by Rimmy London
If you take my hand
Rimmy . London
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 1
“Yes,” I repeated, struggling to sprinkle princessy politeness into the words. “Let me assure you that your appointment is secured. Mr. Ginetti will be waiting at 2 o’clock tomorrow.”
“That’s a good girl,” he lulled, ending our call with an infuriating little ‘beep’. I underlined the man's appointment, running the knife-sharp pencil lead over the scheduled time until with a gust of breath I made a fist around the #2 and dug into the paper. It shredded away, leaving an open mouth of terror gaping across the formerly tidy schedule book. My tantrum ended with flushed cheeks and a glance over my shoulder. I tore the page away, replacing it and updating the schedule again. With a huff, I grumbled that if Mr. Ginetti didn’t insist on paper records it all could have been avoided.
Days end came early on Fridays, but the thought didn’t cheer me. All I had to do was think of my empty apartment and total absence of plans, and I was wishing for a full workday - overtime even. Anything to keep reality from catching up. My college roommates would be the perfect antidote. If they’d stuck around. But Los Angeles was too crowded with college grads. In the sagging market, the fact that I had secured a job one week after graduation was impressive. The zeros behind my annual salary were impressive. The fortress-like oil company was illustrious. They had even dangled the gem of Chief Financial Officer. Everything about the job was envy-worthy, except for the fact that I wasn’t actually doing that job. Not the one I applied for.
I huffed into my hands, rubbing my face and standing to lift myself out of the fog of discouragement that had settled. Tidying up the small reception room consisted of closing the schedule book. Even in that time, my eyes had pulled my attention to the gallery window, its artwork simply the view beyond. Pacific coastline stretched in both directions, meeting with homes like displays of architecture fighting to be seen. Beyond the lineup of progress were golden hills with deep green oaks scattered throughout like flecks of pepper in its tawny hair. The crashing of waves against cliff face softened from hundreds of feet up, their ferocity only a push of soft bubbled water, something a child could run its hand over. I twisted the blinds, cutting the view into slits before bathing myself in shadow.
There was one thing that made my lips perk up from their downward trend, and as I entered the parking garage I unlocked it with a click. The faint shade of blue was untraceable in the deep cool of the parking garage, but once sunlight danced off its surface, it was hard to ignore. Never had a company car inspired such envy. My anxiety of appearing out of place in a corporate world with my rancher’s daughter upbringing had vanished on the first day, particularly with this gift. I twisted the keys. An alarming chug-thump stopped my spirits mid-flight. I tried again, willing the engine to obey. It produced only a chug. One more time. Nothing. With a groan my forehead bumped against the steering wheel, my hair forming a honey curtain around my face. Ending the final act in a miserable day. Applause. Stand and stretch. Go buy your trinkets and look forward to the next show. I twisted the keys again with my face still buried in wavy locks, hearing only a faint whine from deep within the metal body. “Seriously?” I whined back. “C’mon, don’t do this.”
“Problems Ms. Lane?”
I jumped - an obvious, pathetic thing that I tried to turn into a more dignified movement. Something that said confidence. Something that said city girl. Regardless, Mr.Ginett had a definite grin across his mouth when our eyes met. I stepped from the car, closing the door and smoothing one hand across my skirt. “Well, yes. I’m not sure what I did, but the battery’s dead.” With a shrug, I looped my purse over one shoulder and glanced to the street. There was sure to be a bus stop close by.
“Hmm,” Mr.Ginetti opened the car door, angling himself inside and twisting the keys. The same faint whine ended with a click as he gave up, pulling the keys from the ignition and nodding back at me. “Definitely dead,” he answered, smiling with tight lips like an attempt to subdue laughter. I swallowed my irritation, grumbling inwardly about spoiled wealthy Presidents of industry. “Here.” He pulled something from his pocket and tossed it to me. In the darkness, I couldn’t tell what it was until my hand closed around the object.
Keys.
But not my keys. I shook my head at him, sure the stress of driving his car might give me a heart attack. “Just take one of mine,” he said, ignorant to my panic. “Clearly yours had some type of malfunction, and it is, therefore, my fault that you’re left with no way home.” He had already turned, walking back to the building’s entrance. “Just be careful with that one. She’s my favorite.”
My eyes bulged out a little. “Wait, Mr.Ginetti, I can’t possibly… ”
“Goodnight Ms.Lane.” The doors slid open and he walked through, turning back to smile again before they closed after him. I opened my hand, recognizing the familiar three-pronged Maserati logo.
“Oh no. Please, not a scratch.”
* * *
Pushing the gas pedal a little deeper, I watched the speedometer as if it had a mind of its own and might zip ahead without warning. But the pleasant smell of warm leather and stillness of the car under me were soothing and threatened to lull me into enjoying myself. I imagine racing down the lanes ahead and winding through traffic. It would be so easy. I could feel the way the tires gripped the road, aching to be challenged. The drivers surrounding me were no doubt confused when comparing the style of car to the style of driving. They were polar opposites. But I didn’t care. There was no way I would risk damaging my boss’s car - a car that was worth more than my annual salary.
My forehead cooled as sweat built up along my hairline, and with a glance over one shoulder, I changed lanes. Glancing again, my head snapped forward, my cheeks flushing. The car had been in my blind spot, but that wasn’t what surprised me. It was the passenger only inches away, his sunglasses pulled down. On his face was a twisted expression of complete hatred. I could feel his eyes lingering, although I doubted he could see anything through the blackened windows beside his own reflection. Finally, his car accelerated, the color of liquid charcoal, and weaved through the lanes. Inching the wheel over I peered between the growing traffic, expecting to get another glimpse of the stranger. But there was nothing. I shook off the tension and relaxed into my seat in time to see an exit sign whiz by. Only two more to go, I was almost home.
Before my relief had settled, a deep ripping echoed down the freeway, and explosions so loud they expelled a gust of pressure with each one. I gasped, taking the wheel in both hands. I could see nothing out of place, the drivers around me caught in the same cautious neck craning, google-eyed surveillance as I was. My ears rang, and I desperately searched the cars in front of me. Clouds of smoke billowed from somewhere ahead. Horns honked. Someone behind me yelled - not a panicked voice, but an angered one on the edge of a fiery temper. I tapped the brake, not wanting to get plowed into from behind. Gradually a pathway opened up in front of me, traffic still barreling forward as cars inc
hed to the sides of the road. The semi-truck a few cars ahead shook and began to swerve erratically with the cloud of smoke following it like a cape. The cab turned, the driver struggling to steady the load it carried. Strapped to the bed, thick cords held a cement pipe with a circumference wide enough to swallow Mr.Ginetti’s shiny car. The bed of the truck jackknifed and I slammed on the breaks. Behind me, there was a ricocheting of tires screeching against asphalt. The semi’s back tires jumped and skidded across the pavement like a washboard, throwing the pipe visibly up from its bed. Cars crowded to the right and left, trying to find a safe spot. My priceless Maserati was between them all, with nowhere to go - nothing to do as the tires finally caught asphalt and held. The trailer tilted, barely keeping together as the weight shifted, and the pipe’s crushing mass swayed back, heading right for me.
The resounding snap of the first cord seemed to echo in my heart, and my eyes locked on the rear cord, waiting for the inevitable. But miraculously it held. The pipe pivoted from the back and careened into the two cars in front of me with a sickening crunch. I stomped both feet on the brakes as a mass of sliding metal missed the front bumper by inches. The pipe tipped the trailer on its side and gouged a deep trench in the asphalt before finally grinding to a stop.
The sudden silence that came echoed in my ears.
No one moved around me as dust pushed through in clouds, and I imagined they were all doing what I was. Eyes closed, I held my hands to my chest and the rhythm of my heart. A precious reminder that I was still alive. The distant sound of sirens was like a dream, and I looked up in time to see a glossy black car. It sped like a hallucination across the overpass that led to my apartment.
Traffic started again more quickly than I would have thought, winding its way around the wreckage. Following the maze-like route distracted me from the way my hands had begun to tremble in a slight vibration. But by the time it took me to reach my front door I was nearly hyperventilating. The ominous black car dominated my thoughts. What if they had caused the accident? The ridiculous idea somehow seemed reasonable after such a horrendous event. But the way he had looked at me… maybe they know where I live. My keys jingled when I tried to make my shaking hand connect with the lock. After another paranoid glance behind me, I jammed the keys in and pushed the door. Scanning the house quickly I hurled myself inside, wrenched the door closed, and turned the deadbolt in the same instant. The more I thought about it, the more my mind wrapped around the thought. That man had caused the accident. The one in the passenger’s seat. The one who had glared at me like I was the only thing on the planet worth hating.
I flicked on the TV and a weather lady cheered the quiet gloom of my apartment with her exuberant voice. Sun, sun, sun, sun…not much research to do there. Halfway to the kitchen, I stopped with my eyes still glued to the screen. It was the Maserati, shown again and again inches from the wreckage. The news seemed eager to report such an impressive accident. They rambled off information, the cause of the explosion being that every tire on the semi-truck had apparently blown. My forehead crinkled, trying to think of a scenario that would make that fact remotely possible. Even if there were nails scattered in piles across the freeway, I doubted that every tire would blow. And how was it that none of the other vehicles were affected?
Ignoring the ingredients I had set out for a balanced meal, I poured a bowl of cereal. The news had moved on, of course. So many terrible things to report, so little time. It was like life had simply swept any mystery under the rug. Switching to a late-night show, I lip-read over the crunch, my cereal dribbling a bit in my unsteady hand.
It wasn’t until I crawled into bed that I realized how violently I was shaking. Clenching my hands together and opening them again, I watched my fingertips shudder. The many dangers of shock crossed my mind, but my heavy eyelids didn’t seem to care one way or the other, and even in the midst of pondering my condition I fell asleep. But while it might have been sleep, it wasn’t rest. The darkness in my mind became aggressive, deep colors and angry voices assaulting me almost the second my eyes had closed. A few short hours later I was shaking hard, dragged to consciousness from the violence of my dreams and the heat from my skin. It radiated against my light flannel sheets. Kicking my feet, I hurled them off the bed. After managing the few steps to the bathroom, I laid my head on the cool marble counter and reached up to raid the medicine cabinet. I swallowed two precious pain pills with as many glasses of water. It didn’t cross my mind to ask for help. It wasn’t something I often did. Burying myself in blankets I slowly drifted into a quieter sleep.
* * *
Sunshine glinted in my eyes. Waking up felt like swallowing adrenaline - like filling with energy the way a sparkling drink fills a glass. I stood in the bathroom, the cold tile tingling against my toes, and evaluated my reflection. Healthy, cool breath stretched my lungs, and my fears the night before were suddenly embarrassing. I laughed at myself in the mirror, stopping after I lost some toothpaste from my mouth.
My mood improved even more on the way to work. I surprised myself by looking forward to another day at Shellbrook, even if my job was not yet fulfilling, and allowed the Maserati to inch towards the speed limit. It was like I had pushed a reset button where nothing had changed but me. Practically skipping down the hall, I turned a corner to the reception room only to skid to a stop at the sound of voices. Angry voices. My euphoric morning recoiled. I didn’t need to open the door to know who the first man was. Mr. Ginetti’s voice held a tint of thunder, but the other man wasn’t familiar, although he threw Italian words into the argument as easily as Marco Ginetti did.
“Ms. Lane could have been killed Marco, what then?!” I flinched at the sound of my name.
“Van, let me repeat, you don’t need to worry about this. There was an accident. No one got hurt. Finito.” Mr. Ginetti had managed to force some calm into his words.
“And let me repeat Marco,” The second man had hushed to a growl. “That I know you’re keeping something from me. I see it in your eyes, and I will find out what’s going on. I’m your partner in this - learn to trust me!” The door swung open with the last word, this new man charging out of the reception room and almost right past me. But when he looked up he met my stare and stopped with a skid of carpet underfoot. His shaded green eyes told the story of his thoughts, moving from surprised, to irritated, to confused, to a bit enlightened. I waited.
“You’re Ms. Lane,” he stated, dipping his chin down a fraction and lifting his eyebrows. In the time it took me to swallow a breath I was able to capture his dark hair, brown deep enough to pass for black, and the smooth olive skin, a shade darker than Marcos. The sea green of his eyes was something I’d never seen before. I found myself liking him immediately. My cheeks felt warmer as I stepped forward.
“Yes,” I answered plainly, feeling the need to explain, but not sure what.
“Hmm,” He rolled back on his feet a little with his hands coming to his hips. His youth was obvious - I doubted he was much older than me. But the tension on his face told the tale that his limited years had seen much more than mine. “I…” He chewed on the words, the worry in his eyes seeming to silence him. I fidgeted in his steady gaze, trying to read what was so concerning. Was there something I needed to know? Was my job at risk? Because surely he couldn’t be this worried about my almost accident. He didn’t even know me. “I’m Givanni. Glad to meet you,” he finally choked out, looking like he wanted to say something else entirely. “Mr. Ginetti is my uncle.” I smiled and nodded toward the office, hoping to bring our meeting closer to a normal one.
“Mr. Ginetti has been a very gracious boss. It’s so good to meet you Givanni.” But instead of smoothing things over, Givanni’s brows knit together as if the many conflicts in his head were arguing. Only silence followed and he seemed completely absorbed in me, studying my face like it was utterly perplexing. My cheeks became warmer still and I dropped my eyes, not sure what to make of his strange behavior. “I’m sorry,” He quickly returned
to the present. “Yes - it’s very good to meet you. I was just… ” He shifted his weight. “Just wanted to let you know that this company has had trouble in the past. Enough to worry some. Well, enough to worry me.” I studied the look in his eyes. It had me doubting that his troubles were over budget mishaps or company retreats.
“Is that what the discussion was about?” I encouraged. His lip curved upward, creating a slight crease on one side of his mouth. He watched the way I awkwardly waved one hand toward the office before letting it drop. But his smile fell quickly, and he shook his head.
“Yes and no,” he huffed, frustration lining the words. “Can I just tell you to… ” He brought one hand to my arm. “To be careful Ms. Lane.” His eyes settled like mist over morning grass, encompassing me with their color, and I suddenly thought of the man in the car. My body tensed at the memory. What I had laughed off an hour ago now seemed more significant.
“I’ll be careful,” I returned, the words almost a whisper. I wanted to tell him my thoughts - to ask him what he knew. Maybe he could calm my overactive imagination. But after studying his face and the worry it held, I changed my mind. “You can call me Ella,” I said instead.
“Of course Ms. Lane,” he answered. I pressed my lips together at the title, but he only dragged a hand through his hair, the mess on his head matching my opinion of his nerves. A little tangled. He pulled on his suit coat and seemed to straighten out his thoughts as well as the fabric. “Also, I meant to let you know, your car is running again. Quite well.” He held up my keys.
