The Do It List (The Do It List #1) (35 page)

The cab turned down Stone Street, a quiet byway known for its posh eateries and bars. I paid the driver and dashed inside.
 

I took a moment to adjust to the dimly lit, moderately crowded watering hole. A hipster version of a gentleman’s club, the atmosphere exuded style and comfort.

“Gracie.” The familiar voice carried across the room. Troy stood at the bar with two other suits who appeared to be coworkers. Both men turned and gawked at me like I was a sizzling New York Strip Steak served up rare.

Something about this happy hour crowd smacked of Greek letters and rich white frat boys turned hedge fund managers—older now and infinitely better dressed.
 

Troy appeared to sense my unease and made quick introductions. “Gracie and I have some catching up to do if you don’t mind?”
 

I nodded. “Gentlemen.”
 

Troy found a table in the back and I ordered off the cocktail menu. “I’ll have the Arugula Vodka Martini.”
 

“And I’ll have the free range Wild Turkey,” He winked at the waiter. “Russell’s Reserve on the rocks.”
 

The moment our server left, a gulf of painful silence settled between us.
 

Finally, I spoke. “You said you had something urgent to tell me.”

Awkwardly, he continued to stare. “Jesus Christ, you are so damn beautiful.” His shrug reminded me of the cute boy I had kissed spontaneously at the spring prom. I was tempted to flirt and call him Surfer Dude like I used to and avoid confrontation.

Mentally, I shook off the effects of being so close and so alone with Troy. “If you don’t mind, I’ve got a few things I’d like to say.”

He remained calm, even stoic. “If you have to yell, break things, scream at me—go for it. If they throw us out, we’ll find a less civilized bar. Just do it, Gracie.”
 

His resolute gaze faltered somewhat. “But try not to cry. I swear to God—I’ll lose it.”
 

“I’ll cry a bloody fucking river if I feel like it.” My angry flare-up caused an awkward moment between us, and still he held my gaze.
 

“Sorry.”

I decided not to begin at the beginning, but with the aftermath, the stuff I could recall in detail.
 

“Eighteen months after the rapes I met a grad student. We both wanted to take it to a physical level, only I couldn’t do it. Every time things got close, the intimacy triggered a panic attack. I have almost no memory of what took place that night in the frat house, but my body remembered for years afterward.”

The waiter arrived with our drinks and Troy tipped his glass to mine. “Veritas, baby.”
 

 
I gulped vodka laced with peppery greens. Wonderfully refreshing—like the truth. “So, I went back into therapy. My first shrink came up with a diagnosis. ‘Residual, unresolved anxiety or PTSD.’ She encouraged me to keep trying to have sex with the idea that things would most likely normalize.”
 

His mouth formed a grim line. “And…did things normalize?”
 

I stared for long time before nodding. “I found another therapist, an older gentlemen close to retirement. I was his last new patient.” I smiled at the memory of Doctor Earl, hunched into his wing chair; legs comfortably crossed, eyes bright, peering at me over his reading glasses. “He renewed my faith in everything—men, mostly.”
 

 
“Gracie, I—”

“I’m not finished.” I glared. “Doctor Earl helped me turn it around. I’m a survivor, not a victim. But that doesn’t mean everything is resolved. The Rohypnol had a powerful effect on me. I barely recall anything, and when I try to remember I get panicky. I’m twenty-eight years old. I should be over the rapes, but how do I get closure if I can’t recall what happened?”
 

His gorgeous, hazel-green gaze softened. “So, that’s why you came tonight.”

I nodded. For the better part of the next hour, I detailed the after effects of the rapes, revisiting that hospital room at the medical center, and my father’s pursuit of the guilty frat boys, including Troy. “Since they found no DNA with your name on it, you got your plea bargain, and off you went to Princeton and Harvard Law.” I paused for another sip of arugula martini. “Had enough?”

“No.”

“Sure?”

“Rip me to shreds, Gracie.” He leaned closer and spoke softly. “Say whatever you have to say. All I ask is that one day, you can begin to forgive me.”
 

