Chapter 17: Let it Be
}0{
Miles Walker-Mitchell was the star tight end for the Oakland Raiders. At 6'5'', 249 lbs, he was a beast of a man with a rowdy personality. Rachel had found that most pro-athletes had a similar profile, one which she could manage and manipulate with sickening ease. They were often dim, vain, bad with money, and always ready to get into a woman's pants – and Miles was no exception.
He had approached her in a crowded bar in L.A., two days after his team had lost in the playoffs. Clearly already drunk off his ass, his opening pick-up line had been "I've jerked off to a couple of your music videos before."
Rachel thrived off of shallow dirty talk. Ever since her infamous Oscar win, she seemed to hear such lines daily from guys. With a controlled smile, she invited him back to her place.
She could tell he was mentally rehearsing the grand story of his conquest which he would later recount in the locker room to his teammates. The déjà vu was potent as she walked him through her massive house and up to her bedroom – the gaudy golden bedroom Sy had manufactured solely for magazine spreads. She never had sex with guys in her real room. That would have been too close to home – not to mention too close to her son.
Let them think she was the Rachel Marron that the world believed she was.
By this point she was going through the motions. She would show them her case full of sex toys and flavored condoms, and ask them what kinks they had. She would live out their fantasies, and then they would have no choice but to cave into her own demands.
Men were really all the same, she thought. Except for her former bodyguard.
She thought of him every time she took another man to bed. And the thought stung, every single time. Whatever sorry bastard shared her bed that night would be subject to her anger as she commanded them to spank her, crush her, choke her. As if their violence would somehow summon her one true protector from out of nowhere, and he would whisk her away to a better place – a place where she didn't have to mask her misery with mindless fucking.
"You're such a dirty little slut," Miles growled at her, his breath still reeking of alcohol.
Rachel cringed at his words, having heard them from nearly every other guy she'd slept with. Was it so much for these suckers to come up with original content?
She stared at the elaborate ceiling as he pounded into her, lazily disassociating with her surroundings until she felt numb. Her heart pleaded with her for an escape, but she knew she couldn't. It was a vicious cycle she could never put an end to. Because if she didn't try to blot out the trauma with promiscuity, she would actually have to acknowledge it – and that she couldn't stomach.
As her eyes wandered listlessly around the room, she couldn't help but notice the hefty metal track locks that Farmer had ordered to be installed on her windows. They threw off the entire aesthetic of the exotic room, but he had insisted they were necessary. He had put in every effort to secure this room from intruders, and now here she was not three years later, inviting strange men to intrude her bed.
She squeezed her eyes shut and blocked out all sensations until there was nothing left but the void. If she hadn't banned all emotions from her body by now, she would have been sobbing. Why did she have to miss him so much?
Rachel dutifully faked her orgasm, then clutched the shoulders of her panting partner, prepared to push him off as soon as he reached his climax.
He fell asleep minutes after, and she turned on her pillow to face away from him, silent tears falling from her eyes.
}0{
Rachel had thought there couldn't possibly be any more surprises in store for her when she woke up the next morning. She was wrong.
Just outside the cabin, she saw her son with her former bodyguard, throwing strange slim objects at a nearby tree. She squinted as she tried to make out what it was they were throwing from her perch on the second floor window. It couldn't be…
She ran downstairs, still in her pajamas, stuffed her feet in her boots, pulled her coat around her arms and marched outside to see if it was real.
"What the fuck kind of hobby is this, Frank? Flingin' knives around out here like a hibachi chef!"
He laughed uncontrollably, causing Fletcher to lose it too.
"Come on, Mom, it's an art," Fletcher said.
"Okay, Jackson Pollock," Rachel said snarkily before turning to Frank. "First the swords, then the guns, now the knives. Next you're gonna tell me you got nukes in the cellar?"
Frank said with a surprisingly straight face, "Just don't sing too loud or you'll set 'em off."
Fletcher clutched his stomach with laughter as he watched their exchange. "You two should have your own sitcom."
Rachel stared in disbelief at the scene in front of her. Frank only smiled in amusement at her as he calmly walked up to the tree and yanked the blades out of its trunk.
"You're not gonna throw them again, are you?" Rachel asked, backing away.
"Not at you," he assured her, trying not to laugh.
Fletcher reached out with an open hand. "Can I try?"
"Hell, no!" Rachel protested. Frank glanced back at her with a more serious look.
"I don't think your mom is comfortable with that yet, Fletch."
"And don't think I ever will be, Fletcher, you hear?"
