“Food’s here.” Brent’s voice sounded strained.
“What were you reading?”
“I gave it to you, but you might want to eat first. It sure as hell ruined my appetite.”
Tony looked suspiciously at the binder as Brent continued, “Since I’m your personal counsel, we need to talk about it. As your friend, I don’t want to.” Brent grabbed a Styrofoam box and leaned against the wall.
With an overwhelming feeling of doom, Tony pushed the food aside and picked up the binder. Instantly, the words on the page assaulted him. They weren’t new—they weren’t a revelation—they were, however, supposed to be gone.
Three years ago, Marcus Evergreen informed him of Claire’s testimony. At that time he made deals and greased palms. This documentation was supposed to disappear. He paid quite a bit of money to get it lost in the shuffle. His pulse raced as he thought about promises he’d heard. Now—now not only was it present—it was in the hands of the FBI! Brent had just read it! Tony’s heart sank. Brent was right, his appetite was gone. He paced the confines of the small room and began to read:
January 26, 2012: Claire Nichols Rawlings:
I swear my recounting to be true, to the best of my knowledge. I met Anthony Rawlings March 15, 2010 in Atlanta, Georgia at a restaurant named the Red Wing. I was tending bar and he was a customer. That night I agreed to meet him at the bar for a drink. We had wine and talked for about an hour or so. I left the bar alone. The next day, he called the bar and asked me out on a date. Initially, I declined his offer. He was persistent and I agreed to a date the next night. I knew his name, but didn’t know who he was. I really didn’t.
On the 17th of March, he picked me up at the Red Wing after my shift. Earlier that day, I went grocery shopping. I think that’s significant. It proves I had no intentions of walking away from my life. I had milk in the refrigerator! After dinner, I agreed to go to his hotel room for dessert and some more wine. He was friendly and sensual. I do admit that I slept with him that night.
The next time I woke, I was in his home in Iowa. I didn’t know where I was. I remember very little about how I got to Iowa. There are flashes of memories—none of them are good. I remember crying and banging on the door. I remember begging for someone to let me out of that room. I remember being restrained.
Oh God, I remember him...
Tony’s vision blurred. He didn’t want to relive these memories. The ones of her smiling and happy, those he wanted. Not this. His stomach churned. Had that really been him? Had he truly done those awful things? Closing his eyes, he saw beyond the words. He remembered what Claire’s account never would—he recalled the hours the drugs took away from her:
Claire dozed peacefully on the king-sized bed, in the Presidential suite of the Ritz Carlton as Tony eased himself out of bed. Watching her closely, he emptied one vial of GHB liquid into her wine glass. He’d been told combining it with alcohol would accelerate his desired response. He poured more wine and sniffed. It didn’t smell different than normal wine.
Easing himself back into bed, he moved toward her radiating warmth. This was really it! He’d wanted this for so long and it was finally here. When Claire accepted this dinner invitation, she’d secured her fate. Truthfully, that future had been secured years ago, her acceptance of dinner only made it easier. Watching her sleep, he thought about the sex. Yes, that would be a great bonus. She could pay the Nichols’ debt and he could keep her busy. Running the tips of his fingers over her collarbone he sighed. This was so much better than he’d imagined.
Now, he needed to get her to Iowa.
She turned toward him and smiled a sleepy smile. “I really need to get back to my place. I don’t want to disrupt your schedule.” Claire started to move away as she added, “I’m sure you’re busy.”
Tony reached for her arm. Her soft skin and toned bicep flexed slightly at his touch. She was everything a twenty-six year old woman should be and more. He wanted to explore every inch of her, but first he had a mission to accomplish.
Despite his efforts to the contrary, his sexual desires were making themselves known.
Trying for his most sensual tone, he said, “I promise this isn’t a disruption, and maybe after some more dessert, we could have another glass of wine? There’s still some in the bottle from room service.” The dessert he had in mind wasn’t the remnants of Crème Brulée on the nearby table.
He waited for an answer. Though it wasn’t verbal, Claire laid her head back on the pillow and looked into his eyes. Tony didn’t want to see the trust in those eyes. They were too innocent and pure. In all his research, he’d never gazed into the depth of her emerald soul, and he didn’t want to do it now. He lowered his lips to her collarbone and tasted her skin, moist from earlier “dessert”. Her body arched as he tantalized the tips of her firm breasts. The knowledge that she’d soon be his for the taking—whenever and wherever he desired—threatened to push him to the brink too soon.
