Page 61 of Quiet Protector
I shake my head while grumbling, “I’m never getting drunk with you again. Your lips are looser than your vagina.”
“Va-gin-a,” he parrots, talking like Jackie Chan when he attempts to impersonate Chris Rock.
After knocking his foot against mine, he heads for the door. “Call me when you need me.”
“Don’t you meanif?”
He cranks his neck back to face me, smiling. “Nah, punk. I said ‘when’ for a reason.” He drops his eyes to the pocket of my jeans. “And read that damn letter before you put it through the wash.”
I don’t argue that I’ve read Julian’s letter.
I’m not a fan of lying.
* * *
“What?” I ask Melody when her eyes float to mine for the fourth time the past two minutes. She came out of her meeting with the lead prosecutor from Saugerties with a spring in her step and a smile I was certain I wouldn’t see for months.
I keep forgetting she’s had seven years to handle the emotions bombarding me, so she’s got a better grasp on things than I do. I should feed off her positivity, but with every unexpected smile reminding me about how many I missed because of my brother, it’s a little difficult.
Nichole Aimes, ADA for this division of the New York District Attorney’s Office, is confident Madden will face time for his crime. The evidence Grayson gathered from both Melody’s ranch and mine is pretty condemning. Melody kept the clothes she was wearing when she was assaulted, and both the condom found in the sink in my bathroom and my bottle of cologne have trace matters that match Madden.
The urge to beat the living shit out of someone slammed into me hard and fast when Melody testified that the condom must have split as the underwear she hid in her childhood bedroom had semen residue in them. There was enough DNA to make it seem as if Madden didn’t use protection.
My anger only subsided when I realized why Melody kept the evidence. If she truly believed Joey had raped her, she wouldn’t have kept proof of his assault. He was dead, so justice would have never been sought. She preserved the evidence because she knew deep down inside that Joey would have never hurt her like that. He loved her like a sister and was as protective of her as I am.
Phillipa is still seeking answers on what truly happened to Joey the night of his death. She emailed me an update the morning following Castro’s arrest, but with everything going on, I’ve not had the chance to sit down and digest it all. I haven’t even had the time to ask Melody if she knew Julian had paid Rimi Castro 1.5 million dollars in cash for a pre-kidnap ransom.
With photographic evidence of Melody’s movements and a threatening letter, Julian paid the amount requested, utterly oblivious that his eagerness to protect Melody placed her in more danger. If you can afford to hand over 1.5 million dollars to stop your fiancée from being kidnapped, how much will you be willing to lose to save her life?
The only good that came from Julian’s generosity was the massive alteration it caused Castro’s plan. He wanted Melody dead, no matter what the cost, until he realized keeping her alive would be far more beneficial to his resurrection than old Russian money. Dimitri was paying him out the eye to keep his daughter alive, and now Castro had a new gold mine to excavate.
It’s probably lucky Dimitri stepped in when he did. There are no guarantees Castro would have kept both his ruses running. The kidnap game is already messy, but when it involves a kid, it’s a whole other kettle of fish.
I’m drawn from my thoughts when I spot Melody eyeballing me for the fifth time. “Will you quit staring at me like that, you’re giving me a complex.” The chuckle my words come out with ensures her there’s no malice in my tone. I’m not feeling myself, but that doesn’t mean I need to take my unease out on her.
“I can’t help it,” she replies, smiling. “I never saw you as a sports car type of guy, BJ. Dad would be rolling in his grave if he knew what you were getting around in.”
Although confident his unrest has nothing to do with my choice of vehicle, I keep that snippet of information to myself. “What’s wrong with my ride? She’s—”
“Flashy, pretentious, and nothing like her owner.”
She has me there. I was one of those suckers car salesmen see coming from a mile out. She didn’t sell me on style and sophistication. I got caught on its safety features and good mileage, which, in case you’re wondering, aren’t as good as the salesman made out. What can I say? I’m a sucker for dirty blondes with big brown eyes.
“What kind of car should I be driving?” I could let our conversation end, but since it’s the first we’ve had that doesn’t involve canceled weddings and rapist siblings, I’m going to run with it.
Melody taps on her lips that are super glossy thanks to the high-hanging sun. “Something classic with a fit body that heats up when it’s revved with excitement.” Like an a-grade fucking loser, my cheeks inflame during her last comment. “Yes,” she mutters, looking pleased, “Just like that.”
When I reach a T-intersection, I indicate to turn left. We’ve been holed up at the hotel the gala was held at for the past three days. We only ventured out today so Melody could give an official statement to the Special Victims Unit at Saugerties PD. Although she could have done that at a precinct closer to our hotel, Melody is hopeful keeping things local will slow the rumor mill. She’s not ashamed about what happened to her, but she’d rather tell her boss in person than have him discover it from someone else.
I peer at Melody when she says, “You should take a right.”
“Yeah?” I sound hesitant. Justly so. Right only leads one way.
Back to our family ranches.
“Yeah,” she copies, nodding. “I’m sure Socks would appreciate a visit.”
Her smile turns blinding when I argue, “Socks doesn’t give a shit about anyone—”