Fletcher looked crestfallen but stepped aside respectfully as Frank tossed another round of four knives, which all wedged themselves perfectly into the tree.
It seemed one second each knife was in his hand, she blinked, and then it was in the tree.
He looked back at Rachel as he yanked the knives out one by one, eyes glittering like a smug motherfucker. He knew she was impressed.
"Mom, can I please try? Just one?" Fletcher begged.
Rachel glared at him. Even Frank seemed to look imploringly at her.
"Ugh, fine." She hated herself for giving in too easily. She put her hands over her eyes and peeked between her fingers to watch and listen as Frank patiently instructed her son on how to properly hold and throw the knife.
It seemed a lot more complicated than it should have been, she thought. Almost five whole minutes had passed before Frank had approved Fletcher to actually throw the knife with all his might. Against her better judgment, Rachel did watch. She was slightly shocked that he made it to the base of the tree, but he didn't have quite enough force to get it lodged into the trunk as Frank had done. Fletcher seemed frustrated upon encountering a skill which he couldn't pick up immediately.
"It took me almost three years before I could do it consistently," Frank consoled him. "You did really well for your first try."
"Can I watch you do it again?" Fletcher asked earnestly. Frank looked back at Rachel for approval before continuing. She nodded reluctantly, secretly wanting to watch again too.
The little grunts he made when he tossed the knives. Good Lord, she was going to go insane.
}0{
After the Academy Awards, Rachel placed her one and only Oscar up on the highest shelf in her home music studio and never touched it again.
She buried herself in songwriting after it happened. It was the only way she could feel some sense of peace during her day. Otherwise the trauma would consume her.
She had visited Frank in the hospital several times over the course of his stay, each time wishing she could lift his spirits. Oddly enough, the more he healed, the sadder he seemed to become. She wasn't sure why. He had expressed one wish to her: that he could watch his favorite film while stuck in bed, because the constant cycle between CNN and NBC Nightly News with Brian Williams was making him depressed. So Rachel had pulled some strings with her friends in broadcasting to get "Yojimbo" as much air time as possible. She had teased Frank that her gift to him was costing the network millions of lost revenue and viewers.
It took about six weeks before she had started to commit to projects again, but of course they were only the ones she really wanted. One in particular was something she had been very passionate about, but the record companies had told her it wasn't a wise move for her career. She had wanted to remake some country ballads from the 60's and 70's. They wondered if she had gone mad, not knowing the inspiration behind it. It seemed that everything she did lately was done with him in mind.
She tried to quash the feeling of dread she felt every time she imagined him alone at his house, struggling to go about his day with one arm in a cast, then at physical therapy, attempting to strengthen his weakened muscles. It would not last forever, she kept reminding herself. Soon he would be back to work with her, and he would be his usual insufferable self, and she would get back under his skin, and he would get back under her sheets, and…
And then what? She wanted him on her payroll purely for the fact that she wanted him as her lover. She couldn't move on without him.
She kept putting off the worries the longer she waited. In the meantime, she locked herself up in her music room and drowned herself in song.
She had been playing a passionate piano arrangement of Queen's "Somebody to Love" when Bill walked into the room and stood beside the piano. "You're gettin' pretty good at the keys," he complimented.
She shrugged. "What else have I got to do these days?"
Bill looked hesitant as he tapped his fingers on the piano lid. "They turned down some of your songs again."
"Those two I submitted last week?" She was shocked.
"Yeah. I'm sorry, honey." He sighed heavily as she laid her head dramatically down on the piano keys, making a sour chord. "They just think that Rachel Marron should be fun and upbeat – that's what's sold for ages now, and they don't want to deviate from that yet. It's too risky."
"I'm not fun and upbeat anymore," she said with a pout.
"I'm not arguing that," Bill said pointedly. She glared up at him. "Listen, I know you wanna write, Rachel, but you have to ride this out for a couple more years. You're more of a… comet than a superstar right now, you understand that, right?"
"Yeah, whatever." She stood up from the piano, slammed the lid, and walked to the window.
"There's something else I want to tell you," Bill started. Already she could hear the dread in his tone. She braced herself, somehow knowing exactly what news he had, and somehow still not knowing how to handle herself in the face of it. "Honey . . . Frank isn't coming back."
She stared emotionlessly at the sun-kissed trees and sparkling waterfalls that sat just outside the glass wall. "He told you that himself?" She had to know for certain.
Bill exhaled and stepped closer to her. "Yeah. Yeah, he's moving out of L.A. Somewhere in the Midwest."
She felt the tears prickling in the corner of her eyes, but she did not let them fall.
