Sugar Rush (11 page)

My memory of seeing the folder in Beck's office as I was searching it slams into me. It had
SCHAEFER INVESTIGATION
written on the tab. “He was arrested?”

“She didn't want to report it at first because she couldn't be a hundred percent sure it was rape. She didn't want to ruin him if it was consensual, but I kept after her. She wanted to take a shower, get cleaned up, but I wouldn't let her. It was awful, knowing what happened to her and arguing with her to keep that fucker's semen inside of her so we could go to the police with it.”

I can't control the sudden wave of tears that fill my eyes. I know exactly what it feels like to have your rapist's semen on you, and it's the most disgusting thing you could ever imagine. Even now, nausea roils my stomach, threatening to curdle my Viennese coffee.

“What got her to change her mind?” I ask as I blink my eyes hastily.

“I felt the need to get our parents involved, hoping they'd help to encourage her to report it,” he says with a disdainful laugh.

And I know what he's going to say, so I say it instead with all the disgust I can muster. “Let me guess…they did the opposite. Told her not to report it because it would bring shame on the family. They made her feel fucking shame, didn't they?”

“Yup,” Beck says as he points a finger at me and nods. “But it only goes to show you they didn't know their daughter. Caroline took that as a challenge, and it actually strengthened her spirit. She and I always banded together against our parents, so the minute they staked their position in opposition to me, she was spitting nails and eager to report it.”

“What happened?”

“They picked up Michael Schaefer and interviewed him. He denied it, stating he dropped her off at her apartment. Didn't walk her to her door…just pulled up in front and then took off.”

“A real gentleman,” I grumble.

“It's why she chose him to go to my parents' party. He was a lowlife. But he wasn't a rapist.”

My eyebrows shoot up. I wasn't expecting that. “He wasn't?”

“He volunteered DNA and it excluded him.”

“So someone got her at her apartment?”

Beck nods, his lips flat and eyes glinting with menace. “We assume she was ambushed.”

“That's horrific. I'm just…I don't even know what to say.”

He doesn't respond, but picks off a piece of croissant and nibbles on it.

“So that's why Caroline has nothing to do with your parents,” I continue. “They didn't believe her; made her feel shameful, and she cut them out.”

“It's part of it,” Beck says, pulling off another piece of croissant. He waves it at me as he says, “But it more has to do with the fact that once Caroline found out she was pregnant, they wanted her to get an abortion.”

At this, my jaw drops open in astonishment. “Ally…was conceived by the rape?”

“She was,” he says, and his eyes grow soft at just the mention of her. “Caroline refused a morning-after pill at the hospital. She wasn't going to take the chance of killing a life if she was pregnant. My parents went berserk when they found out. Really tried to strong-arm her into aborting her own daughter, but Caroline would never, ever do that. They were wasting their energy and ensuring that Caroline would forever be gone from their life.”

“Your parents are absolute shits, Beck. I'm sorry to say that, but they really are.”

“Agreed,” he says with a wry smile. “And I hope you understand a little why that makes me the way I am. Why I flipped out when I thought you were lying to me. When I found you in my office. I just fucking hate deception and smoke and mirrors. If it's not my father hiding his paternity of JT, it's both my parents shaming Caroline for getting raped and wanting to keep it a secret. It's just…I can't fucking stand it.”

My eyes slide back out to the street briefly back to him. “I get it. I understand why you did what you did.”

“I'm still really sorry for it,” he offers.

“Water under the bridge,” I smile at him. “So I assume Caroline's rapist was never caught?”

Shaking his head, Beck leans back in his chair. “No. The police checked out surveillance videos in the area, but there wasn't anything that gave a direct line of sight to her apartment. You could see Michael Schaefer dropping her off in the parking lot and then driving off, but no angle provided a clear shot of her apartment door. No witnesses either. DNA didn't match up to any known criminals.”

My fingers play with my croissant, but I don't take any more of it. Instead, I put my hands in my lap and lean a little farther over the table. “Beck…will you tell Caroline what happened to me? I want her to know she's not alone in what it feels like not to know, and that maybe it's even worse knowing. I want her to be able to talk to me if she wants.”

Beck's smile lights his face and he leans forward as well, even farther than I do, raises from his seat, and places his lips gently against mine before saying, “Caroline adores you, and I'm sure she'd be greatly comforted to share in this with you. You are amazing, Sela.”

My sigh fans out across his lips before I press in and accept the kiss he had hovering there. When we pull back, I tell him, “Thank you for sharing that with me.”

“I'll share everything with you from now on,” he assures me. “And you'll do the same with me.”

“That I will. Everything.”

We're in a private box at the Wiener Staatsoper, otherwise known as the Vienna State Opera. Completed in 1869 under the Hapsburg monarchy, it's built in the neo-Renaissance style—whatever the fuck that means—by Josef Hlavka. He was a world-renowned Czech architect and contractor, and I'm sure I'll forget his name come tomorrow.

