Grayson's Vow
Page 94
I took in a deep lungful of air. "My father . . . I don't even know the details. He's done something, made claims, tied it up somehow until they can be investigated."
"Okay, well, whatever claims he's made, they're baseless. That money's yours via the terms."
"I know," I said, my voice breaking. "But he can tie it up so long we're forced to start selling things just to survive. He can. He will."
Grayson swore harshly, running his hand through his hair.
"I'm so sorry. I underestimated him. I didn't think . . ."
Grayson stared somewhere beyond me, his expression an unreadable mask, quiet for so long, I wondered if he'd speak again at all. "Why was Cooper here and what were you talking about? You mentioned your father using me," he finally asked, bringing his gaze back to me. "What did you mean by that? Tell me."
"Cooper . . . he was just, I don't know, pretending to be concerned about me." I moved toward Grayson, putting my hands on his biceps and looking up into his face, using my eyes to plead with him. "Please try to understand what I tell you next. Please understand why I'm only telling you now. At first I didn't think it was necessary . . . and then the more time that passed . . ."
Grayson had grown stone still. "Spit it out, Kira. Now."
I turned away from him. "I told you how I interned for my father. I was frequently at his office. I'd overhear things . . ." I dropped my arms, turning back to Grayson who was listening intently. I shook my head, trying to find the right words. "My father, he's always had this idea that if he has influence with the local judges, he has the ultimate power." In that respect, he wasn't wrong. Truth didn't matter; facts didn't matter if you had the people who made the final decisions in your pocket. "He grooms them if he can, as in the case of Cooper, he curries favors, makes deals . . . He's done it for years." Power, it all comes back to power.
"What does this have to do with me?"
My eyes moved over the hard lines of Grayson's expression. "One night we were at his office after hours. I was finishing up a few projects as I waited for him. Judge Wentworth, the judge in your case," I glanced at him, but his expression didn't change, "came in to consult with my father on a few cases, one of which was yours."
"Go on," he said, a muscle ticking in his clenched jaw.
I expelled a long breath. "I was delivering a file and I only overheard enough . . . enough to understand. It was an election year, see, and my father advised him to throw the book at you—give you the ultimate sentence to send a message that he wasn't only tough on crimes committed by the poor and minorities, but that he also delivered harsh sentences to rich white criminals, as well. It's all a game—a game of perceptions and manipulating "facts". The players don't matter, the individual lives don't matter—anything can be twisted if you come at it from the right angle. You were a pawn. It's the reason you didn't get community service or a minimum sentence like your lawyer believed you would. Because of my father you went away for five years. And I . . . I never forgot your name. That day at the bank, I heard it and I remembered."
I finally braved a glance at Grayson's face, looking for understanding, but although his skin had paled, his expression held nothing except cold impassivity. "And then you decided to use me, too. It was all one big set up."
I furrowed my brow. "What? No, that's not . . . running into you at that bank was like fate and I—"
"You expect me to believe that now? Using me is exactly what you did." He laughed then, an ugly sound full of disdain. "What a perfect way to get back at your own father. Talk about the perfect vengeance. Marry the man he helped put in prison—no wonder he was so livid. Jesus, you're just like him, scheming, using people." I was suffocating, the room growing dark at the edges around me, as if I had tunnel vision.
Scheme? Use people? No, I didn't do that . . . did I? I admitted I did often come up with plans and ideas, but they weren't used to hurt people . . . Suddenly I was sick and confused. I put my hand on the edge of his desk, steadying myself. Did I? Is that what I did? Had I done that to Grayson?
I shook my head in denial. "I didn't use you, Grayson, I wanted to try to make it right. I thought—"
"Make it right?" he yelled, startling me. "How have you made anything right?" He laughed again, running his hand through his hair and grabbing a handful before bringing his hand down again. "Was that the plan all along? Use me to get the money and then take it back somehow? Holy fucking God. You're all liars. And look where you've left me—penniless, shackled to a schemer, and now having to contend with your father again, the man who once ruined my fucking life!" His face had gone from pale to flushed, and his voice shook as he yelled.
"Grayson," I said, holding out my hand and moving closer, "of course I didn't plan it. You're seeing this all wrong. After what your father did, I can understand, but you're looking at this through the eyes of someone who's just been hurt very badly. Please, if we come together—you and I—we can think of something that will—"
He stepped back away from me, the look on his face full of disgust. I dropped my hand. "Come up with something? Still conniving, Kira? Just stop, I can't take anymore. It's making me sick. You make me sick. I'm just sick of it all—the manipulations, the lies, the half-truths."
