Chapter Eleven

Then.

The pickpocketing turned into larceny. We ended up breaking into places, Tom, Lawrence and I. Mainly big stores and corporate chains. People who wouldn’t want the hassle of pressing charges even if we got caught.

At some point, we graduated and became small-time drug dealers. Mr. Moruzzi was a prolific criminal, with many people working under him. On the surface, he was a successful businessman, with several hotdog stands across Chicago. But the amount of dirty money that passed through our hands was ridiculous.

First, we were the errand boys, fetching and picking up small parcels. Then, around junior high, we became the dealers. We never touched anything. That was Mr. Moruzzi’s rule. He didn’t want any druggies under his roof.

To compensate for our shitty lives, which consisted of going to school, scoring excellent grades to please CPS, then working ourselves to the bone for him (zero commission, thanks for asking), he paid us with a questionable currency—women.

Specifically, high-end prostitutes. I think he wanted to distort our view on love and marriage. There was no need for him to go the extra mile. One look at his miserable marriage to the therapist—Mrs. Moruzzi—who was hardly home, and had a lover who lived in Canada where she visited frequently, did the job.

Whenever Mrs. Moruzzi was away, he took his anger out on us. Beating was out of the question. We were all bigger and stronger than he was. Instead, he made us fight each other. For food. For money. For women.

Over the years, Lawrence, Tom, and I suffered broken ribs, cracked bones, fractured fingers, and so on, all just to survive, while Moruzzi watched on, smugly enjoying the show.

It was clear we functioned as a workforce for him. It was also clear he was never going to give us a chance to become anything more than his little pawns.

When Lawrence was seventeen and I was fifteen, he started to become antsy.

“We need an out from Moruzzi. What do we do?”

I was the first one to bring it up.

“We kill him.”

Ransom was right.

I had to get a head start on the speech if I wanted to know it by heart by the time Craig and Hera were wed.

I gathered the papers and skimmed the words, my pupils frantic, my heart pounding.

I wasn’t illiterate. I knew how to read. It was just hard to make sense of the words sometimes. It took me an excruciatingly long time to read a simple paragraph. What should have been seconds, usually required minutes for me, sometimes hours, and by the time I reached the end, I oftentimes forgot the content of the text I was reading.

For instance, I would read “light” as “might” or “white” as “what” and “sound” as “ground”. Words mixed together, blending into one another on the page, and I had to concentrate until my brain hurt to read one simple article.

Which was why I opted out of reading whenever possible.

Well, I didn’t have the luxury of escaping reading right now.

I read out loud. It was a trick Mrs. Archibald, one of my teachers, had taught me in second grade.

“Things will make more sense if you speak the words out loud.”

Turned out she was right, although my parents politely asked her not to butt into their business—and my education—when she gave them a call about my struggles with reading.

Now, fourteen years after Mrs. Archibald had been let go for overstepping (I never got over the guilt, and never forgave my parents for this), I stood up and paced my hotel room, trying my hand at reading the text typed out for me, no doubt by one of my father’s speechwriters.

“Dog…goom…g…” I rubbed at my forehead. Cold sweat formed over my skin. “Goo—good evening very…everything…eve…everyone.” I stopped. Closed my eyes. Took a deep breath. “Good evening, everyone.”

One sentence. That was a start.

See? It’s not so bad. Only forty more to go.

I had a decent memory. I could do it. I repeated the words out loud, inking them to my brain.

“Good evening, everyone.”

“Good evening, everyone.”

“Good evening, everyone.”

Simple enough. Then I continued. “Lew…Let’s…we…well…welc…ome? Welcome t…t…to…”

I stopped, flinging the papers onto the bed, letting out a frustrated growl. Why couldn’t they record me the speech? They knew I could quickly memorize things if I could hear them. I was good at that, aural learning. I listened to things all the time. That was how I got by. But the answer was clear. My parents pretended that my problem was a figment of my imagination, not a learning disability. Like I could read just fine, but chose not to. Gathering the papers in a huff, I tried again. “Welcome t…to…the joint…the jet…the joining of…”

“Hera and Craig,” a voice finished behind me.

I jumped, slapping a hand over my chest.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

Ransom was standing at the door, showered, freshly shaven, and oozing sex appeal in casual cargo pants and a black V-neck.

What must he be thinking?

That you’re a dumbass or high. Exactly what he thought ten seconds ago.