"Well that's great," she said in a dead voice. "How's Captain Tony gonna run the ship alone with one good eye?"
"Frank promised he'd find a good replacement for you," Bill said gently. "I know you're upset, Rachel. I am, too. I told him we all wanted him to stay."
"No one's ever gonna be as good as he was," Rachel murmured, unable to hold the tears back now. Not wanting Bill to see, she turned away and glanced up at the proud golden statue on her highest shelf, now caked in dust.
}0{
Frank wasn't accustomed to having so much music in the house. But with Rachel around, it became a natural part of living. There were always records playing, or a radio in the background. She was always humming to herself, or singing in the shower. That evening it was unusually quiet as Fletcher had gone to bed early, and Frank couldn't resist pulling out his father's old guitar to fill the silence.
He started with the only chords he knew, rusty at first until his fingers got the right pressure on the right strings. It seemed strange that he could be so adept at other skills which required use of his hands, but still so clumsy when it came to an instrument. But Fletcher's eagerness to be the best at everything had inspired Frank to challenge himself more.
After ten minutes or so, he had managed to master the chords for "Free Falling" by Tom Petty, and he repeated them incessantly until his fingers didn't slip. That was, until her voice had distracted him.
He looked up then to see Rachel enter the room, singing along effortlessly with his chords. Her voice did things to him. Unspeakable things. She had to have known. But her eyes were entirely innocent as she came to sit in the armchair beside his in front of the fire.
"I didn't know you had a musical bone in your body, Farmer," she teased.
"I really don't," he admitted. "This was my dad's. He played guitar and harmonica."
"Your dad was something of a progeny, huh?"
Frank chuckled, "You mean 'prodigy?'"
Rachel ducked her head. "Cut it out, I'm not illiterate." She gave in to laughing along with him and reached out for the guitar. He grinned bashfully and passed the instrument over to her, which she positioned expertly across her chest. She shocked him by playing a perfect riff of "Hotel California."
She smiled cheekily at his stunned expression. "Didn't know I played, did ya?"
He shook his head in awe.
"I picked up guitar when I started getting more into songwriting. I'm still a little rough on the piano though."
She started playing again, then looked down at her chipped nails with a smile. "I play pretty good when I'm in need of a manicure."
"I didn't think you had callouses." He reached out to inspect her fingertips.
"I have 'em." She wiggled her fingers at him. "I got skinny fingers."
She looked down at the guitar again and played a familiar tune. It took Frank a few moments before he recognized it as "I Can't Help Falling in Love" by Elvis. She was half singing, half muttering along. A hum here, a lyric there. He found it downright magical the way she managed to hit those exact notes so effortlessly.
"Rachel, that's incredible," he said with an adoring smile.
"I knew you were a beginner when you started playing those four damn chords. Everyone starts with 'Free Falling.'"
He chuckled. "How long did it take you to learn to play like that?"
"Seven or eight months?" She smiled at his bewildered expression. "Like I said, I pick up instruments fast. Perfect pitch and all." She gestured to her ear with one finger.
Frank watched Rachel in wonder for a long time, entranced as she continued to sing along with her playing. He never thought he'd hear a soul rendition of "Let it Be" by the Beatles. She could cover every song ever written and it would be improved tenfold. He was tossed back in time to the chaotic memory of her performing "Queen of the Night" on stage, dressed in that titillating scrap of tinfoil she called a costume. A song like that could barely allow her voice to shine. She was indeed a powerhouse with pop music, but in his opinion, she was born for acoustic. Sitting cross-legged on the sofa with her messy bun, worn out jeans, fluffy socks, and oversized pink sweatshirt, she had never looked more lovely.
"I ought to be charging you for this," she teased. "You're gettin' a whole set list here."
He smiled. "That's okay, you still owe me from the bomb threat."
She rolled her eyes at him. "We both know that wasn't real, Farmer."
"In my job, you always have to be overly cautious."
She tapped her fingers along the strings of the guitar, barely plucking them so that they made slightly sour notes. "You ever think you've been a little too cautious in your life, Frank?"
They exchanged a significant glance.
"I've made a lot of mistakes in my life," he said humbly. "I try not to repeat them."
"Just because something seemed like a mistake at one point in your life doesn't mean it would be a mistake if you made it today."
He was taken aback by the wisdom in her words. Her dark eyes flickered with the firelight, daring him to challenge her. She added, "For the record, I think you have the greatest instinct out of anyone I've met." Her voice was flatteringly feminine as she unintentionally stroked his ego.