I had to give him this—he met every slight with a humble kind of courage, and with no excuses. As I spoke, I could not help but notice that he listened carefully, and when he spoke, there was a simple sincerity in his manner.
 

He appeared interested in whatever I could remember, and I found myself recalling bits and pieces of the frat party I hadn’t thought about in years. “It happened so fast. I didn’t realize anything was wrong until it was too late—the drug hit hard.”

I even shared details about my recovery that no one outside my family knew. “I was sick for five days, slept all the time—like the flu only much worse. I threw up the morning after and experienced these strange hot flashes. Really awful. Even after the drug left my system it continued to fuck with me—mostly my memory.”

Gradually the tension between us lessened, but the heartache of Troy’s massive betrayal stubbornly lingered on. I needed to hear his version of events, listen carefully to the timber in his voice, analyze his mannerisms.
 

I had read his testimony several times over, yet I still ached for answers. The kind of closure I could only get from him.
 

“What about you, Troy?”

“Are you asking me to relive my shame?”

 
After years of waiting, I wasn’t going to defer a minute longer. “And are you…ashamed?”

A MICROCLIMATE AS dangerous as a pre-tornado sky hovered over the table. Painful memories hung thick in the air “as suffocatin’ as Tallahassee in summer,” as Grandma Nona would say.

A bolt of Troy lightening struck as I shrugged out of my moto sweater,
 

“At trial, every one of your rapists said you wanted it—loved it.”
 

“Ruled prejudicial evidence as well as hearsay,” I argued. My cheeks burned, and I felt completely flummoxed by his comment. Where the hell was he going with this?

His stare bored into me, dark and piercing “I wanted to kill all three of them.” He exhaled a harsh, masculine-weary sigh. “I might have if Dad hadn’t shipped me out of state.”

Intrigued by his angst, I also wondered how much truth he was telling. “Do you have a girlfriend?”
 

I admit the question was odd and chronologically challenging. I suppose I momentarily panicked. Maybe I didn’t want to know what happened that night, after all.

He tilted his head. “Why do you want to know?”
 

“Just answer the question.”

“I date casually. No one special.” A bit fidgety, he cleared his throat and straightened. “You make me nervous.”

“I make you nervous?”
 

“I’ve had ten years to think about what I would say to you if I ever got the chance.” He shook his head. “So many practiced speeches, humble apologies. All the planning in the world couldn’t prepare me for this.”

I stretched my lips into something thin and flat. “Try.”

“Christ, Gracie, I could have ruined your life, but look at you. You’re so damn beautiful and brave and defiant.” He leaned across the table. “You know I tried to get a hold of you several times.”

I nodded, aware there had been requests. Frequently at first, then over the years his appeals had tapered off.

“Just tell me what happened that night.”

His eyes locked on mine. “A few days before the party, Darin, Chase and Ethan saw us together on campus. Suddenly my single most important pledge duty was to get the hot black chick to come to the mixer.” His gaze darkened. “I should have suspected something, but I didn’t really know these guys. The whole fraternity pledging thing was new to me. “

I leaned forward. “So you’re saying they planned to spike my drink, and distract you while they raped me?”
 

“I swear, Gracie when I handed you that drink I had no idea the bartender had slipped you a roofie.”
 

Everything about his speech, his slightly awkward body language seemed sincere. And his eyes were mesmerizing—as if he could actually see into the past. “I remember P. Diddy playing on the sound system. I Need a Girl. The fucking tune still haunts me. I also remember a booty rub.” He shook his head, adding a sheepish grin. “Hey, I was digging on it.”
 

Anxious heartbeats accelerated through my veins. “I remember feeling dizzy and really tired.”

He pushed back into the tufted leather booth. “We walked off the dance floor, and you collapsed in my arms.”
 

I wanted so badly to remember. “Sorry, I can’t—I still don’t recall much.”

“You fell back against me—your knees got wobbly and you had a hard time with your balance. I helped you to a couch in the den and left to get some water. I ran into one of my pledge masters who had me hauling giant bags of ice into the kitchen. When I returned to the den you were gone.”

So far, not much new in his story.
 