He pushed off the doorjamb, advancing toward me.

“You’re dyslexic?”

“Get out of my room, Random.” I pushed at his chest frantically, hysterically.

Why would he say something like that?

“You are.” He gathered the pages, frowning as he skimmed through them. “You can’t read.”

“Yes, I can.”

“You can, but it’s hard, and frustrating for you.”

“It’s fine, I’m pretty,” I snorted out bitterly.

He looked up from the pages, his frown deepening. His eyes were so very green, his nose so very straight, and his mouth so very kissable. Again, I thanked my lucky stars for my shaky confidence. It didn’t allow me to consider anyone romantically without chiding myself.

“Are you undiagnosed?”

“I need glasses, that’s all.” I knotted my arms over my chest, glaring hard at him. “I’m not dyslexic.”

“Yeah, you are. Either that or you have a pervasive intellectual disability, and that can’t be it. Lack of intelligence has never been your issue.”

I was dizzy with the unexpected compliment. It was the first time someone had told me I was not an idiot. Even Keller, my best friend, never complimented me on my wits.

“Why were you never diagnosed?” Ransom pressed, a vein throbbing on the side of his forehead.

“It wasn’t nece—”

“You didn’t read the contract.” His eyes flared. “That’s why you were so clueless afterwards. You just signed it.”

“Stop talking.” I raised a warning finger, aiming it at him. “Just…just stop.”

Now that we were face-to-face, it sure looked like he was angry. But it wasn’t directed at me…why not? It was my failure, not his. He could read just fine.

I stomped my way to the closet and flung it open. Maybe it was time to get out on the town and grab dinner outside. I’d been cooped up inside long enough.

“No need to diagnose me. I’m just not a smart person. Is that what you want to hear? Everyone in the family made peace with it. Me included. I suffer from a lack of interest combined with an inability to do well in school.” I began flinging dresses onto the bed.

Ransom got in my face, shoving himself between the closet and me. “You could have gotten a shit ton of services, tools to help you. More time for your tests, recorded textbooks, computer spell checkers, therapy. They could’ve found any number of ways to help you. Instead, they treated your disability as a liability to save face, instead of getting you the help you needed. This is why you’re so mad at them.”

Ransom foamed at the mouth, he was so furious. I’d never seen him so upset. I took a step back, suddenly feeling like being this man’s center of attention was my own private downfall.

“I…uhm…”

Should I tell him? Should I not?

Screw it. The truth was better than all the lies I’d spewed out for years.

“You what?” he asked. “Tell me.”

“When I was in second grade, my teacher, Mrs. Archibald, told my parents I needed to get tested for dyslexia. I’d fallen behind pretty significantly, which made me drift and lose interest in class even more. My parents became really upset. Made a whole stink about how a general-ed second grade teacher didn’t have the right to make such assumptions. She ended up getting fired, after Mom put pressure on the school’s board. I never got tested, but…” I licked my lips, closing my eyes. That period of my life was one of the worst. Precipitating the time when I lost faith in myself. Dad was on his last year as President, and he couldn’t afford the bad press. The scrutiny.

“From that moment on, teachers started helping me out with tests and assignments. And by ‘helping’ I mean cheating my way into decent grades. I still wasn’t good, but I passed all my classes. The bigger the gap between me and my classmates became, the easier it was to believe I was just…”

“Stupid,” Ransom completed for me softly.

I swallowed. “Yeah.”

Now, at twenty-one, I did not consider myself high school educated. I’d missed so much material. Only in recent years, when I discovered the magic of audiobooks, did I start to catch up on subjects that had interested me. History, literature, and geography. Suddenly, I could consume books. I’d devoured all the classics. Jane Austen and Charlotte Bronte and Leo Tolstoy.

Ransom looked haunted, staring at me with eyes so deep and dark I thought I was going to drown in them.

“Your parents…” he trailed off, shaking his head. “I’m going to kill them.”

Clutching his phone until I heard it crack, he stormed out of my room. I chased after him. No one was supposed to know about the Mrs. Archibald story. White-hot panic coursed through my veins. My parents would skin me alive when they found out I’d confided in him.

“Ransom, please don’t tell them!” I grabbed the hem of his shirt, tugging. His phone was pressed to his ear. “They can’t know that you know, I—”

But it was too late. Someone answered him on the other line.

