Drop Dead, Gorgeous Part 1

Drop Dead, Gorgeous.

J. D. Mason.

Dedicated to those who just can't let bygones be bygones.

And So It Goes ...

The Bible teaches us to turn the other cheek-forgiveness-and to love thy neighbor. It also teaches us another lesson-an eye for an eye. At the end of Beautiful, Dirty, Rich, the first book in this series, it looked like our girl Lonnie had come to the end of the road at the hands of lover boy, Jordan Gatewood. But as I was writing that scene, something inside me struggled against letting Lonnie Adebayo go.

A voice in my head screamed, "No! Not Lonnie! Let it be anybody else, but don't kill off Lonnie!"

I liked her, and the thought of losing her so soon, before I'd really gotten a chance to know her, left me feeling as if I was saying good-bye to someone who could've been my friend if only we'd had more time together.

Drop Dead, Gorgeous is the opportunity to do just that. It gives me a chance to know Lonnie and what makes her tick. So turn the page and let's see what she's working with.

Not the Place I'm Supposed to Be She was raw meat; a muddy puddle of her former self, but Lonnie Adebayo was alive. Her eyelids were so heavy, and Lonnie wanted more than anything to close them and to rest, but if she did that ... if she did that, she'd die. Or, she wouldn't, and he'd come back. Jordan would come back and ...

"Her blood pressure is still high," someone said. "You're alright, Lonnie. You're safe now." Lonnie felt her head being stroked.

"No!" she heard herself say, as she cowered away from the person.

Her voice didn't sound like her voice. Her skin, her body-it all felt foreign to her. It wasn't a part of her. Her body wasn't her own. Not anymore.

Lonnie was surrounded by voices, and light, and sounds that came at her too quickly, too loudly. Clamoring noises, the sounds of machines, of people, all talking over one another. The light hurt her eyes. Dear G.o.d! Could someone please turn off the light? She tried to raise her arm to shield her eyes from it, but the pain shot up her arm and through her neck like knives. Lonnie cried out.

"Stop it," a woman said abruptly. "You need to stop!"

"Who...?" Who was that woman? Perfume. It smelled ... pretty. Lonnie tried to turn her head to where she thought the voice may have come from.

"Lie still, Lonnie," someone else said. Another woman. How did she know Lonnie's name?

Who told you my name? she wanted to ask, but when she tried, fits of coughing took her over.

"Drink," she was told. A plastic cup was pressed to her lips, which felt like they'd been injected with novocaine. The cold water soothed her swollen throat. "The police are on their way. You need to tell them who did this to you."

"Who called the police?" another woman asked.

"It's protocol in occurrences of rape. A counselor's on her way too, Lonnie. Her name is Nancy. She's very nice, and she'll help you through this." A woman with short blond hair pressed her warm hand to Lonnie's shoulder. "Try and get some rest."

The police. Yes. Yes, Lonnie needed to ... to tell the police what he'd done. He needed to be arrested, and to have to stand trial for this. The police were coming and Lonnie would tell them everything, every nasty, filthy detail of what he did to her, and how she begged him to stop-how she told him over and over again that he was hurting her ... killing her! The police would go after him. They'd find him, and it wouldn't matter who he was. He'd committed a crime. He'd beaten her nearly to death, and if it weren't for her ... if it weren't for the woman with the perfume- "The police can't know," the woman hovering over Lonnie said in a hushed tone. "You can't tell them."

"W-what ... the ... h.e.l.l-" Lonnie struggled to say.

Of course the police needed to know. He needed to be punished. He needed to go to jail.

"You're alive, Lonnie," the woman whispered. The fragrance she wore wafted through her long hair, brushing against Lonnie's cheek. "Be glad you're alive and keep your mouth shut."

Lonnie forced her head back and forth. "No," she managed to say again. Lonnie's vision was so blurred that all she could see were the outlines of images. "I'm ... tellin' ... everythin'!"

"You do that and you'll be making the biggest mistake of your life," the other woman threatened. "You know how he is, Lonnie. You know what he'll do."

Was this b.i.t.c.h crazy? Lonnie had been brutalized. The police were on their way, and Lonnie wouldn't let them leave until they knew exactly what Jordan Gatewood had done to her. Until he was behind bars-until the whole world knew what that b.a.s.t.a.r.d had done to her-Lonnie would be looking over her shoulder. She'd be waiting for him to walk through the door of this hospital room, or any room where she could be, expecting him to find her and to finish what he'd started. He walked out of that house believing that Lonnie never would. And she'd be d.a.m.ned if she'd let him get away with what he'd done.

"Who do you think they'll believe?" that woman continued. "He's a Gatewood. He's the Gatewood, and ultimately, it'll be your word against his. Who do you think they'll believe? Why would a man like Jordan Gatewood put his hands on you? Why would he be bothered with a woman like you? What are they going to think, Lonnie?"