He looked down at his lap. "I'm only human, Rachel."
"What I'm saying is, a man like you can afford to stop being so discerning and just… act on impulse."
She had no idea what she was asking of him. Frank had never known a world where he acted purely on impulse. It would not be a very safe world, that was for certain. In his world, control and restraint were his favored approaches. He didn't expect Rachel Marron, a mere debutante to the world of self-control, to understand that concept.
But the idea of what she was suggesting was frightfully appealing to him. In some capacity, he supposed he had acted on impulse before – but it was a rare occurrence, saved only for emergency situations. His default preference was for long hours of calibration before taking action.
He didn't reply to her comment, but remained contentedly silent as he listened to her play his father's guitar until the fire had died.
}0{
Rachel woke with a strange mix of sadness and excitement, knowing it was the day that Fletcher had planned to drive back. On the one hand, she would miss her son being around, but on the other hand, she had been craving alone time with her former bodyguard to the point where her heart was about to pounce right out of her chest when she looked in his direction. All throughout the day, Frank seemed to find every excuse to accidentally brush against her or touch her hand in passing. She was certain at this point Fletcher had noticed.
Frank and Fletcher said their goodbyes following dinner, and Rachel followed her son out to his car alone to see him off.
"So, how much longer are you planning to stay up here?" he probed.
She shrugged, thinking the gesture would somehow make her reply less significant.
"Maybe another week or so." When she saw his raised eyebrows she backpedaled. "Well, maybe not a full week."
Fletcher bit back an amused smile.
"What's that look for?"
"I didn't say anything." He opened the car door and tossed his backpack inside before settling into the driver's seat. "Take all the time you need."
"Fletcher, I don't need to stay here that long."
He laughed openly this time. "No, but clearly you want to."
Had she been that obvious? Rachel leaned her weight on the open car door as she stared down at her son's knowing look. "I don't want this to be awkward for you, honey."
"It's not awkward, Mom," he said reassuringly. "I want you to be happy."
She looked down at her shoes and blushed. "I am happy, baby."
"Then I am, too," he said with a smile.
She leaned down to kiss his forehead. "I'll see you when I come home, alright?"
He nodded. "Love you."
"I love you, too."
Rachel watched as Fletcher drove off into the snowy woods, his bright blue car just a dot in the distance by the time she went back inside.
She closed the door and found Frank fiddling around with the chessboard in the center of the room.
"Missing your chess buddy already?" she teased.
He smirked at her. "Not like I can get you to play."
She crossed her arms. "Who says I wouldn't play?"
"You always said it was boring," he laughed.
She sat herself resolutely down in the chair that Fletcher usually took. "Come on then, teach me. I wanna play like you and Fletcher do."
"Alright," he agreed, settling down across from her on the other side of the board.
Rachel tuned out as soon as he started explaining all the pieces and their allowable moves. She found herself distracted by his fingers as he shuffled the pieces around on their squares to demonstrate each rule. His hands were beautiful, she thought idly. Damn, she just wanted to fuck him already. Since Fletcher was gone now, there was no real reason Frank had to keep up the pretense of behaving like a gentleman.
"Got it?" he at last asked her, and she nodded, not having absorbed a single word of what he'd said.
"Okay. I guess you're white," he said, noting that the white pieces were on her side of the board. She rolled her eyes at him and turned the board one-eighty.
"Okay, I'm white," he chuckled. She didn't move, so he flicked his eyes to meet hers and murmured, "Ladies first."
She shrugged one shoulder and smiled at him, flattered. "Well, let me see." Without any hesitation, she moved her queen across the board and sat her right down in front of his pawn.
Frank eyed her suspiciously. "That's an illegal move."
"What do you mean 'illegal?' I thought the queen was the most powerful piece. She can move anywhere she wants."
"Did you even listen to the rules?" He grabbed her queen and moved it back to its starting square on the board. "Queen can't jump over any pieces. Your pawns are all still in place."
"All right, Farmer, have it your way."
He laughed bitterly. "It's not my way, it's the rules of chess. If there's no rules, there's no game."
"Okay, now. Don't have a fit. Let me try again."
Rachel hesitantly placed her finger on one of her pawns, and then peeked up at Frank for approval. His poker face remained in place, despite her efforts to charm him. She slowly picked up her pawn with two fingers, then carried it across the board to knock one of his pawns over. "Ha!"
"First move for pawn, two steps only," he declared, picking up his fallen pawn and putting hers promptly back in its place. "Chess is a siege, not an airstrike. The pieces can't just fly across the board."
Rachel pouted again. "Well, that's no fun."