“Mrs. Thorne? Ransom Lockwood here. Change of plans. We’re not coming to D.C. In fact, it’s not safe for Hallie to be anywhere but in Dallas right now. Unlike your other daughter, Hallie is famous, headline-grabbing, and a hot commodity. I don’t want her star to overshadow her sister’s plebeian duties. Have fun at the funeral.”

He hung up.

I stared at him, shocked.

This was the first person who had truly stood up for me. Had my back more than once.

Also: have fun at the funeral? He was so going to hell for that one.

“I think I just fell in love with you.” I stumbled back, clutching my chest, like Cupid had pierced an arrow through it.

He massaged his eye sockets, looking tired, almost deflated. “Like my day wasn’t bad enough. Get dressed.” He tucked his phone into his pocket, a sullen, fallen angel. “We’re getting you diagnosed right now. Then I’m taking you to dinner. Vegetarian something. My treat.”

Oh, my.

I’d been dyslexic less than ten minutes and I already loved every second of it.

Well, shit.

It was official. I had a conscience.

It was wonky, out of tune, and questionable. But it was there.

Hallie Thorne was no idiot.

An extremely flawed individual? Sure.

Fucked-up? I could get behind that description.

But she had undiagnosed learning disabilities, and she walked around thinking something was wrong with her.

That needed to be rectified.

I didn’t have long to babysit the girl, but before I left, I wanted her to know one thing.

She wasn’t stupid. It wasn’t her fault.

She just had a really shitty family.

An hour later, the Explorer pulled in front of a private clinic on the outskirts of Dallas. A red-bricked, simple building surrounded by decorative plants.

“They’ve agreed to assess you anonymously. That means we pay a fee, and they give you a diagnosis and we fill in the paperwork with your personal data afterwards,” Ransom said by way of explanation as he breezed past me, opening the door. I gingerly made my way inside, in bug sunglasses and an overkill hat.

He approached the woman behind the reception desk and talked to her quietly while I stood in the automatic doorway, looking around. I felt like I stuck out like a sore thumb, even though it was probable no one recognized me.

Why was it important for me to get diagnosed? It wasn’t like I was planning to go back to school. I would never put myself through the torture.

Ransom turned around and walked over to me. He put a hand on my shoulder. I did not, in fact, detonate. But I was close. I’d never before been attracted to someone so wildly, and it scared me. Up until now, it had been really easy to pass on opportunity.

“They’re going to run vision and hearing tests, and questionnaires on you. Then you’ll go through a psychological assessment and they’ll test your reading. You’re going to be here for a while.”

“What’s a while?” I swallowed.

“Four, five hours.”

“My parents are going to kill you if they find out.” Not that I was going to tell them.

“Your parents are lucky I don’t kill them.”

A sunny, middle-aged woman in a red suit and noisy jewelry picked me up from the reception and ushered me into the depths of the building.

The first two tests—vision and hearing—were easy-peasy. The reading test, however, was a dud. I was extra slow, extra nervous, and got most of the words mixed up. By the time the psychological assessment came around, I was already exhausted.

When Ransom came back to pick me up, he held a brown bag. He shoved it in my hands as soon as I made my way to him.

“Vegan tacos with spicy cauliflower and tofu. There’s some beer, too.”

“You’re giving a beer to an alcoholic?” I arched my eyebrows, feigning disbelief.

“We both know you’re simply a lightweight. Go eat outside. I’ll be there in a second.”

Guess this was his version of taking me out for a meal. I would have protested if I weren’t so exhausted from milking every ounce of my brain over the last four hours. I went outside, settling on a wooden bench overlooking a sad, mostly empty parking lot.

The tacos were delicious, and the beer went to my head fast.

Rather than freak out about what Ransom and the nice woman in red were currently discussing, I diverted my thoughts to exploring what I could do for a living.

Perhaps nail art. I adored nails, and it seemed like a lowkey thing to do, away from the limelight, which I started to realize I didn’t actually love. Or maybe I could be a dog walker. I loved animals. I would adopt an unholy amount of dogs and cats if I could. My mother forbade it. Something about not wanting a negative headline when I moved out of the mansion and the landlord discovered my pets had destroyed his place.

I was pondering the idea of becoming a circus clown when I felt a shadow looming over my figure from behind, blocking the sun. I whipped my head, a scowl ready on my face.