She wasn't serious. Lonnie couldn't believe what this woman was saying to her, especially now, especially when she was the one who walked into that house and found Lonnie lying there on the floor, naked and bleeding. Men had no right to put their hands on women. He had no right to put his G.o.dd.a.m.ned hands on her!

"He'll be livid when he finds out what you've done. And he'll find you, Lonnie. They'll set bail, and Jordan has the money. You know he'll pay it, and he'll know that you turned him in, and he'll know you're alive, and he'll find you. He'll know you're alive. He won't stop coming after you."

"What-" A lump swelled in the back of Lonnie's throat. "Why ... are you sayin' ... this?" she asked bitterly. "Why?"

This woman had helped her. She'd practically carried Lonnie to her car, poured her into it, and gotten her to the hospital. And she'd stayed by Lonnie's side the whole time. She could've left her here, but she didn't. She had helped her, so why ... why was she saying these things?

"Because I know him. You know him. And you know that if he knows you survived, he'll come after you. You know that he won't stop until he finds you, and you know that he will kill you. Maybe not with his own hands, but you can't beat him. You can't win, Lonnie. You know this. Be smart. Think! You know what I'm saying is true, Lonnie. You know what'll happen. You know."

Lonnie was afraid. She could not recall ever having this kind of fear before in her life, but it was here, blanketing her, and the realization took her breath away. Mental images of his fist slamming into the side of her face came rushing back to her. The searing agony of him violating her from behind, not with himself, but with something- He'd thrown her across the room, and Lonnie remembered the crashing sound of the table, splintering into pieces underneath her as she landed on top of it.

"... he'll know you're alive, and he'll find you. He'll find you. He won't stop coming after you."

Jordan Gatewood wouldn't spend one moment of his life in jail. He'd call some high-powered attorney of his and have him waiting for him at the precinct before Jordan even climbed out of the back of the police car. And he'd know that it was Lonnie who had reported him. He'd know that he hadn't killed her, and he'd be free.

"You have your life," the woman said emphatically. "Your life, Lonnie. Take it and run before it's too late."

The woman had been kind enough to dial the number for Lonnie, and she held the phone to Lonnie's ear. When Phillip answered, Lonnie finally broke down sobbing, relieved to hear his voice, and desperate for him to come for her.

"It's me," she said weakly. "Phi-ip, it's Lonnie."

"Lonnie? What's wrong? What time is it?"

Hot streams of tears burned down the sides of her face.

"He'll know you're alive. He won't stop coming after you."

"C-come get me?" she pleaded, praying that he would come for her and that he would hurry before Jordan somehow found out that Lonnie didn't lay dying or dead in that house and that she was here. "Come get-"

"Where are you, sweetheart?" he demanded in that British accent of his she loved so much. "I'm on my way, Lonnie, but you have to tell me where you are!"

The other woman pulled the phone away from Lonnie's ear.

"She's at Mount Sinai Hospital in Fort Worth. It's just off..."

Lonnie fixed her blurred gaze on the door of her room, half expecting Jordan Gatewood to walk through it, praying feverishly to herself that he wouldn't.

Drop Dead, Gorgeous He's Like My Freight Train "Do you know who did this to you, Ms. Adebayo?"

Eventually she managed to answer the policeman standing at the foot of her bed. "No." She shook her head.

"Can you describe him?"

Lonnie could describe every inch of Jordan Gatewood, down to the birthmark on his thigh. But she swallowed. "No."

"He'll find you ... and he'll come after you."

The next morning a different officer came to Lonnie's room, a woman. "Where were you when you were attacked? Had you ever seen this man before? What was he wearing? How tall was he?"

The woman shot off questions at Lonnie like bullets and Lonnie responded the same way. "No. I don't know? I don't remember."

Just when it seemed that the policewoman was beginning to lose her patience, the cavalry arrived. Phillip Durham, the man she'd spoken to the night before on the phone, burst into the room like the hero Lonnie had always suspected he was. He muttered something to the officer and to the nurse who'd followed him into the room, then pulled out his wallet and handed a business card to the officer. The female officer sheepishly handed him back his card, while the nurse turned a strange shade of red and left the room. The female officer followed.

"You called?" he asked, staring concernedly at Lonnie. "So here I am."

Phillip didn't bother with formalities. He didn't ask any questions. A few minutes after Phillip arrived, an orderly pushed a wheelchair into her room. Phillip lifted her off the bed, poured her into it, and wheeled her out of that hospital to a stretch limo parked out front. He put her inside and slid in next to her.

"What was that you showed that policewoman?" Lonnie asked.

"A business card," he responded casually, pulled it out of his wallet, and handed it to her. "A man I met at a party in Prague gave it to me."

She read the card: MARTIN WILKINS.

a.s.sOCIATE DIRECTOR.

