Page 91 of It's One of Us
Lindsey pushes past her brother into the room. Her hair has come down from its bun and floats in white waves around her face.
“You guys, there’s a bunch of media vans out front.”
Park points a finger at her. “That’s your fault, little sister. You talked us into your lawyer friend, who managed to hook us up with the one reporter in town who decided to dig into my life and ruin it. I think I’ll let you pay for Lucía’s services. I sure as hell am not.”
Lindsey face falls, wilting under her brother’s attack, and Olivia honestly doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“Lucía says we were ambushed and is already making noises about suing Channel Four. You want her to stay on your side for now, Park. She’s going to fix this.”
“How?” he roars, banging the side of his fist against the door. “Suing them won’t fix this. We’re going to lose everything because you talked me into sitting down with a reporter.”
Lindsey is nearing her limit; Olivia recognizes her best friend is about to blow. Park always has been able to push his sister’s buttons.
“We had very clear parameters, in writing, about how this interview was going to proceed, and the reporter broke them. She’s in major trouble from all sides.”
“It’s too late. You’ve ruined everything!”
Perry is up and across the room in a heartbeat, wrestling Park into the hall.
“Stop it. Stop shouting at her. That’s not helping.”
“Oh, and you are? Here to help,brother? I bet you’re the one who talked to the reporter in the first place. Told her all those things about our childhood so she could embarrass me live, on air, ruin my reputation, ruin our lives! With me out of the way, you can sweep in and steal Olivia from me. That’s all you’ve ever wanted anyway, isn’t it, Perry? Can’t stand losing her, so you take me down—”
The diatribe is interrupted by the heavy, wetthunkof a fist connecting with flesh, and there is mayhem in the hallway. Lindsey rushes out to help, and Olivia shuts her eyes and leans back into the pillow.
She doesn’t know who hit whom, though she assumes it was Perry smashing his fist into Park’s mouth to shut him up. She doesn’t blame him; she would have too under that blistering attack. Park’s weird possessiveness of her hasn’t reared its head for so long, but it isn’t fair to blame Perry for everything. He hasn’t even been in the States, much less have had time to correspond with a reporter. She’s not happy with Lindsey and Lucía either, but taking it out on Perry is counterproductive.
A small thought wanders into the back of her mind. Howdidthe reporter find out about these things?
Park comes back into the bedroom, fuming.
“Pack your things,” he says tightly. “We’re leaving.”
She opens one eye, then the other. Park’s face is a mottled red, and he has the beginnings of a black eye.Spot-on there, Hutton, she thinks with an internal smile.
“Park. You’ve been drinking. I’m hopped up on painkillers. We aren’t going anywhere. You want solitude, kick Lindsey and Perry out. You need to settle down.”
“I already did kick them out. The damn lawyer, too. But we need to get away, Olivia. Press are all up and down the street, and they are baying for blood. My blood.” His voice is shaking, full of rage and pain and horror. She feels even worse for her transgressive thoughts.
“Well, you certainly can’t drive, and neither can I. So lock the door, shut off the lights, and come to bed. We’ll fix things later.”
“It’s barely noon.”
“I know. But I can’t stay awake a moment longer, and you need to sleep it off.”
He stares at her for a moment, then surprises her by bursting into noisy tears. Park never has been a good drunk.
“Park?”
“It’s just not fair,” he gasps out, coming to the bed and plopping down, hard enough to jolt her. She lets out a squeak of pain that he doesn’t notice. He lies by her side and swipes at his eyes. “I can’t believe Perry hit me.”
“He was defending Lindsey.”
“He was defending you, the asshole.” The heat has gone from his recrimination. The tears have stopped, too. He smells of Scotch and man, and she is as comforted as she is repelled. It’s been a thing with them lately, something in her chemistry that doesn’t enjoy his scent anymore. Hormones. Maybe some weird, basic, ancient biological response to the miscarriages; her body somehow knows he can’t provide her an undamaged embryo and doesn’t want her to couple with him again. The urge to procreate is so ingrained she wouldn’t be surprised to learn this biochemical reaction was a verifiable medical phenomenon.
“We need to get away,” he says again, softer now. “I can’t think straight with all this noise. I need to keep you safe. Whoever has been breaking in here—”
“Your son,” she interjects. “Your son, not whoever. You need to start realizing there is no escaping. Not really. We have to stay, and we have to deal with things. But for now, I need to sleep.”
