Page 104 of Always Mine
The frame changes. The shot Avery got of Arty spiking Sophia’s drink with GHB that night at La Rosa beams out to everyone in the room—a red circle strategically drawn around the baggie so there’s no missing what we’re looking at.
“Another warns that, often, there’s more than meets the eye.” Now we’re looking at an image of him surrounded by girls who might be twenty at best.
“What the fuck is this? This is defamation of character,” Arty stutters furiously into the mic, his face turning an angry shade of red. “Someone stop this fucking madness!”
I’m watching, waiting. But no one is moving, transfixed by drama playing out on the big screen.
The footage continues, and this time a video plays. It looks like it’s from a college party, maybe eight or so years old. Arty has his arm wrapped around Arabella Belmont, who looks spaced out. “I told you to stick with me, baby Belmont. You feel good, don’tyou,” he coos coyly, to which Arabella slurs, “What did you put in that drink, Arty?”
The whispering is getting louder all around us. Arty is hollering for someone to turn off the video, storming off the stage and towards the AV booth. But he’s intercepted by his father and pulled towards the exit.
The video cuts to GG sitting in a stark white room, like an interview room at the police station.
“Over recent weeks, we’ve come to understand both adages to be true when pulling back the covers on who the real Arty Bartholomew Jones is. Liar. Bad guy. Sexual predator.
“Don’t believe me? Maybe you’ll believe them.”
And one by one, four of Arty’s victims reveal their truth, sitting in the same stark white room.
“Hi, my name is Ella, and Arthur Bartholomew Jones drugged and sexually assaulted me. I was eighteen.”
“Hi, my name is Maria, and Arthur Bartholomew Jones drugged and sexually assaulted me. I was seventeen.”
“Hi, my name is Lilah, and Arthur Bartholomew Jones drugged and sexually assaulted me. I was seventeen.”
“Hi, my name is Arabella, and Arthur Bartholomew Jones drugged and sexually assaulted me. I was eighteen.”
The room breaks out in gasps.
Luca is up from his seat, glaring at his dad. “I fucking told you. I told you he was fucking scum and he did something to her that weekend. You didn’t fucking believe me. Worst thing about it, she should’ve been with me!” He storms off.
“Oh my God,” Chiara cries, her hands shooting over her mouth in shock. “I need to find her!” Then she’s up on her feet, frantically looking over to the same table Luca was headed toward in search of Arabella. “Chiara, wait!” Sophia lifts the skirt of her dress, ready to follow her.
That’s when I clock him. The tuxedo-clad guy at few tables over who had his back to us the whole time. The guy with the gold pinky ring glinting from the very same hand clutching a gunhanging by his side. Then he turns in his chair and brings the gun into firing position.
It all feels like it happens in slow-motion.
“Down! Sophia, gun, get down!” I yell as I launch myself at her, the deafening crack of the gunshot ringing in my ears, but it’s nothing compared to the searing burn of pain that slices through my side at the same time as I push Sophia out of its path and into Raf, who’s reaching for her.
Pandemonium breaks out. I can sense the chaos of people running and the shouts of my team in my ears. I want to move, but I’m too heavy. I know there are people around me. My friends? Family? My vision is blurry, so I can’t make out their faces, only their silhouettes. My present starts to fade away. My lids want to close, but I need to lay eyes on her first. I’d recognize her face anywhere, in this life and the next. I’m not sure how much longer I can fight the pull towards the black. The light is fading. Slowly, but surely. I hear her voice. It’s tinny but still melodic. She’s lying on the floor next to me, almost nose to nose, her gorgeous face coming into view through the haze of pain.
“Please, baby, hold on. Don’t leave me,” she sobs.
She’s stroking my hair just the way I like. I need to close my eyes, just for a minute. Then everything fades to black.
Chapter seventy-three
Bloodline
Marco
WhenIregainconsciousness,I’m being wheeled into the trauma bay. I’m attached to breathing equipment, and the oxygen whooshes in my ears much like the adrenaline earlier tonight. It’s loud and chaotic. Bright, almost blinding lights. The high-pitched wail of sirens. The beeping and bleating of monitors. The indistinct shouts of people. So much noise. Medical staff surround me, calling out my vitals at the same alarming speed that I’m being pushed down a long hallway. I can’t catch everything they’re saying, just bits and pieces.
“Male. Twenty-nine.”
“Gunshot wound to the back.”
“Left side.”