"Okay, well, whatever claims he's made, they're baseless. That money's yours via the terms."
"I know," I said, my voice breaking. "But he can tie it up so long we're forced to start selling things just to survive. He can. He will."
Grayson swore harshly, running his hand through his hair.
"I'm so sorry. I underestimated him. I didn't think . . ."
Grayson stared somewhere beyond me, his expression an unreadable mask, quiet for so long, I wondered if he'd speak again at all. "Why was Cooper here and what were you talking about? You mentioned your father using me," he finally asked, bringing his gaze back to me. "What did you mean by that? Tell me."
"Cooper . . . he was just, I don't know, pretending to be concerned about me." I moved toward Grayson, putting my hands on his biceps and looking up into his face, using my eyes to plead with him. "Please try to understand what I tell you next. Please understand why I'm only telling you now. At first I didn't think it was necessary . . . and then the more time that passed . . ."
Grayson had grown stone still. "Spit it out, Kira. Now."
I turned away from him. "I told you how I interned for my father. I was frequently at his office. I'd overhear things . . ." I dropped my arms, turning back to Grayson who was listening intently. I shook my head, trying to find the right words. "My father, he's always had this idea that if he has influence with the local judges, he has the ultimate power." In that respect, he wasn't wrong. Truth didn't matter; facts didn't matter if you had the people who made the final decisions in your pocket. "He grooms them if he can, as in the case of Cooper, he curries favors, makes deals . . . He's done it for years." Power, it all comes back to power.
"What does this have to do with me?"
My eyes moved over the hard lines of Grayson's expression. "One night we were at his office after hours. I was finishing up a few projects as I waited for him. Judge Wentworth, the judge in your case," I glanced at him, but his expression didn't change, "came in to consult with my father on a few cases, one of which was yours."
"Go on," he said, a muscle ticking in his clenched jaw.
I expelled a long breath. "I was delivering a file and I only overheard enough . . . enough to understand. It was an election year, see, and my father advised him to throw the book at you—give you the ultimate sentence to send a message that he wasn't only tough on crimes committed by the poor and minorities, but that he also delivered harsh sentences to rich white criminals, as well. It's all a game—a game of perceptions and manipulating "facts". The players don't matter, the individual lives don't matter—anything can be twisted if you come at it from the right angle. You were a pawn. It's the reason you didn't get community service or a minimum sentence like your lawyer believed you would. Because of my father you went away for five years. And I . . . I never forgot your name. That day at the bank, I heard it and I remembered."
I finally braved a glance at Grayson's face, looking for understanding, but although his skin had paled, his expression held nothing except cold impassivity. "And then you decided to use me, too. It was all one big set up."
I furrowed my brow. "What? No, that's not . . . running into you at that bank was like fate and I—"
"You expect me to believe that now? Using me is exactly what you did." He laughed then, an ugly sound full of disdain. "What a perfect way to get back at your own father. Talk about the perfect vengeance. Marry the man he helped put in prison—no wonder he was so livid. Jesus, you're just like him, scheming, using people." I was suffocating, the room growing dark at the edges around me, as if I had tunnel vision.
Scheme? Use people? No, I didn't do that . . . did I? I admitted I did often come up with plans and ideas, but they weren't used to hurt people . . . Suddenly I was sick and confused. I put my hand on the edge of his desk, steadying myself. Did I? Is that what I did? Had I done that to Grayson?
I shook my head in denial. "I didn't use you, Grayson, I wanted to try to make it right. I thought—"
"Make it right?" he yelled, startling me. "How have you made anything right?" He laughed again, running his hand through his hair and grabbing a handful before bringing his hand down again. "Was that the plan all along? Use me to get the money and then take it back somehow? Holy fucking God. You're all liars. And look where you've left me—penniless, shackled to a schemer, and now having to contend with your father again, the man who once ruined my fucking life!" His face had gone from pale to flushed, and his voice shook as he yelled.
"Grayson," I said, holding out my hand and moving closer, "of course I didn't plan it. You're seeing this all wrong. After what your father did, I can understand, but you're looking at this through the eyes of someone who's just been hurt very badly. Please, if we come together—you and I—we can think of something that will—"
He stepped back away from me, the look on his face full of disgust. I dropped my hand. "Come up with something? Still conniving, Kira? Just stop, I can't take anymore. It's making me sick. You make me sick. I'm just sick of it all—the manipulations, the lies, the half-truths."