Central Intelligence Agency, European Division

They flew to Colorado in his private plane.

"We have a long drive ahead of us," he explained to her, as he poured her into the backseat of his SUV, covered her in chinchilla blankets, and buckled her seat belt for her. "You try and get some rest."

He wasn't handsome, but his mannerisms had always been his most attractive feature. Phillip was Mick Jaggerugly, not as thin, but lean, with a swimmer's build and wide angular shoulders. He wore his silver hair cut close because he was balding, and most of the time, he dressed like he was some flower child from the sixties. But he was graceful, romantic, and careful with how he touched her. Phillip was thoughtful to a fault, accommodating, and filthy dirty rich, although you wouldn't know it from looking at him. He didn't wear his money like a badge because it was a part of who he was already, like skin.

The two of them had been lovers on more than one occasion, with the understanding that they would never do well together as a couple. He was always there for her, though; no matter what time of the day or night she called, he was the one she had always been able to count on. He was the one who never judged her, who understood exactly who she was and accepted her for it. Phillip loved her more than any man ever had or could, and Lonnie loved him.

Phillip had brought her to his chteau in Vail. Tonight he'd managed to coax her out of her room to actually sit down at the table with him for dinner, but Lonnie had no appet.i.te. She was empty inside, void of that quality that had made her who she'd once been. That's what Jordan had stolen from her. Not p.u.s.s.y. Not even pride; but he'd taken her soul and raked it under his heel.

After dinner, Lonnie went into the living room and curled up on the sofa in front of the fireplace. Several minutes later, Phillip came and sat down next to her, handing her a gla.s.s of sherry.

"I thought only old white women drank sherry," she'd teased him once.

"If it's good enough for old white women, then it's certainly good enough for me," he quipped, in a staunch British accent that he turned on and off when he chose.

The two of them sat quietly next to each other, just watching the fire. The house was so quiet, she could hear him breathing. Lonnie listened to the sound of the fire crackling, to Phillip sipping and swallowing his sherry. Privately she hoped that Phillip would be as content as she was and not say a word.

"While you're sitting there, feeling sorry for yourself, I'd like to tell you a story."

s.h.i.t! she thought, exasperated.

"Oh, don't roll your eyes at me, young lady," he fussed. "It's been six months, Lonnie, and you've hardly said two words to me since I brought you here. At the very least, you could humor me and listen to what I have to say."

Lonnie used to love the sound of his voice. Phillip's voice was heavy, deep, rumbling almost. But now, it grated on her nerves.

"I'm listening," she said, sighing.

He paused for effect, and then began telling his tale, in dramatic, old-English fashion as only Phillip could.

"Once upon a time," he started, staring earnestly at her, "there was a beautiful princess."

Lonnie shot a hateful glance at him. If he thought he was being funny, he was dead wrong. There was nothing beautiful about her anymore. Jordan had slit open half of her face, and left her blind in one eye. Lonnie now walked with a limp that doctors said would probably never go away.

"f.u.c.k you," she snapped.

But Phillip continued on, unabated. "This princess could have any man she wanted, but she chose the wrong one, and he hurt her, terribly."

Lonnie sat her gla.s.s down on the table and started to get up, but he grabbed hold of her wrist and held her next to him on that sofa.

"He left her wounded; inside he left her hollow and a shadow of whom she once was." Phillip pulled her closer to him, to his chest, and he draped his arm over the back of the sofa behind her. "She was afraid," he continued, "when she used to be fearless. She shrank inside herself, and refused to come out and let the world see who she was and how beautiful she still was."

Phillip was a romantic. And he was silly. And Lonnie felt like all she wanted to do was cry, because he was spot-on. She didn't know who she was anymore, and she was afraid to even set foot out of this house. For the last six months all she'd wanted to do was curl up and disappear, and that was all she had done.

"She was afraid of this man, the one who had been so cruel to her, because he was a king, and he ruled over a vast kingdom filled with infinite resources and all of his subjects worshipped him," he announced in grand style. "In her mind, there was nothing she could do to make him pay for the horrible things he'd done to her. He had committed a terrible crime, and the poor princess would have no choice but to live with the humiliation, the degradation."

By this time, Lonnie was crying. "Stop it, Phillip," she sobbed, helplessly. Why the h.e.l.l was he saying these things to her? "Just ... stop."

"But one day, the beautiful princess met a wizard," he said, pulling a copy of Forbes magazine from in back of the pillow behind her, and placing it on her lap.

Lonnie stared at the picture of Jordan, looking posed and poised on that cover. Bile rose in the back of her throat, and she looked at Phillip, shaking her head.

"What are you doing? Why are you doing this?"

She started to get up again, but he held her in place, staring into her eyes with those steely gray eyes of his. Phillip picked up the magazine and held it to her face, forcing her to look at it and to read the caption.