“I searched for you—finally found a room guarded by this giant linebacker dude. I got suspicious and asked around. One of the other pledges finally told me what he suspected. At this point, I’m still not sure it’s you in the room with those guys.”

“But you suspected it.”

He nodded. “I walked outside, dialed 911 and kept on going.”
 

 
“You left me at the party.”

Eyes spiked with anger and shame met mine. “If it makes you feel any better I’ve hated myself ever since.” His voice turned to gravel. “Gracie, I didn’t know what they were planning to do. I swear it. And if you never forgive me—”

“There’s nothing to forgive, Troy. Not if you’re telling the truth.” A part of me wanted to believe him. “At least you made the phone call.”

“Dad arranged for the plea bargain and ordered me to keep my mouth shut. He called in favors—got me into Princeton. The day after I landed in New Jersey I tried to contact you.”

Our waiter brought us a welcome second round of drinks. A pink Cosmo on the rocks for me. Troy stuck with his private reserve bourbon.

I had never heard his side of the story live and in person. Most of his recollection matched the police reports with some new details, like the music we had danced to. A few memories flashed and faded away, faceless shadows, accessible only in my dreams.

“I should have beaten down the door, not run away. As it is the police traced the call back to my phone.”

“Why didn’t you come forward? If what you say is true, you had nothing to fear from the police.”
 

“I received some pretty clear warnings from my fraternity brothers. Dad advised me to keep my mouth shut and lay low—a good and bad call on his part.”

“Everyone figured the university would call the rapes an unfortunate off-campus incident.” I mused aloud.

He nodded. “Then came word about the DNA tests, and a full-scale investigation. I was named as a co-conspirator. We were all in very hot water—with a DA out to make a name for himself.”

I resisted poking out his eyes. “Sounds like something an attorney would say.”
 

Troy grimaced. “Fuck, sorry about that. I just meant—“

“I know what you meant.” I exhaled a breath. It was a lot to take in all at once. And I needed time to process Troy’s version of events. “Your text indicated you had something urgent to tell me?”

He nodded. “Ethan Royce has served his prison term. He was released ten days ago.”
 

 
“I don’t understand. None of the rapists did much time, it’s been nearly ten years.”
 

 
He nodded. “He’s the last one to be released. Fourteen months into his sentence, there was an aggravated assault, and then two years later he stabbed a cellmate. Almost killed the guy.” Troy’s gaze searched for a reaction. “He claimed self-defense, but they added seven years to his sentence.”
 

I stared. “So, you’re saying I should be worried.”
 

“He threatened you at trial.” Troy’s tight-lipped grimace and steely eyes, reminded me of Bradley’s protective gaze. “I happen to know your father keeps tabs on Ethan. Has he called you recently?”

I shook my head. “How do you know all this—about my father and Ethan Royce?”

“I make it my business to know.” His gaze bored into me. “What happened in college was a huge error in judgment. I trusted people I shouldn’t have and you got hurt.”
 

“So Ethan becomes a convenient excuse to contact me?”

“Ten years ago, I was an unwitting party to a violent sexual assault. You could have been horribly, irrevocably injured.” Amber liquid swirled as he turned his glass, absently. “And I ruined my chances with a beautiful young woman I have always cared about.”
 

A sudden shift of eyes brought his smoldering gaze to mine. “Gracie, I have always loved you—“

“Troy don’t.” I stood up, pulse pounding. I couldn’t allow myself to hear anymore. Not now, or ever. I needed to flee the scene—run away as far and fast as I could from him.
 

“Gracie—”
 

“I—I can’t go there.” I dashed off in search of the ladies room. My cheeks burned and my brain was on fire, but somehow I found the door. I grabbed a towel and ran it under the faucet. Cold water instantly soothed my fevered brow and eventually I was able to focus clearly on the girl in the mirror.
 

A doe-eyed young woman stared back. Her strange gaze a combination of tears and panic. I wadded up the damp paper and tossed it away, along with any crazy thoughts about Troy Lambert.
 

My brain was about to implode. One confession after another turned out to be too much to deal with. And he had used the love word.