“Have you seen him?” he asked. “Does he know you’re here?”
“No,” she lied.
He didn’t believe her, but he didn’t call her on it. He looked toward the now-closed gate. “Do you really think that’s going to keep him out?”
“No,” Lauren said. She pulled the Walther out from under her shirt and held it up for him to see. “I think this will.”
His eyebrows lifted above the frames of his glasses. “Are you really going to use it?”
“Now or later?”
“If you want to shoot every guy you sleep with, that’s going to cut into your prospects for a second husband,” he pointed out.
“I don’t want a second husband,” Lauren managed to say around the hard knot of anger lodged in her throat. It made her angry that he would say such a thing. It made her angry that she had given him the chance to have occasion to say it. It made her angry that he didn’t seem to be intimidated or impressed by the fact that she had just pulled a gun on him.
“I guess not,” he said evenly. “You were the one with the balls in your family anyway. You’re the one still fighting for your daughter. I admire you for that, Lauren. I’m not the enemy. I came to you, remember?”
He had, though she had questioned his altruism. He had come to her to offer his services. He had read a recent article about her, about her continued determination to find her missing daughter despite the lack of movement from the Santa Barbara Police Department.
He was a private investigator. He could go places the police couldn’t go, do things the police couldn’t do. He was willing to help her—for a small fee, of course, to cover his expenses. If he found Leslie or found evidence connecting Roland Ballencoa to her disappearance, he would be able to claim the $50,000 reward—which was probably a far greater incentive than his admiration of her.
“Yes, I remember,” she said at last. “And now it’s time for you to go, Greg. I no longer require your services.”
“I don’t think this has anything to do with my professional services,” he said, stepping closer again. “I think you’re embarrassed for fucking the hired help.”
She did slap him for that. She backhanded him with her left hand, the gun still in her right. Her knuckles grazed the edge of his teeth, slicing the skin.
“Get off this property,” she ordered, seething, wishing now she had hit him in the mouth with the Walther so he would be the one bleeding instead of her. “Get out of my sight before I do something worse than hit you.”
He shrugged as if it didn’t bother him as much as the edge in his voice told her it did. “That’s all right. I get it. You want to tell yourself you didn’t enjoy it. We both know that isn’t true. That’s your conscience to wrestle with, Lauren. I don’t have any regrets.”
“Good for you,” she said. She had enough regret for both of them.
“I’m still willing to help you,” he said. “I can watch Ballencoa for you, make sure he doesn’t bother you or your daughter.”
For a price, or a fee, neither of which she was willing to pay, but Lauren hesitated at the mention of Leah. She was increasingly certain she didn’t need or want Greg Hewitt or anyone else standing between herself and Ballencoa, but Leah was another matter. She needed to keep her daughter safe.
At the same time, she hesitated to say Greg Hewitt was the man for that job. If she felt the need to have someone watch over Leah, she would call Mendez. If he couldn’t help her directly, he would know someone who could—and his choice wouldn’t be someone Lauren had defiled herself with.
“I don’t want you around my daughter,” she said.
“Jesus Christ, Lauren,” he snapped. “What do you take me for? I’m not the child molester in this scenario. I’m attracted to you. I don’t deny that. That doesn’t make me a criminal or a pervert. I’m not angling for a mother-daughter threesome, for Christ’s sake.”
Lauren looked away from him, sighing beneath the weight of a new layer of guilt for offending him. She might have apologized, but she wouldn’t. She could feel him watching her, waiting for her to blink. She didn’t.
“I’m not exactly sure why you came here,” he said at last. “I’m not exactly sure I want to know. I don’t have a good feeling about it. You’re walking around with a gun, for God’s sake.”
He tried to wait her out through another silence. She didn’t speak. He lifted his hands, ready to push away from her figuratively if not literally.
“I just want to help.”
“No, thank you,” Lauren said in the coolest, most businesslike tone she could manage. “I think it’s best if we don’t continue . . . in any way.”
He wasn’t a good loser. He made that little signature move with his jaw, like he was trying to chew a piece of leather with his back teeth, chewing back his temper. “Suit yourself,” he said. “But know that I’m available if you need me. . . . For anything.”
He walked away from her, found the button on the post to open the gate, and let himself out.
34
Lauren went immediately to her bathroom, stripped off her clothes, and got in the shower under the hottest water she could stand. She was breathing hard as the emotions built inside her—the guilt, the shame, the anger. She lathered her body from top to toe and scrubbed her skin with a loofah.
The residue of her memories was like a film of grime, like a layer of grease impervious to water and soap. No matter how much she rubbed or scalded, it wouldn’t come off. Her skin was as red as a lobster’s when she finally got out of the shower and pulled a towel down from the towel bar to wrap around herself.
The same scene played over and over in her head. An endless loop of filthy pornography. No matter if her eyes were open or closed, the movie played through her mind as if she had been a witness instead of a participant. No matter how disgusted it made her, she couldn’t look away.
She saw Greg Hewitt naked. She saw herself naked. She had drunk just enough to shave the edge off her distaste. He had drunk just enough to sharpen his appetite.
He closed his hands around her small breasts and kneaded them. He rolled her nipples between his fingertips, pinching so hard she cried out. He caught the sound with his mouth and filled her mouth with his tongue. He trailed his lips down her body, spread her legs wide and devoured her like a starving man at a banquet.
Her body betrayed her, reacting to his actions, growing hot and wet. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been touched. She was disgusted and ashamed and aroused all at once. And when he thrust himself into her, she felt a hot rush.
She could hear him moan, see the look of rapture on his face as he moved in and out of her hard and fast. She could feel the weight of him on top of her. She could feel the muscles of his back flex beneath her hands. She could feel the heat of him, smell his sweat.
He pulled out of her, his erection gleaming wet in the light of the lamp on the motel nightstand. As Lauren watched herself take him into her mouth, she almost gagged, remembering the feeling, remembering the taste, remembering the look on his face.
Determined to put a stop to the memory and the feelings it evoked in her body, she got back in the shower, blasting herself in the face with ice-cold water. She washed herself again, standing under the water until she was shivering uncontrollably, and she could think of nothing but getting dry and pouring a drink.
She kept her mind on each immediate task at hand—drying off, combing her hair and slicking it back; choosing underwear, putting it on; choosing pants and a top, getting dressed; going down the stairs and through the house to get to the kitchen; selecting a glass from the cupboard, ice cubes from the tray; pouring the vodka, adding a splash of tonic.