But I know it today because since we had tickets to attend the opera
Tosca
at the Vienna State Opera tonight, Sela insisted we do a behind-the-scenes tour of the opera house about five hours ago. I was not overly fond of this idea, because I hate opera, and I was already going to be subjected to it for about three hours tonight. But Sela was so excited, and because I most certainly do not hate Sela, and actually like her more than I've ever liked another woman in my life, I easily gave in to her ludicrous idea.

So in addition to touring Schönbrunn Palace this morning, we spent another two hours walking through this massive structure, being appropriately impressed when our tour guide pointed out the plinths and buttresses made of Wöllersdorfer and Kaisersteinbruch stone, or the hand-carved statues, or even the painted ceilings set amid gilded panels. I grudgingly admit it's an amazingly beautiful building, but I didn't expect to be spending five full hours of my life inside of it.

I suppose the only thing that makes it bearable is that Sela looks amazing tonight. We had not packed anything that would be worthy of an evening in a luxury box at the Staatsoper, but Linda worked magic and found us a boutique that could outfit Sela in a stunning, deep-red gown that sits off her shoulders and dips low into her cleavage. The top of the bodice is fitted, but the skirt portion is long and flowing and swishes beautifully when she walks. I was also able to get a tuxedo at the same boutique, and we were considered presentable as we walked out of the Grand Hotel Wein tonight to get into our hired Mercedes that would take us to the opera.

“Excuse me, Mr. North,” I hear from behind me, and I turn in my heavy chair with gold carved accents and plush red velvet cushions to see the private waiter assigned to our box. “Would you care for something to drink?”

So far, we haven't run into much of a language barrier. Schools here require English as a second language, and once you're identified as American, the Austrians are happy to practice their skills. The only issue we had was today at lunch; we chose a restaurant that apparently saw little in the way of tourists, as our waiter couldn't speak a lick of English. She ended up miming the menu to us, and I think I chose the rabbit, but I'm not quite sure.

“Do you want anything Sela?” I ask as I turn to look at her sitting next to me. She's leaning forward in her chair to gaze over the banister at the seats below us.

She tilts her face my way and just shakes her head with a sweet smile. “I'm good.”

“Nothing for us right now,” I tell the waiter, who nods and starts to back out of our box. “But maybe later.”

“Of course,” he says. “I'll check back.”

Once the door is closed, I lean forward alongside Sela and peer over. We didn't get a chance to see the interior from this perspective today on our tour. With people filing in and the chatter of eager patrons, it doesn't seem as vast and cavernous as it did when we were walking down below.

We're seated in the very middle balcony box on the third tier. As the venue curves in a broad horseshoe around the perimeter, we can't see anything to our immediate left or right, but can vaguely make out the people in the boxes on the ends. I suppose if we had those weird opera glasses, that would help.

“Isn't this place fantastic?” Sela murmurs as she rests her chin on her forearms, which are propped on the banister as she looks out over the crowd. “I'd never have been able to do something like this if I hadn't met you.”

She turns her face, chin still resting on her arms, and gives me a smile filled with gratitude and tenderness. It causes my breath to hitch, because it's the most expressive I've ever seen her, and she's more beautiful than I can ever imagine anything being.

Reaching out, I carefully cup my hand behind her neck, very aware not to mess up her long locks curled and pinned on top of her head. I squeeze and lean closer to her. “I'd gladly take the tour of this opera house every day for the rest of my life if it made you happy.”

Sela chuckles with amusement and her eyes shine even brighter. “Hated it that much, did you?”

“Not at all,” I tell her smoothly. “When I was bored, I just stared at your ass the entire time. So that means I very much enjoyed the tour today.”

“Pervert,” she says affectionately, and pulls back from the balcony. It causes my hand to fall away from her, but I still take a moment to let my fingers travel over her bare shoulder. It also fills me with no small measure of pride when she shivers from that touch.

The lights start to dim, and from the orchestra pit just in front of the stage, a long low note from a cello sounds. Looks like the show is getting ready to start.

My chair sits beside Sela's so closely it's an easy reach for me to grab her hand and pull it over onto my lap to hold. She gives me an acknowledging squeeze but sits up straighter in her chair, eager for the performance to start.

I lean casually to the right, into her space, and put my lips near her ear. “I think I forgot to tell you…but you look stunning tonight.”

Without taking her eyes off the stage, she whispers out of the side of her mouth. “You didn't forget. You told me once at the hotel and once in the car on the way here.”

“Huh,” I whisper back. “Well, I'm telling you again.”

“Shhh,” she admonishes me as the music starts…a slow build of violins, cellos, and flutes. “It's starting.”

I don't move back over, but lean just a tad closer until my lips brush her ears. “You know…it's so dark in here now, no one could see into this box. We could do all sorts of naughty things in here.”

