Eat, Pray, Die Mystery Box Set

by Chelsea Field

  I snorted. “That’s my girl. How’s work aside from the malodorous Chad?”

  “The usual. It’s a toss-up whether I’m selling the products or my soul faster.”

  She worked as a copywriter for an advertising agency, and she was excellent at it. Probably why she’d been so successful at talking me into so many things. When we were thirteen, she had me convinced for an entire month that unicorns were real and lived in Africa with the zebras.

  “And the children’s books?” I asked.

  “Gah. Don’t even get me started. I can’t believe how hard they are to write.”

  “It might help if you liked children.”

  “Nobody likes children. Parents just have instinctive urges that mimic liking them, and they chalk it up to love.”

  “So, you’ve become less cynical since we chatted last?” I asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  “And how’s the family?” We both knew who I meant. When we were growing up, her parents had worked long hours and taken business trips every other weekend, which meant she’d spent so much time at my house that she became an honorary family member. To this day, she was closer to my family than her own.

  “Mum’s doing well. It’s hard to miss you too badly when she has me.”

  “Good. And Dad?”

  “On another trip. So I’ve been making sure to pay extra visits to Mum.”

  “Thank you.” I was grateful they had each other for company. A teeny bit jealous too.

  “I guess I should confess that her cooking is also a strong motivator,” Lily said.

  My mouth watered at the memory of Mum’s roast lamb on the Weber and mulberry pie. “I can’t judge you for that. Is Dad on a sales or poker trip?”

  “Does he even differentiate anymore?”

  “Good point.” I caught a yawn in the palm of my hand. “I better go, but tell Mum I miss her and will ring soon. And maybe you can use Chad as inspiration for a character in one of your stories? The smelly kid? Without the sexual harassment, of course.”

  “Sure. Everyone wants to read about the smelly kid. But you can’t go yet, you haven’t told me anything about your new job.”

  “Then I’ve told you almost everything I’m allowed to.”

  She exhaled noisily. “I’m not a fan of this classified rubbish. When we’re old and gray and about to cark it in a nursing home, you’re going to tell me everything.”

  “Consider it a deal.”

  If I lived that long anyway.

  14

  Seven hours later, I was sitting outside my apartment cradling a cup of tea. The building didn’t have any balconies. It wouldn’t have suited the cement box look the builder must have been going for. But I’d dragged a chair out onto the external stair landing, added the obligatory potted plant (a cactus that needed zero maintenance), and called it close enough.

  I watched the passing traffic with bleary eyes and counted up how many days it would be before I caught up with my loan payments so I could justify buying a coffee machine. I missed good coffee. I needed good coffee. There were a few shops popping up in LA that served it thanks to the large emigrant population from Europe and other civilized places that knew what real coffee was. As a student, I’d managed to visit one such place often enough to survive. As a Shade at the mercy of Connor’s poor taste in coffee, I was thinking of poisoning him myself.

  The answer was sixty-six days. Eighty if I wanted to pay rent in the meantime.

  So, I could eschew logic, buy a coffee machine now, and take an extra two weeks to pay off my overdue payments, or I could kick my coffee habit. I wasn’t sure which was more likely to be the death of me.

  To put off the decision, I searched for decent local coffee shops on my smartphone. Maybe I’d catch a break and find one not too far off the route to Connor’s.

  Footsteps coming up the stairs interrupted my focus. A huge mountain of a man reached the landing and headed straight for me. He looked like the Hulk, only he was tan instead of green, and he was wearing a shirt.

  All of a sudden I understood why balconies were better than stair landings. Balconies were private. I’d gotten out of bed, pulled on some sweats, made a cup of tea, and come right out here, which meant my hair had to be sticking up in all directions in its best electrocuted zombie impersonation. I patted it down as well as I could before he reached me.

  “If you’re looking for Oliver, I’m afraid he’s still in bed. He worked late last night.”

  “That’s okay, I was looking for you,” the Hulk said with a big smile.