“What were you reading?”
“I gave it to you, but you might want to eat first. It sure as hell ruined my appetite.”
Tony looked suspiciously at the binder as Brent continued, “Since I’m your personal counsel, we need to talk about it. As your friend, I don’t want to.” Brent grabbed a Styrofoam box and leaned against the wall.
With an overwhelming feeling of doom, Tony pushed the food aside and picked up the binder. Instantly, the words on the page assaulted him. They weren’t new—they weren’t a revelation—they were, however, supposed to be gone.
Three years ago, Marcus Evergreen informed him of Claire’s testimony. At that time he made deals and greased palms. This documentation was supposed to disappear. He paid quite a bit of money to get it lost in the shuffle. His pulse raced as he thought about promises he’d heard. Now—now not only was it present—it was in the hands of the FBI! Brent had just read it! Tony’s heart sank. Brent was right, his appetite was gone. He paced the confines of the small room and began to read:
January 26, 2012: Claire Nichols Rawlings:
I swear my recounting to be true, to the best of my knowledge. I met Anthony Rawlings March 15, 2010 in Atlanta, Georgia at a restaurant named the Red Wing. I was tending bar and he was a customer. That night I agreed to meet him at the bar for a drink. We had wine and talked for about an hour or so. I left the bar alone. The next day, he called the bar and asked me out on a date. Initially, I declined his offer. He was persistent and I agreed to a date the next night. I knew his name, but didn’t know who he was. I really didn’t.
On the 17th of March, he picked me up at the Red Wing after my shift. Earlier that day, I went grocery shopping. I think that’s significant. It proves I had no intentions of walking away from my life. I had milk in the refrigerator! After dinner, I agreed to go to his hotel room for dessert and some more wine. He was friendly and sensual. I do admit that I slept with him that night.
The next time I woke, I was in his home in Iowa. I didn’t know where I was. I remember very little about how I got to Iowa. There are flashes of memories—none of them are good. I remember crying and banging on the door. I remember begging for someone to let me out of that room. I remember being restrained.
Oh God, I remember him...
Tony’s vision blurred. He didn’t want to relive these memories. The ones of her smiling and happy, those he wanted. Not this. His stomach churned. Had that really been him? Had he truly done those awful things? Closing his eyes, he saw beyond the words. He remembered what Claire’s account never would—he recalled the hours the drugs took away from her:
Claire dozed peacefully on the king-sized bed, in the Presidential suite of the Ritz Carlton as Tony eased himself out of bed. Watching her closely, he emptied one vial of GHB liquid into her wine glass. He’d been told combining it with alcohol would accelerate his desired response. He poured more wine and sniffed. It didn’t smell different than normal wine.
Easing himself back into bed, he moved toward her radiating warmth. This was really it! He’d wanted this for so long and it was finally here. When Claire accepted this dinner invitation, she’d secured her fate. Truthfully, that future had been secured years ago, her acceptance of dinner only made it easier. Watching her sleep, he thought about the sex. Yes, that would be a great bonus. She could pay the Nichols’ debt and he could keep her busy. Running the tips of his fingers over her collarbone he sighed. This was so much better than he’d imagined.
Now, he needed to get her to Iowa.
She turned toward him and smiled a sleepy smile. “I really need to get back to my place. I don’t want to disrupt your schedule.” Claire started to move away as she added, “I’m sure you’re busy.”
Tony reached for her arm. Her soft skin and toned bicep flexed slightly at his touch. She was everything a twenty-six year old woman should be and more. He wanted to explore every inch of her, but first he had a mission to accomplish.
Despite his efforts to the contrary, his sexual desires were making themselves known.
Trying for his most sensual tone, he said, “I promise this isn’t a disruption, and maybe after some more dessert, we could have another glass of wine? There’s still some in the bottle from room service.” The dessert he had in mind wasn’t the remnants of Crème Brulée on the nearby table.
He waited for an answer. Though it wasn’t verbal, Claire laid her head back on the pillow and looked into his eyes. Tony didn’t want to see the trust in those eyes. They were too innocent and pure. In all his research, he’d never gazed into the depth of her emerald soul, and he didn’t want to do it now. He lowered his lips to her collarbone and tasted her skin, moist from earlier “dessert”. Her body arched as he tantalized the tips of her firm breasts. The knowledge that she’d soon be his for the taking—whenever and wherever he desired—threatened to push him to the brink too soon.