“Well?” I asked. “Is it official? Are the Guinness people coming? Am I the dumbest bitch on earth?”

He ignored my words. “Get in the car.”

But when we got in the car, he remained persistently silent, and I lost my nerve to ask him what the woman had told him. If he wanted to wait to talk about it privately, it couldn’t be good, right?

Listen, she said you have the intelligence of a dry erase marker, I imagined him saying in his signature, IDGAF tone.

When we got back into Dallas, I finally opened my mouth. I wanted to askwhat the lady’d said,but what came out was, “I’m still hungry.”

Close enough.

“Where do vegetarians eat in Texas?” he asked blandly. “This is not your natural habitat.”

“There’s a joint down the street.” I pointed at a quaint café that looked like it had been ripped from Covent Garden, London. It had outdoor dining, bracketed by a beautiful green fence. With large display windows and dark green stucco that matched the color of Ransom’s eyes. A green, ivy-ridden fence served as a barrier between the diners and the street.

“Very exposed,” Ransom grumbled, dissatisfied. Still, he slipped into a parking space, unbuckling.

At the café, we were given a table right by the fence. Ransom picked up the menu and scowled. “Farm to table? Does that mean they have fried chicken?”

A teasing smile touched my lips. “No. It means they grow their vegetables and spices organically.”

He closed his eyes, shaking his head. “I’m going to sue you for emotional and physical abuse after all of this is over.”

I smiled, mainly because I knew he was trying to make me feel better. “Why don’t you let me choose something for you?”

“Because you’ll screw it up?” he volleyed back.

“Try me.”

“Famous last words. Well, floor’s all yours.”

I ordered Baba Ghanoush with pita bread and Spanakopita for him, and zucchini cakes for myself. “And also a Greek rosé table wine,” I asked the waitress, watching Ransom closely to see if he’d shut me down. A muscle didn’t move in his face, and his Aviators covered his eyes, so I had no indication he was giving me a death glare, either.

“Are you not going to ask me what Barbara said?” he inquired.

“I’m guessing Barbara is the Lady in Red.”

“Smart girl.”

“I’ve a feeling you’re about to deliver some news that would contradict your last statement.”

I figured he’d given Barbara a fistful of cash to speed up the process of my diagnosis. Those things usually took months to get the results back.

Our waitress approached our table again, smiling nervously. She knew who we were. She presented the wine, poured us a small amount of it, and allowed us to have a taste. I swirled, sniffed, and nodded. She poured us both generous portions before leaving.

“Thanks for letting me drink.” I raised my glass, chugging down half of its contents.

“My reasons are purely selfish. Perhaps you’re more bearable while intoxicated.”

“A guy can dream.” I placed my glass down. “So what’ve you got for me? How dumb am I?”

“Not at all,” he said, taking a sip of his wine, then scowling at it like it punched him in the crotch. I had a feeling he was more of a hard liquor man. “You passed the hearing and vision tests with flying colors. Reading and writing tests were where you struggled. Then during the psychology exam you exhibited—and this is a quote—‘a higher-than-average EQ and IQ.’”

“Do you have that in English?”

“Emotional intelligence and usability slash analytical abilities. You scored high on both.”

“I don’t understand.” The smile stretching across my face dropped. “That…that can’t be. You can’t be smart and struggle to read at twenty-one.”

“Yes, you can.” He leaned across the table, flicking his sunglasses off. His eyes glittered with intensity. “You have a learning disability that’s treatable. It’s completely disconnected from your intelligence. You have a different distribution of metabolic activation than a non-dyslexic person, but that says nothing about your potential or your abilities. Dyslexic people often have advantages. For instance, you have a magnificent knack for connecting a series of mental sequencing into a coherent story. Now repeat after me—I’m not stupid.”

This had to be a sadistic joke. I let out a snort. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Don’t be a coward,” he shot back. “Say it.”

“No.” I sat back, folding my arms over my chest. “That’s embarrassing. And unnecessary.”

“I’m. Not. Stupid,” he repeated it louder now, drawing curious looks from people at other tables. It was unlike him to call attention to us. I looked around, my stomach cramping with anxiety. “Grow some balls, Princess.”

“I reject the chauvinistic notion balls equal guts. Women are just as—”

“Spare me.” He raised his palm in the air. “And just spit it out so we can get on with our lives.”

“I…” I took a deep breath. “I mean, I’m not…”

“Stupid,” he finished for me. “Correct. Now give me the entire sentence.”