"Do I need to go over the rules again?" he threatened. She feigned snoring, and he tossed the instructions at her with a light whack on her upper arm.
"No, no, I got it this time," she swore.
Frank glared at her. She loved pushing his buttons.
Straining to hold back her grin, Rachel took one of her rooks and skated it straight across the board to knock down Frank's king. "Checkmate!" she squealed, laughing deliriously at his face.
"Alright, we're done here."
"I just always wanted to say that," Rachel wheezed, patting his arm as he calmly collected the pieces and put them back in the box.
He ignored her, continuing to clear the board, and she leaned across the table to place a kiss on his forehead.
"I'm sorry, Frank, you're just so fun to mess with."
Still placing the pieces in the box, he flicked his eyes up briefly to make contact with hers. Unable to resist him, Rachel leaned in to kiss his lips when she gave out a startled cry. The room had gone completely dark around them, and all thrumming sounds about the house came to a sudden halt.
"What just happened?" Rachel squeaked.
"Power outage," Frank stated. "Most likely a wind gust."
"Are the lights gonna come back on, or…?"
"I don't have a backup generator," he answered seriously, though she'd meant it as a joke.
She started giggling nervously. "What are we gonna do?"
"Stay put for a second, I don't want you to trip over anything," he ordered while he stood up and managed to find a quick route out of the room in the darkness.
When he came back, he was holding a lighter in one hand. "This has happened a couple times before," he told her comfortingly. "That's why I keep a few candles in every room."
He started lighting candles all around the main living area while she watched from her spot on the ground. "It's sorta romantic," she said wistfully.
He glanced at her in hesitation. "Listen, Rachel, it's going to start to get really cold in here in the next couple of hours. I want you to be prepared because I know you have, uh... limited tolerance for lower temperatures."
She countered him with a flippant wave of her hand. "I'm not scared of the cold." She stood up and started to follow him around the room.
He continued his rounds with the lighter, slowly brightening the room with each candle he lit. "I'm talking cold enough to see your breath in the air."
She stared at him. "Inside?"
He didn't answer her directly. "I don't want you to be alarmed."
She shivered and pulled her sweater tighter around her. Though he was careful not to show any outward display of emotion, she knew he was cringing.
"I know you're not gonna like what I have to say," he began, "but it would be best for us to confine ourselves to one room of the house, preferably one with its own fireplace, on the ground floor, with smaller square footage and doors that close."
Rachel raised her brows and inched closer to him. "What room did you have in mind?"
He looked down into her eyes as he lit the last candle on the mantle. "Master bedroom."
Rachel raised her wrists to her chin and hid her grin behind the sleeves of her sweater. "What made you think I'd have any objections to that?"
He laughed dryly. "Okay, see, you think this is sexy, but I'm telling you it's not. I've been in this situation before; it can get pretty treacherous."
She pouted as he moved across the room, thinking out loud. "We have a gas stove so food shouldn't be a problem. The power company should get out here, hopefully tomorrow. If it's more than twenty-four hours before they can make it, I'm driving you to the city to get a hotel." Her heart sank at the thought.
He pointed the lighter at her. "In the meantime, I need your help. Go upstairs, gather up all the blankets from every bedroom and bring them down to the master. I'm gonna start boiling water."
Before she could object, he tossed her a flashlight and then he was in the kitchen, fumbling around with the pots and pans.
Rachel followed Frank's orders and marched herself upstairs, flashlight in hand. She did as he instructed and raided every bedroom for its blankets, starting with the room she'd been sleeping in. There were quite a few blankets in each of the four bedrooms on the upper level; each was more beautiful than the last. They looked to be handwoven, all featuring complex variations of a classic southwestern pattern. The blue and green one in particular was stunning. She could only imagine what it would look like under proper light and not just a weak flashlight.
She could hear the floorboards creaking downstairs from where he moved about, going back and forth between rooms. After a few minutes she'd gathered up as many blankets as she could carry and dragged them down the staircase, using care not to trip.
When she reached the bottom of the steps she saw the white beam of another flashlight flickering off the walls in the hall as he approached.
"Here." He reached out a chivalrous hand to carry half the load. They both carried the blankets to the end of the hall and piled them up on the bed in the master room.
He had already brought in new firewood for the fireplace in the bedroom. Rachel watched as he knelt down beside the fireplace and began to arrange the logs in a pyramid. "You should probably go get anything you need from your room and bring it down here for tonight."
She looked doubtfully at him, wondering if he was just being dramatic. But his face meant no nonsense, and so she complied.