Escaping Reality

by Lisa Renee Jones

  isn’t an option to me, let alone relaxing with a man I barely know to the

  extent I sleep through the opening and shutting of doors. Liam was good

  for one night, a bridge to the next day in the face of a crisis. I’m on the

  other side. I hope.

  ***

  Thirty minutes later, I’ve showered, and I’m looking ridiculous in my

  new t-shirt and a skirt, with high heels I intend to replace quickly, but the

  t-shirt seems better than a gaping blouse.

  To add to my disorderly appearance, I stare at the light blonde

  poofball that is my hair in the absence of a styling product and a flat iron,

  and decide I look like I just stuck my finger in a light socket. I am what my

  mother would have called a “hot mess”, and I try to hear her voice in my

  head and fail, which is why I normally don’t try. Failing hurts.

  Giving up on my appearance, I snatch my small purse and head to the

  kitchen table, and put all my new cards and ID in my wallet. Gathering my

  lease and the cell phone I intend to return to Liam, I decide I need to take

  my now empty carry-on with me. I load it up with my purse, paperwork,

  and the phone. I’ll be dropping it by Liam’s hotel sooner than later to avoid

  any chance of running into him. And thanks to the to-do list I wrote and

  rewrote about five times before I dried my hair, I head to the door feeling a

  tad more in control than when I woke up. Lists do that for me. I write things

  out when I need structure. I rewrite them when I still don’t feel I have it all

  pulled together. Or I clean and organize. Or I write lists in between cleaning

  and organizing. Maybe that should be my cover. I’ll be a maid. No one

  would expect to find my father’s daughter cleaning up after other people,

  and it would control my stress. It isn’t my dream career, or what I went to

  school for, but I have to find a way to get back to where I was before the

  museum, where surviving was more important than dreaming.

  I step into the hallway outside the apartment (I’m not ready to call it

  “my apartment”) and I’m locking up when I hear the door directly behind

  me open and shut. I turn and jolt to find myself locked in the penetrating

  stare of a man as tall and devastatingly male as Liam, but that is about

  where the comparison stops. While Liam has a worldly, refined, and

  somehow edgy air about him, this man is a rugged bad boy from his torn,

  faded jeans to his long, light brown hair tied at his nape.

  “New to the neighborhood?” he asks, shifting a leather backpack to

  one of his

  impressively broad shoulders, and my gaze falls and finds his Dallas

  Cowboys t-shirt, and the link it represents to what was once my home

  momentarily knocks my breath away.

  “You okay?” he asks, and my gaze jerks to his. Was I obviously

  rattled? I’m never obviously rattled. “You look like you saw a ghost.”

  “Yes,” I say quickly, silently warning myself this could be a trap, a way

  to lure me into admitting some connection to a past I cannot claim. “I’m

  new to the neighborhood. I just moved in last night.”

  His gaze flickers over my clothing and lingers on my t-shirt, the way

  my gaze had on his.

  “Just a hunch,” he comments, “but moving here from New York?”

  “Yes,” I confirm, hugging myself, embarrassed by the reminder that I

  am a frizzy, mismatched mess, “and unfortunately, my clothes didn’t make

  it from the airport.” I sound nervous. I am nervous, and I only wish I had the

  luxury to let it be about his good looks, not his intentions. But I do not. “My

  outfit is certainly a way to make an impression.”

  “I’ve lost a few bags in my time,” he says, and his words are as warm

  as the interest I see his eyes. He’s warm and oddly familiar in some way

  that I cannot identify, but it doesn’t make me uneasy. In fact, it’s

  comfortable. “And,” he adds, his voice a little softer, “I don’t think you need

  a t-shirt to make an impression.” He motions to the elevators. “I’ll ride

  down with you.” He starts walking.

  I stare after him, trying to dissect what he meant. I don’t need a

  t-shirt to make an impression? Is that good or bad? Bad. It’s bad. No matter

  the reason, I don’t need to be leaving impressions of any sort on anyone.

  Double-stepping, I hurry behind him to catch up and again remind myself of

  what time has taught me. Bad hair and funny clothes bring attention just

  like being overtly sexy does. I have to fade into the background, play mousy

  librarian like I have in the past. Or clean houses, or whatever it might be.

  I’ve lost the library as a cover. Anything I once did I can no longer do.

  We stop at the elevator and he punches the button. “I’m Jared

  Ryan.”

  “Amy,” I provide, and force myself to say more and embrace this new

  identity in a believable way. “Amy Bensen. Nice to meet you. You live in the

  apartment across from me?”