“Wait a minute.” I frowned. “I thought you said yourself that I’m stupid.”

He shook his head. “I said unbearable. Not the same thing.”

“I’m not…I don’t…” Tears pricked the back of my eyes.

“Goddammit, Hallie.” He stood up suddenly. I did the same, out of pure instinct, my legs moving on their own accord. I had this odd, dangerous feeling that the world around us had stopped on its axis, drawing a collective breath as it watched us. We were stuck in a bubble.

And bubbles, I knew, were destined to burst.

Sunset licked the sky in brilliant blues and fierce oranges. For one, desperate, pathetic moment, something foreign came over me. Dark and addictive.

I felt cherished. Maybe even understood.

We were standing in front of one another, panting. The only buffer between us was a wonky table. My fingers tingled to reach across and touch him.

“Say you’re not stupid.” His eyes burned, consuming my soul in the process. His hands were braced over the table. “Say it to me, Hallie.”

“I’m…not…” I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. “Stupid. I’m not stupid.”

“Louder.”

“I’m not stupid!”

“Can’t hear you.”

“I’m not stupid!”

Each time I said it, another drawer in my heart unlocked. I felt a little lighter, a little better about who I was. I wanted to call my parents and say, see? See?

Of course, they already knew. They’d kept the truth away from me, from the world, because it embarrassed them. And the sheer discomfort it caused them was more important than my self-esteem. My self-worth.

And they had the audacity to tell me I wasn’t trying hard enough for them.

My cheeks were wet and cold. I realized I was crying. Publicly.

Our waitress chose that moment to approach with our tray of food.

“Not now.” Ransom lifted a hand, shooing her away. His gaze was still fixed on me. I waited for him to say something. I desperately wanted him to make the next move. Mainly because I felt there was more to this. More to us. He looked at me with newfound respect.

I could get addicted to this.

“Still want to get rid of me?” Mockery made his eyes glitter.

I shook my head, realizing this was the truth. He was horrible to me—sometimes. And overbearing—always. He was bad-mannered, and callous, but he also taught me self-worth, made me stand up for myself, and somehow, somewhere along the way started treating me as an equal.

“I…” I shifted, feeling naked and bare, my feelings raw and exposed. His eyes clung to mine, waiting for me to continue. I swallowed hard, looking down at the table. “I like you.”

“You like me.” A faint, ironic grin touched his beautiful lips.

I nodded.

“Look at me.”

I did. He leaned forward. I did the same. We were like magnets. North and south poles. Opposites who couldn’t help but attract. The impossible had become the inevitable. A kiss between us seemed unstoppable now. Urgent. A matter of life or death. His seafoam eyes drifted shut, ethereal and gray-flecked. I breathed his scent in. A mixture of leather and darkness. Destruction wrapped in sin.

He stilled, waiting for me to make the final move. To own up to the mistake that was about to happen.

The strain was excruciating. Every muscle in my body quaked. My lips hovered over his. He reached to touch my face, to guide me to his mouth.

His hand never made it to my cheek.

“Not in this lifetime, asshole.” He ripped his face from mine.

I felt the blinding lights of the camera whipping at my face like a merciless belt.

The photographer—a paparazzi by his dark clothing and professional gear—lowered his camera and smiled.

“Public place, buddy. Don’t hate the player, hate the game.”

He realized he’d messed with the wrong man when Ransom clutched the fence separating them, hoisting himself effortlessly and jumping over to the other side. He charged after the man, who broke into a frantic run, shouldering past people blindly, clutching the camera to his chest.

The thick crowd of shoppers attempted to part in order to accommodate the chase, but the photographer was disoriented and out of shape. He flailed and fell to the ground after a few seconds. Ransom tore the camera from his hands, ripping the film out of it and dumping his equipment onto the ground.

“You can’t do that!” the guy shrieked, reaching for the film. “It’s private property.”

“Public place.” He tore the film into ribbons as he stomped back, tossing it into a trashcan without slowing down.

This was the moment our waitress mustered up the courage to tread back to our table again, holding our mostly-cold dishes, her smile hanging like a crooked picture upon her face. “Ready for your food?”

“We’ll take it to-go.” Ransom jumped the railing again, grabbing his keys and wallet. No sign of the charged electricity remained that had hummed between us just minutes earlier. “We’re outta here.”