I expect her to chastise me again, maybe even push me away in exasperation so I don't ruin this experience for her. Instead, her head swivels and I can see the flickering of the stage lights in her blue eyes as she stares at me intently.

“You're right,” she murmurs, twisting her hand from mine and placing her palm at the top of my thigh. Her fingers press in and she stares at me just a moment longer before turning her gaze back to the stage. “There are indeed all kinds of naughty things we can do in here.”

Turns out, the most naughty of things that Sela had envisioned included us fucking in that box. After the second intermission and after she shooed away the waiter who had come to check on us for a third time, and after the lights dimmed once again, Sela made her move.

Tugged me right up from my chair by a sure but delicate grip on my hand, and led me into the shadows of the back corner of the box, right where the door hinges meet the wall. As Cavaradossi sang “E Lucevan le Stelle,” I could only truly concentrate on the fact that Sela had dropped to her knees and was licking all around my cock. It wasn't just naughty…it was exquisitely sinful that we'd degrade the luxury of the Staatsoper in that way. My ears completely tuned out Puccini when Sela somehow managed to climb my body and sank her gloriously wet, tight pussy onto me. I merely made a quarter turn, which placed her back against the wall, put my hands under her ass, and proceeded to fuck her as hard as I could. Thank God the music was bold and the venue perfectly arranged so it infiltrated every nook and cranny of the place, because at one point Sela shouted out as she started to come. I had to slap a hand quickly over her mouth, but I was so goddamned turned on it wasn't long before I was groaning loudly with my face pressed into her throat as I unloaded within her.

Now that is the type of opera I could get behind seeing more often.

We had a nightcap in the hotel lobby after we returned, and while I couldn't imagine a night passing when I wouldn't be sunk deep inside of Sela's body, we actually both fell asleep almost immediately when we crawled under the covers. Not sure if it was the nonstop sightseeing we've done the last four days, the amazing food, or maybe just the adrenaline high of the fantastic fucking we did at the opera, but we both conked out quickly.

I know I slept deeply because I was fairly groggy when I woke up at almost four
A.M.
needing to take a piss. I did my business, washed my hands, and swished some mouthwash around my tongue and teeth, then gargling before spitting it out. I was tired and could easily fall back asleep, but I also felt awake enough that I could spend some quality time with Sela's body. We're on vacation; tomorrow is our last day before we leave for the States, and if I wake Sela and keep us both up for a few hours, there's nothing preventing us from going right back to sleep after.

Before heading back to bed, I grab my phone charging on the desk in our suite and quickly check my messages. JT has been texting me almost every day, demanding I respond to him.

The first one came the evening we left for Vienna.
“Dude…Linda said you're going to Vienna? That's a surprise. What's up with that?”

I ignored it, afraid my response would be something along the lines of,
“I know what you did you low-life piece of shit and I'm going to make it my mission to ruin you.”

He sent follow-up texts periodically over the next four days that got increasingly more angry.

“Hope your vacation is going well. Call me. Need to discuss some business.

Beck…I need to talk to you. I've got to give a thumbs-up or thumbs-down on the Nicholson-Meyers project. Call me.

Will you fucking call me? I need to talk to you asap.

I don't know what the fuck is going on, but I've about had it. Call me.”

I ignored every single one of these, as well as the few times he actually tried to call me. I merely instructed Linda to pass along to JT that I was in full-vacation mode and was not accepting any business calls or texts until I returned stateside. That must have done the trick, because it's going on almost forty-eight hours and I haven't heard anything from him.

I'm absolutely dreading my first day back in the office and I haven't a clue as to how to handle him. At this point, I'm thinking of working from home indefinitely to avoid him until I can figure a way to bring him down.

Tapping on my email icon, I scroll through the messages. All those from Linda I'll read tomorrow. One from JT looks like he just forwarded an article from
Investor's Weekly,
and although it probably has some helpful information, I delete the fucking thing so I don't have to even look at JT's name.

Sliding my finger down the screen, I stop on an email from Dennis Flaherty sent a little over an hour ago.

The subject line is simple and causes my heart to race:
I Hit Pay Dirt
.

The messages only has two words:
Call me
.

I shoot a quick glance at Sela, and assured that she's sleeping soundly, I walk into the bathroom and shut the door behind me. It's only seven
P.M.
back in the States, and the worst I'd be doing is interrupting his dinner, so I don't hesitate in dialing his number.

He answers on the second ring by saying, “Figured I'd be hearing from you fairly soon, although it's what…four
A.M.
there? You're up awful early.”

I don't bother to engage the polite small talk. “What did you find?”

Dennis is all business and gets to the heart of the matter. “Turns out drugs and abusing women isn't your partner's only addictions. Appears he's got a bit of a gambling problem.”

This does not surprise me, but I also don't know if this can help me. “How big of a problem?”

“He is in deep, and I mean way deep to some nasty people here in San Francisco who are backed by even nastier people in Vegas.”