  I patted my hair some more—nobody was ever that happy to see me. “What can I do for you, Mr.—?”

  “Black. I’m here on behalf of Platypus Lending.”

  I forgot about my hair and focused on the long, jagged scar down his left cheek.

  On the one hand, it made him look even more menacing. On the other, it gave me some hope because it meant he must have screwed up at least once.

  “Your first name doesn’t happen to be Bruce does it?” I asked.

  Mr. Black looked confused.

  “Uh, never mind. The point is you seem like a nice guy.” My voice was squeakier than I’d hoped. “Have you ever been married?”

  “Yep. Still am. Our ten-year anniversary’s coming up actually.” His manner was relaxed, as if he had all the time in the world. Like Aunt Alice when she’d caught me feeding my peanut-butter-smeared homework to the dog.

  “Wow. That’s great.” I’d been hoping he might have some sympathy for a fellow divorced person. Instead, I’d made myself jealous.

  “I wasn’t that fortunate, Mr. Black.” My dad once told me that people feel important hearing their own name, and you can use it to influence them. I needed any advantage I could get. “You see, my husband took out a big loan, and then dumped half of it on me in the divorce.”

  Mr. Black shifted his stance, and I silently thanked the builder for making the staircase out of cement. Anything else might have collapsed. “Sorry to hear that, ma’am. But I don’t make the rules. I just follow orders. And my orders are I gotta make you pay.”

  I swallowed hard and measured the distance between my chair and my apartment door. It wasn’t much. Actually, I was afraid there wasn’t enough room to open the door without shifting the chair first. Mr. Black must have seen me looking because he moved to block the door. That left a me-sized gap between his right shoulder and the railing. I darted through it and took off running.

  My bare feet slapped the concrete, making it hard to hear if he was in pursuit. When I reached the foot of the stairs, I risked a backward glance and saw he was only one flight behind me. I broke into a cold sweat and sprinted down the sidewalk, cursing myself for leaving the apartment without my keys as I raced past my Corvette. At least I had my phone. I held it out in front of me and dialed Connor without slowing down, narrowly missing a palm tree. It took forever to start ringing.

  “Isobel? Are you at the gym?” Connor asked.

  “The Hulk,” I gasped between breaths. “Chasing me.”

  Something in my tone must have convinced him this wasn’t a prank call. “I’m on my way. Where are you?”

  “Running. Rose Avenue.”

  “Keep me on the line. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  I clutched the phone in my hand and ran. As I swung a hard right up Kelton Avenue, I saw Mr. Black was closing in. He had a lot more weight to carry, but most of it was muscle. Muscle hired to break me.

  Sheer terror gave me an extra burst of speed, and I darted up a short side street and sprinted left at the end, praying I could get out of sight before he saw which way I’d gone. I looked back as I veered left again. He’d paused at the end of the short side street and was scanning the area for my escape route.

  Our eyes met.

  I ran on. I ran until I forgot how to breathe. My heart was pounding. My head was spinning. My feet were smarting. Even my boobs were aching from all the bra-free bouncing, and there wasn’t that mu
ch of them to bounce. I knew I couldn’t keep going much longer.

  My phone showed the call length was at thirteen minutes and thirty-seven seconds. Connor would be here soon. I risked another peek over my shoulder. The sidewalk was empty. No sign of Mr. Black. Had he given up the chase and decided to get me later? Or had he doubled back and was now driving one of the cars on the road?

  The thought made my heart beat even faster. If heartbeats were horses, I’d have a winner. As it was, I’d probably have a heart attack.

  I bolted past a thick privacy hedge. A second later, I reversed my tracks and dove behind it. Then I put my head between my knees and tried to gasp quietly.

  The hedge was so thick I couldn’t see anything through it. Fingers walked up and down my spine as I tried to convince myself I’d hear him coming. Hell. He was so big I’d feel him coming. A soft voice made me jump violently enough that I hurt my ass when I landed back on it.

  The voice was Connor’s. I raised my phone to my ear.

  “Isobel, I’m on Rose Avenue. Where are you?”

  All my instincts told me to stay quiet. What if Mr. Black was still after me on foot and in earshot?

  “Isobel?”

  The apprehension in his voice compelled me to answer. “I’m hiding behind a hedge.” I’d tried to stick close to Rose Avenue after telling Connor that’s where I was, but I’d changed directions and routes so many times since that I was as confused as I’d wanted Mr. Black to be.

  “Is anyone nearby? I need to know what street you’re on so I can find you.”

  I put a hand to my sweaty forehead and breathed in and out for a few beats before forcing my shaking legs back under me. “I’ll try to see.” Heart thundering, I peeked past the hedge. “Queensland Street.” I looked at the building behind me. “Number ten thousand, nine hundred and nineteen.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  I sank down to the cool soil. Long seconds ticked by. I told myself even if Mr. Black did find me now, Connor would arrive in time to stop him from breaking too many of my bones.

  A car rolled to a stop in front of the hedge. I got into a squat, ready to run.

  “Isobel?”

  Connor. A wave of relief almost sent me back to the ground.

  “I’m here.”

  He circled the hedge as I pushed myself to my feet. He didn’t hesitate. Even when he took in my ensemble of oversized Mumford & Sons T-shirt (which I’d stolen from my ex and used as a nightie), gray sweats, bare, blackened feet, aforementioned electrocuted zombie hairdo, and sweaty, red face. He strode over and pulled me into his arms.

  We stayed like that for a while. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  I was all right as long as he hadn’t noticed that my nipples were starting to get hard through the inadequate two layers of cotton between us. I drew back and crossed my arms over my chest. “I am now. Thanks for coming.”

  He dropped his gaze deliberately to my crossed arms and smiled. A real smile. “My pleasure.”

  I was abruptly glad he didn’t smile more often. It lit up his whole face and made my brain short-circuit, leaving my body all too ready to pursue its own agenda.

  It was lucky for my willpower that he broke the mood by walking toward the car. I was envisioning a hot—or cold—shower, when I realized I’d left the apartment door unlocked. My breath hitched. “Shit.”

  Connor scanned the area around us, his hand gravitating to his gun. “What’s wrong?”

  “Oliver and Meow might be in trouble.”

  “Who?”

  I yanked the car door open and clambered in. “Drive to my building. I’ll explain on the way.”

  He slipped into his seat and started driving.

  “Start from the beginning.”

  I took a deep breath and began talking.

  All appeared normal as we reached my street. It was eight o’clock, so the neighborhood was mostly awake, and I thought that boded well for Oliver and Meow. Connor parked illegally out front and raced up the stairs, hand hovering over his holster. I was close behind, despite my protesting feet. He opened the door, but had to move the chair before he could slip inside. That boded well too.

  The apartment was as I’d left it, including the flowers still covering the dining table. Connor raised an eyebrow at this but didn’t comment. I pointed to Oliver’s bedroom door and gave the universal gesture to be quiet. It was ajar, as he always left it, so Meow could come and go as she pleased. Connor pushed it open farther with a creak, and I winced, even knowing Oliver was a heavy sleeper. He’d probably even sleep through the screams and crunches of his housemate’s fingers being broken one by one.

  I peeked in. Meow was sleeping in the middle of the bed, while Oliver curled around her, fighting a losing battle between not disturbing her highness and keeping enough of his body in bed to stop from falling out of it. Smiling so wide my cheeks hurt, I retreated and pulled the door back to its Meow-friendly position behind me.

  Connor checked out the rest of the apartment. It didn’t take long. “All clear,” he said. “I’ll wait while you get ready.”

  Forty minutes later, I was showered and made up to the stylist’s standards once more, except for the flats I wore in concession to my blistered feet. They felt a lot worse now the adrenaline had worn off.

  I limped out to the open plan living area and stopped short. Connor was lounging on the sofa with Meow purring on his lap. Earlier I’d had too much on my mind to be struck by how odd it was to have the man of the custom-tailored clothes, expensive mansion, and impeccable taste (excluding coffee of course) in my humble apartment. Or to realize that the man I considered dangerous and unsympathetic was the first person I’d called when I was scared and vulnerable. I was suddenly conscious of both, as well as the warm feeling I got from seeing him curled up with Meow.

  I shoved the thoughts and feelings aside. “I believe we have work to do.”

  15

  Connor insisted I leave my Corvette and catch a ride with him. I was learning to pick my battles, so a few minutes later we were cruising down Palms Boulevard in his SUV.

  “How much do you need?” he asked.

  I knew exactly what he was referring to. Nine months of fifteen percent, interest-only payments on my $105,000 debt came to: “Eleven thousand, eight hundred and twelve dollars.”

  “Okay. So have the Taste Society advance you two months’ pay.”

  Two months’ pay would cover the last nine months as well as the next two and rent. Or the last nine months and a coffee machine. My shoulders slumped. “I can’t. I already submitted an application for an advance, and it was rejected.”

  His hands tightened around the steering wheel. “I’ll talk to the higher-ups for you.”

  “You think you have enough sway to convince them?” I shook my head.

  “I might.”

  “Forget it. I don’t want you calling in any favors for me.”

  “Consider it the company protecting their investment. They’ve just spent eight months training you and months before that identifying and screening you. Not to mention I’ve had to put up with you for four days. It’s wasteful for everyone if you get taken out of action.”

  “While that’s heartwarming, I’m not accepting a handout from them before I’ve even secured the job.”

  “It’s not a handout. It’s a loan.”

  “That’s how I got into this mess in the first place,” I pointed out.

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake.” I hoped the steering wheel wouldn’t turn to mush in his hands. It would make driving difficult. “What do you want me to do, then? Leave it be and wonder if you’re being brutalized every minute I’m not with you?”

  “No. Give me something to defend myself with.”

  At least he didn’t laugh.

  “You think you can defend yourself against the Hulk?”

  “Isn’t there some move you can teach me? Some vulnerable spot I can whack to knock him off his feet?”

  “Sure. But
it would take months of training for you to pull it off consistently. And even then he might disable you before you get a chance, or you might panic in the heat of the moment.”

  I huffed. “There’s got to be something.”

  “There is. Pepper spray. Then you run like hell again and call me.”

  I thought about it for a minute. “I can work with that.”

  “And you have to promise me that as soon as you pass this assessment and secure the job, you’ll take that advance payment.”

  “Okay,” I agreed. I had no desire to play the high stakes version of hide-and-seek with Mr. Black for two months. I just didn’t want to take out a second loan from a second dangerous organization that I had no way of repaying. Easier to dodge one debt collector than two.

  We stopped at a traffic light. “Give me your phone,” Connor said.

  “Why?” I asked as I handed it over.

  He ignored me and started tapping on the screen.

  “What are you doing?”

  He held the phone out to me. “Type in your password.”

  “Not until you tell me what you’re doing.”

  A muscle in his jaw twitched. “I’m installing an app that will allow me to access the phone’s GPS signal, so if this happens again, which it probably will thanks to your pigheadedness, I can find you. Okay?”

  I typed in my password. He tapped the screen a few more times and handed it back to me as the light turned green.

  “So, can we go to Blu Jam Café?” I asked.

  “Why?”

  “I need coffee.”

  “There’s coffee at my place.”

  “Doesn’t count.”

  He exhaled through his nose but changed lanes. “Okay, but only because you got chased by the Hulk this morning.”

  I sipped my espresso and closed my eyes in bliss. Ah, the joy of the properly sourced, roasted, aged, and extracted coffee. When I opened them, I saw Connor grimacing over the long black I’d made him order.

  “You know your nose wrinkles when you do that?” I asked, even though it didn’t.