraps his arm around my waist, knowing it’s too much for me.  I keep my head down and move where he leads me, navigating us through the crowd. The questions coming at me sound like drunken voices in a sea of white noise, and make no sense to me.  My vision is blurs, and I am getting overheated.  Davis senses this in me.  In moments, we are in quiet,  in a small room with light green walls.  Davis places me in a hard-backed chair at a table and squats in front of me.  I sit, stunned, with my head down.

“Biz?  Baby, are you all right?” Davis’ voice is so gentle.  He holds my hand and reaches up to cup my face, and moving it slightly to look at him. “You were so brave.  So very brave.  Not one tear.  How did you do that?”

He doesn’t care about what I just put out there for the whole world to know, only how I am.

I launch myself into his arms and he takes my full weight easily.  I’m no longer in the chair, but sitting on the floor with Davis.  I still don’t cry.

“I really, I don’t know… I just had to get it all out, as much as they would let me.  I had to be strong, because, those other girls, they’re so young and they went through everything I did, more even.  I’ve cried enough about this.  Now, I just want it to be over.  I want something positive to come out of this.” I explain.  With Davis holding me, I feel better.  Stronger.

My attorney, Anne Walker, enters the small witness preparation room and stops short, seeing Davis and me on the floor, embracing.

As Davis helps me up and we both sit back at the table, she asks, “Is everything okay?”  We both nod our heads yes and Davis reaches over to take my hand.  Anne continues, “Biz, you did well.  I made a statement to the reporters that you only wished to see justice served and that you will be giving an interview once the trial is over.” 

Anne is a take-charge spitfire of an attorney.  Davis’ parents found her for me, once we knew I would be called to testify.  Anne is seeing me through all of my dealings with the police, the legal system and the media.  She and I agree that after the trial I’ll be giving the interview to Gail Patton, my boss on KTTA, the station I work for.

“What do I do now?” I ask.

Anne sits across from me at the table. “Let’s wait for the next recess.  Your family can leave then and we should know if the court will need you any more today.  I don’t think they will, but you never know.  If they don’t, you can go home.  I’ll keep you apprised of how the case is going.” 

I sigh audibly, releasing hours, if not days and weeks, of tension.

              Anne senses my relief and tells me, “Biz, you did a good thing in there.  I know it’s been hard on you and Davis, and your families, but you did the right thing by sharing your story.”

              “Thank you, Anne.  Thank you both,” I squeeze Davis’ hand a little tighter.  All I want to do is go home.

***

              At the conclusion of the next recess, court is dismissed for the day.  After many hugs and words of love and support, Davis’ parents are headed back home to Illinois.  They have been great through this whole trial. My mother-in-law, Meredith Brandon, who was once very frosty toward me, is now firmly in my corner.  My mother, Diane, has not let go of my hand the entire trip home from the courthouse.  I’m sitting in between Davis and her in the back seat of our Lexus SUV, holding hands with both of them.  We aren’t talking, just
being
.

              My parents are staying with Davis and me until the proceedings are over.  It’s put a damper on our sex life, but so has the trial.  Davis has been very understanding.  No, not just understanding. Patient. A saint.

              When we get home and my mother finally lets go of me, after one more hug, I take myself to the en-suite bathroom in the master bedroom.  I climb out of my courtroom clothes – white shirt, black suit, conservative black pumps, small diamond stud earrings – and take a bath.  I want to wash off the bad parts of today and the past three years.  Only the bad parts.

              Davis enters the bathroom with a glass of white wine.  I can tell it’s nice and cold by the condensation bubbling up on the outside of the glass.  He takes a sip and then hands it to me in the tub.

              “I thought you might need this,” he says.

              “I do.  Thank you.” I say and take a long drink.  I don’t drink much.  I’m not good at it, but tonight I think I could use it.  After taking another couple sips, I tell him an idea that’s been bouncing around in my head all afternoon. “Davis, I’d like to do something.  Something to help victims of…victims of situations like I’ve been in, like those girls have been in.  Something that educates for prevention, but also supports them afterward.  What do you think?”

              Davis takes another drink of the wine, almost finishing it.  Looks like he needed it, too. “Like what?” he asks.

              I shrug, “I don’t know yet, but something.  Something for teenagers, young adults? Maybe not just girls.  Maybe educate about mental illness.”  I take a deep breath and say it, “Something that could have helped someone like… Cole.”

Cole.  Davis’ brother who committed suicide and accidentally shot Davis’ father leaving him paralyzed.   It’s the thing that changed Davis forever. We don’t say Cole’s name out loud too often.  Davis’ lips press into a tight line.  I can sense pain and sadness in that tiniest of expression changes. 

“I’m going to talk to Anne about it and Gail Patton at the station.  As much as I… we want to, we can’t just pretend these things never happened.  We have to turn it into something positive,” I say, finishing my proposal.

              Davis hands me the last bit of wine and I down it.  I can feel the small bit I’ve had relaxing me along with the warmth of the bath water.

              Davis looks down at me and smiles, a proud but tired smile. “So brave,” he whispers.  He leans down, takes the wine glass from my hand and kisses me on the hair. “Whatever you want or need to do, Lizard Breath, I’m with you.  I’m always with you.”

              “Thanks, Mavis.”  Using his nickname, I smile up at him sweetly and then watch him, all of him, as he turns and leaves me to soak some more.

***

              Neil Ireland was sentenced to twenty years in jail for sexual assault and statutory rape.  There was not enough evidence to convict him of the manufacturing of porn.  Jurors interviewed afterward revealed they believed that Neil Ireland was the predator and procurer of the girls for the reported pornography, but they didn’t see proof that he was directly involved in the making of it.  My experience seems to fall in line with that thinking.  Neil seduced and had sex with potential, candidates – naïve like me – for Randall’s pornography business, finding them wherever he was at the time. Neil found me in college. When he went into teaching he switched to high school girls.  Once he was through with them, through “grooming” them, Neil would give them to Randall.  It all made sense to me now, and evidently to the jury as well.  Any future pornography charges would be laid on Randall Ireland.  Randall is still at large and has not been heard from in the months since he beat Neil with a baseball bat and pistol-whipped Davis in a skatepark under the South Kingshighway bridge.