Past the administration building, through the garden, past a parking lot, all of it in silence storming over the brick walkways until we round the final corner and pass through a cluster of evergreen trees.
Mallory’s back is to us. She’s looking up at a shirtless Digby in the entryway of his residence building as he lets her out.
They say something and she starts down the sidewalk toward our building in the opposite direction. Digby catches a glance of Matty and me, adjusts his dick in his pants, and lets the door close in front of him, smiling at me like a fool.
“Don’t,” Matty puts an arm over my chest.
Black stars creep in from the corners of my eyes, my blood runs cold. If any of my internal organs or systems were working I would throw up. I should want to kill him, drag him out of that brick house and beat him within an inch of his life like I did the last time.
But I’m overwhelmingly hollow, a shell of a man standing here looking down on myself like an out of body experience.
“I’m sorry, man,” Matty mutters.
Twenty Five
“Take me back to the night we met, and then I can tell myself what the hell I’m supposed to do. And then I can tell myself not to ride along with you. I had all and then most of you, some, and now none of you” - Lord Huron, The Night We Met
Mallory
I cannot wash the filth off my body no matter how hard I scrub or how hot the shower water gets. I’ve been lather, rinse, repeating for an hour. That vile pig kept touching my leg, touching my arm, then he dumped a whole glass of red wine down my chest. I’m pretty sure he did it on purpose after I repeatedly told him I did not want his wine. The weasel probably roofied it. I refused to put his disgusting shirt that he offered on and wore Lennox’s Celeritas jacket home zipped all the way up to my neck like a nun.
I hate this so much I am sick to my stomach. I hate that I left Lennox in bed this morning, lying to him as he was being so sweet to me begging me to come back to bed. Making up meetings, secreting around, this is not who I am. But I have to do this, for both of us. I will get us through this if I have to take a million showers every day to get Digby’s stench off me.
Digby DuPraved suddenly decided he needs to launch new social media accounts and demanded I come to his flat. I tried meeting him in the admin building, the cafeteria, I tried flat out refusing.
And that’s when he showed me his true self, sending me copies of Lennox’s contract illustrating all the ways he could ruin him. If I played nicely for the next three months, the rest of the season, he said, Lennox would be out of his contract and free to drive for any other team without damage to his reputation. And without incurring the fifty-million pound fine that was laid out in black and white if he walked out of his contract.
Of course, Digby made sure to specify that he would not ruin my career either, as long as I did what was asked. He made it clear he could do that, too. I don’t even care about that anymore, but I won’t let him do this to Lennox again. I won’t let him take away everything Lennox has worked for since he was a little kid in those karting photos. I just need to get through these next three months and somehow not destroy my relationship with Lennox in the meantime. Keep Lennox away from Digby and not let him be provoked, that’s exactly what Digby wants, just like Sandra said. If I can do that, three months, ninety days, I’m out. My dreams will be intact and Lennox will be out, away from these sick bastards, and he can go to one of the other nine teams, wherever a seat is open. They’d be lucky to have him. He’s a world champion, for god sake.
He can race for a real team again, make his fans and his parents proud again. Even if I know his parents are proud of him no matter what, well, I understand how he feels all too well.
Ninety days, Mallory. You can do ninety days. You have to.
Getting dressed, I pull on a pair of tight jeans I know Lennox likes and his Talisker Distillery hoodie. I know it’s silly but he has a weakness for me wearing his clothes and I need all the help I can get. I spend more time on my hair and makeup, too. My eyes are puffy and bloodshot but, through the wonders of black mascara, I try to hide that.
As good as it’s going to get under such duress, I knock on his flat door. He doesn’t answer but maybe he’s still not speaking to me despite his text? I use my key and open his door, calling for him. Damnit, he’s not here.
Marching back into my apartment I find my phone and enter the dumb passcode I had to put on to keep Lennox from seeing all the godforsaken texts from Digby which he always kept just professional enough to not be incriminating, but slimy enough to make me queasy.
Douchebag: Ms. Mitchell, I don’t like to be kept waiting…
Douchebag: Great post, Mallory. I’d like to see you tonight about a different kind of post requiring your attention.
Douchebag: Thank you for a productive afternoon, Ms. Mitchell. Oh, you forgot your blouse in my flat. Whoops! ;)
The last one is from today, that pig. I’m so mad. I’ve screen-capped everything but it’s not going to do any good. Even Sandra said he has the whole board of Celeritas in his pocket.
Backing into my iPhone messages, there’s a blue dot next to “Lennox.” Thank god, he finally replied.
Lennox: Guess you were right, photos don’t lie.
There’s a picture attached and I blow it up and squint at it. It’s… me? With my shirt off. In Digby’s flat changing from my wine-soaked shirt into my jacket.
Oh my god, Digby took photos of me? The picture is taken from the door, but I closed it! That fucking pervert! And Lennox thinks… oh god, how could he not?
Mallory: Where are you? Please let me explain!
Three grey dots appear, then they’re gone. Then they appear again, hover endlessly, and then his reply comes through: