The house was quiet after everyone went to their rooms. They’d all had a lot to drink. The wines had been important and delicious. He had served Château d’Yquem with dessert, and the brandy finished them all off. They were all happily asleep in their beds, as Eileen tiptoed quietly down the stairs with her stilettos in her hand. She was quiet as a mouse as she opened the front door and closed it softly behind her. Brad was waiting for her outside. He had his motorcycle parked around the corner, and he looked annoyed.
“What took you so long? I’ve been waiting for an hour.”
“I’m sorry.” She looked at him nervously. She could cover what was left of the bruises with makeup now. He had convinced her that his punishment was her fault, because she hadn’t defended him as she should have and had pissed him off. Her father had always told her it was her fault too when he threw her or her mother down the stairs. He had broken her arm twice. “I had to wait until everyone went to bed,” she explained to Brad, and he looked furious as they walked around the corner to where his bike was parked.
“What are you? Twelve? You pay rent in that place. That bitch can’t tell you what to do.”
“Yes, she can. It’s her house. She can throw me out.”
“Fuck her,” Brad said angrily, and handed her a helmet, and a minute later they took off, with Eileen on the back of his motorcycle, holding on for dear life. He was pissed about it, but Eileen had been adamant that he couldn’t come upstairs. They were going back to his place. She wanted to make it up to him for upsetting him before. He was right. She hadn’t defended him to the others. And he had convinced her, just as her father had, that she was bad, and wrong. She was going to prove otherwise to him tonight.
Chapter 11
EILEEN SNEAKED BACK in the next morning before anyone got up. She felt like a kid again, and no one knew she had gone out. Brad hadn’t brought her home, and she didn’t want them to hear the motorcycle anyway, so she took a cab. She was home in plenty of time to shower and dress for work. Brad had been incredible to her, gentle, loving, kind, and it was the best sex she’d ever had. She thought it was a shame her roommates didn’t know him better. He was a very decent man. They had just gotten off to a bad start. She hoped that Francesca would relax about him in time and forgive him. Eileen already had. She was seeing him again that night. The relationship with him was heady stuff.
They all had a quiet evening at home that night. Marya was studying recipes, while Francesca did her laundry, and Chris was reading in bed. Eileen said she was going out with friends from work. They had had such an exciting evening with Charles-Edouard cooking the night before, that all of them took a night off. Marya had left some soup on the stove, and Francesca was on her way upstairs with her laundry, when Chris shot out of his room with a look of panic.
“She did it again!” he said, looking both furious and scared. “She OD’d again. She’s in a coma. Ian was with her, and they said he was frantic when they found her. Now he can’t speak. He’s in shock. She had a guy with her. He’s dead. They think she might not make it this time.” And somewhere in his heart, Chris hoped she wouldn’t. It would be simpler for Ian. He was desperate to get to his child. He flew down the stairs and out the front door as Francesca stared after him, praying Ian was all right.
She waited up for them to come back. It was four in the morning when they finally did. Chris was carrying Ian, who was sound asleep. She opened her door and came down the stairs when she heard the front door close.
“How is he? Is he okay? Can he talk?” She looked as worried as Chris, and he looked as though he had been hit by a bus. It had been a long night.
“He said a few words before he fell asleep. They said I could bring him home. He watched the guy die when he OD’d, talk about trauma for a kid. They’re holding Kimberly responsible for it. That’s what happens when someone OD’s, the survivors are charged with their death. That’s why no one ever calls the cops when someone OD’s. She’ll probably go to jail for this, or prison, unless her father’s lawyers can get her off again.”
“How is she?”
“Alive unfortunately,” he said angrily. “She was coming around when I left. I can’t let Ian go through this again,” he said with a look of desperation as she followed him into his room and he set his son down on the bed. Ian never stirred. “They sedated him. He was hysterical at the hospital. He thought his mother was dead. I’m going to fight for custody this time, and win. No sane judge can give him back to her now. I won’t let this happen to him again. She’s too sick.” Francesca nodded, and wondered who her father was, that his lawyers were so powerful. Chris had mentioned it before. But of course she didn’t ask. It was irrelevant. Ian was all that mattered now.
