Lauren dabbed at her eyes and then blew her nose loudly. She flipped down the visor and peered into the embedded mirror. Her makeup must have been waterproof—shellac—but she ran her fingers under her eyes anyway. Then she flipped up the visor and settled back into her seat. She suddenly seemed extremely composed.
“Did you like the pictures I sent you?”
He felt a surge of anger. The little bitch was playing him. “No, I didn’t,” he said firmly. “They made me feel uncomfortable. And sick.”
“You’re lying. . . .” He looked over at her. She was smiling, trying to look coy and sexy. She looked ridiculous.
“I’m being completely honest with you, Lauren. I don’t find you attractive. I don’t have feelings for you. I just want you to leave me the fuck alone.”
The waterworks started again, but he wasn’t falling for it. He started the car. “I’m taking you home.”
“I’ll tell about the champagne!”
“Go ahead. You’ve been deposed. If you change your story now, you’ll be charged with perjury.”
“I’ll tell your wife then!”
Jeff spoke in a measured voice. “My wife knows. You’ve got nothing on me anymore. You can’t blackmail me or manipulate me. It’s over.” He put the car in drive.
“I’ve got your texts.”
The texts. Fuck. He looked over at Lauren. Her face was wet with tears, but she was smiling, a smug, self-satisfied smile. He turned the car off again. “I never said anything incriminating. . . .” But his throat constricted and his voice came out high, almost feminine, belying his fear.
“Still . . . I think Hannah would be pretty upset to find out you sent me, like, thirty texts.”
“No, I didn’t!”
“Thirty-two actually. I counted them. And if I told her how you came to get me that night and how you held me and kissed me. . . .”
“I didn’t—” But he stopped himself, remembering the paternal peck on the crown he’d given her when she was wasted, sobbing about how no one knew her, no one cared about her. Hardly a kiss, but still . . . totally inappropriate. He looked at the child in his passenger seat. Through her tears and runny nose, she was smirking.
A rage welled up inside of him like he’d never felt before. He wanted to grab this girl by the neck; he wanted to smash her head into the dashboard. He wanted to make her disappear from his life, forever, and there was only one way to do that. Jeff had never hit anyone, had never even been in a fight, but he owned The Sopranos boxed set and he’d watched it all the way through, twice. He could do it. He could choke the life out of this little bitch. He’d enjoy it, too, seeing the fear in her eyes, the realization that she’d fucked with the wrong guy. When she was dead, he’d drive out to the forest and bury her sixteen-year-old corpse deep, deep in the ground. No one would ever find her. And no one would miss her. Lauren had said so herself.
But Jeff was not Paulie Walnuts. “What do you want, Lauren?”
“I just want you in my life,” Lauren said, suddenly sweet and pleading. “I want to be able to talk to you and text with you. You’re the only person who really understands me.”
Jeff almost laughed out loud, but he held it in, creating a coughing/snorting sound in the back of his throat. He spoke gently. “You need help, Lauren. A therapist or a psychiatrist.”
“No, I don’t. I just need you.” Her hand crept back to his lap. He removed it gently.
“You can’t have me.”
“Then I guess I have no choice.” She smiled and he felt a chill run through him: this girl was a psychopath.
Jeff’s eyes moved to the small purse resting between her knees. He could snatch it and grab her phone and smash it on the asphalt. He could take the SIM card and destroy it, throw it in the ocean. But Lauren seemed to read his mind. She tucked the bag farther up her thighs, under her butt. He couldn’t get it now without molesting her. Lauren smiled at him, victorious, and Jeff felt the fight drain from his body. He’d been worn down and beaten by a teenaged girl.
“I’ll unblock you,” he said. “I’ll be there for you.”
Lauren beamed, a little girl getting a pony for Christmas, then she leaned over and pressed her lips to his cheek. She held them there, longer than she should have. He could smell her shampoo and some fruity lip gloss, and Jeff didn’t want to feel what he was feeling. It was perverted and wrong and he wanted to push her off him. But he couldn’t. Finally, she sat back in her seat and smiled.
“Okay. You can drive me home now.”
lisa
SIXTY DAYS AFTER
Lisa perused the document, her eyes flitting over the confounding legalese. Her lower back was hurting from the hard, modern client chair she’d been offered by her lawyer, Paul. He sat on the other side of his pristine desk in leather ergonomically designed comfort. He watched her wade through the paper, his stubby fingers tented in front of his Cheshire smile.
“Eight hundred and fifty thousand is an incredible offer,” Paul said. “They’re definitely motivated to settle this.”
A low whistle emanated from Lisa’s boyfriend, Allan, seated beside her in a matching modern chair. “That’s serious money,” he said. She’d invited him along for moral support, in case things didn’t go well. Based on his wide grin and raised eyebrows, he thought things were going extremely well.
Lisa spoke directly to Paul. “That’s not even half of what I asked for.”
Paul folded his hands on the desk. “The three million was never realistic,” he explained. “The Sanderses aren’t that rich. It was tactical. To show them we mean business. . . .” He leaned back in his chair, triumphant. “I think they got the message.”
“I’ll say.” Allan gave her another grin, another eyebrow lift. She shouldn’t have brought him.
Lisa slid the papers back toward Paul. “I’ve had to put my career plans on hold to take care of Ronni. Once I’ve paid the hospital bills, the physical and mental therapists, school tuition . . . there won’t be much left.”
“Have you worked out a budget for all that?” Paul asked, sharing a conspiratorial glance with Allan. “I think there should be a significant amount left.”
Lisa turned to look at her boyfriend, his tall, lithe frame spilling out of the uncomfortable chair. Despite the awkwardness of his pose, he was smiling like he’d just won the lottery. He caught her withering look and rearranged his features. “It’s almost a million bucks, Lis.”
“My daughter has lost all her friends. She’s depressed, she’s being bullied . . . and people stare at her like she’s some sort of monster every time she leaves the apartment.” Lisa turned to Paul now. “Ronni may never recover from this. She may never lead a fully functional life. It’s my job to take care of her.”
Paul said, “Jeff and Kim Sanders don’t have three million liquid.”
“No, but they can get it. They have fancy cars, a fancy house; I think Jeff has a boat. . . .”
Allan looked over at her. “You want them to sell their house?”
He sounded so stunned, so appalled, like asking Jeff and Kim to downsize a little was akin to torching their grass hut while they slept.