A Harmless Little Game (Harmless #1)

 

I sag with relief against the wall. “Then why were those people in the meeting saying all that?”

 

“Because I can’t find a viable strategy to go public with the truth and clear your name.”

 

“What?”

 

“I can’t find a way to make the truth more believable than the lies.”

 

“What?” My throat feels like it’s been painted with broken glass.

 

“We kept you hidden away for your own good. Trust me,” he says, eyebrows turned down, eyes deeply troubled. “That first year you were in so much pain, just healing from the physical trauma of what those animals did to you. Year Two was a combination of helping your mind to recover from the psychological pain of it all. By Year Three we realized there was no turning back—in the public’s mind you were nothing more than a slut who got what she was begging for.”

 

I now know I’m my mother’s daughter.

 

Because suddenly I slap him. My own father.

 

Hard.

 

So, so hard.

 

The lift of my arm, the curve of my elbow, and the fine scrape of my palm against Daddy’s perfectly-shaven cheek is poetry. I feel like a principal in a ballet company, the cool smoothness of the center of my palm tickled by friction as my bones align to deliver the hit. And it’s a hit. Make no mistake about it.

 

I just struck a United States Senator across the face.

 

The future President of the United States.

 

Not only is he not expecting it, he’s clearly horrified by my blow. Within seconds my arms are pinned behind my back, yanked with force and a familiar joint-popping feeling that takes me back four years ago.

 

And it’s Drew, this time, who is delivering the restraint.

 

“Gentian,” Drew barks into his mouth piece as I writhe in his grip, trying to get out of this room, wanting to run and run and run, now thinking the Island was a form of paradise and I was too stupid to realize it. He’s calling for Silas, who appears in seconds, eyes cold and at the ready to do whatever Drew orders.

 

“Let go of me,” I argue, my efforts pointless. His grip is steel. I feel the harsh pain of my skin tearing, a rug burn quickly forming, as I try to pry my wrists out from his hands.

 

“No.”

 

Daddy makes it clear to Drew he should let me go. Obeying, but reluctant, Drew drops my arms.

 

“I deserved that,” Daddy says.

 

“Yes, you did,” I grunt, the sound low and mean. “You called me a slut for being the victim of a gang rape.”

 

Because Drew is right behind me, his body inches from mine, I feel the shockwave of pure rage that ignites him.

 

“Sir? You what?” Drew snaps.

 

“I didn’t technically call Lindsay a slut,” Daddy says evenly. How he stays so calm, so flat and matter-of-fact in every situation is a wonder to me. “I was explaining the public perception of her.”

 

“And I reacted on impulse.”

 

“I don’t blame you,” Drew says from the corner of his mouth, like a ventriloquist throwing his voice.

 

Daddy points to me, but it’s not an angry gesture. It is, however, a warning. “Any other security detail on me would have had you on the ground, a knee between your shoulder blades, and cuffs around your wrists.”

 

“A position I know all too well, only I’m used to it naked,” I retort.

 

Daddy blanches.

 

“Jesus, Lindsay,” Drew mutters.

 

“Fuck off,” I say to no one, to everyone, to the world. With my newfound freedom, I sprint down the hallway, bursting through the double French doors into the sunshine, aware of only one thought:

 

I’ve blown it.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 29

 

 

 

 

 

Drew doesn’t follow me, but Silas does, hovering at a discreet distance to give me the illusion of privacy. My palm thrums with the expelled energy from slapping Daddy, and my own cheek burns where Mom hit me.

 

We’re a freaking Brady Bunch, aren’t we? One big, happy family.

 

There’s a moment when I’m walking around one of the fountains near the shore when it hits me: nothing can be worse. Not a single thing. I came home timid and worried about making sure everyone thought I was a little people pleaser, a go-along-get-along gal who wouldn’t rock the boat.

 

Instead, day two and I find out I’ve been slut-shamed for a violent sex act I never asked for. The victim has been media-massaged into being the aggressor.

 

I deserved what happened.

 

And Daddy and Mom have to make the presidential campaign work in spite of Lindsay the Slut.

 

I almost feel bad for them.

 

Almost.

 

I start to shiver. It’s eighty degrees outside and the air is still. There is no reason to shiver. The feeling comes from the inside out.

 

Slut.

 

For four years I wondered why the guys who raped me were never brought to justice. For four years I thought that I needed an extra-long time to heal from the horrible injustice of being their victim. For four years I thought my friends didn’t write or call because they were being blocked by staff at the Island, or for some reason that would make sense when I got home and was able to piece it all together.