  “For a month or so,” he says, but doesn’t offer more. I want him to

  offer more. “What brings you to Denver?”

  I have no idea why, but I feel like a deer in headlights. The doors to

  the elevator open and I rush inside, tired of spinning tales. “I hear there’s a

  great mall right up the road,” I reply as he joins me inside. “That’s all a girl

  needs.”

  He steps into the car, tilting his head and studying me. I punch the

  button to the elevator and the doors shut instantly. He keys in the floor.

  “You moved here for a mall you’ve never checked out?”

  So much for familiar being comfortable. “It’s been a long time.” It’s

  not a lie. Never is a long time. A very long time. “How far away is it?”

  “Cross at the stoplight and you’ll be at the mall.”

  I don’t like how keenly he is looking at me. Like Liam, he sees too

  much and I think his one-month stay is probably a good thing. The doors

  slide open and I don’t waste any time escaping to the walkway outside, a

  high wind lifting my hair around my shoulders.

  Jared joins me and motions down the sidewalk. “Just walk straight

  and you will run right into the mall.”

  “Thanks. Nice to meet you. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again.”

  He steps a bit closer. Really close, actually, and I can smell his

  cologne. It’s warm like the man, and it reminds me of Texas cedar on a

  spring day. He glances downward, his gaze landing on my feet, and he

  inspects my open-toed shoes and my pink painted toes for so long, blood

  rushes to my cheeks. Over my feet. That’s a new one.

  His attention lifts, eyes narrowing almost suspiciously. “Are you

  walking in those shoes?”

  “It’s close. I’ll be fine.”

  “You want a ride?”

  Yes. No. Yes. No. No. No. Not only does Jared see too much, he has

  this easiness about him that would make running my mouth far too easy. “I

  appreciate the offer, but I’d like to go explore my new neighborhood.”

  He considers my reply for a moment, his lashes lowering, and then

  lifting. “I’d offer to show you around, but I have a meeting.”

  It could be a polite comment without meaning, but there is />
  something in his eyes that tell me it’s not. I believe he would take me and

  show me around and I would gobble up the opportunity to talk about my

  old home state, or really, to just talk about anything. If things were

  different. If I were really Amy Bensen.

  “We’re neighbors.” Dang it, I sound hoarse, almost emotional, not

  casual and friendly.

  What is wrong with me? “I’m sure we’ll see each other.”

  “I’m sure we will,” he agrees, and there is a rasp to his voice that

  carries a hidden meaning beyond the obvious. I search his eyes and I

  think…I think he feels this familiar comfortable thing I feel, too.

  I lift my hand in a parting gesture. “See you soon,” I reply, and

  somehow I make myself turn and start walking, but my steps are heavy and

  slow, my body like lead, weariness seeping into my bones. I can feel Jared’s

  stare, and I can feel him willing me to turn back around. And I want to. I

  want to with a desperateness I can barely contain. The museum has given

  me a taste of what “normal” feels like, what friendship feels like, and I miss

  Chloe already. And I miss the tiny window of time when I walked around

  corners without fearing what was on the other side.

  I pass two stores and I swear I can still feel Jared watching me. Why

  would he still be watching me? The hair on my nape prickles and I start to

  think about Jared’s “Texas” shirt and the way he’d questioned me about

  not knowing the area. He’s familiar. Why is he familiar? I don’t know. I am

  suddenly glad I didn’t cave and ask about the shirt, and that I didn’t answer

  his questions with any more detail.

  At the corner, I stop by a bank, and I rotate to face the door, pausing

  before entering the building to look for Jared, but he is nowhere obvious. A

  funny, knotted sensation tightens in my belly and it’s not comfortable at all.

  In fact, it’s downright uncomfortable, which is crazy. I have every reason to

  be relieved that he is gone, and as I enter the building, the cash machine

  appearing to my left, I have every reason to focus on what’s important. Like

  answering the question of how much cash I have to survive.

  I pull my wallet from my purse and pull out the card I’d used during

  my life in New York and stare down at it. The desire to claim my cash from

  the bank and know I have it is powerful, but out of the blue, an image of

  Liam comes to my mind. He’s a billionaire, a man who has the money to

  find out anything he wants to know about just about anyone, including me.

  How do I know that whoever is chasing me doesn’t have just as much

  money? What if my cards are all flagged or tracked in some way? I sigh with

  painful resignation and slip my card back into my wallet. If I touch that

  money it has to be on my way out of town, or maybe the country. My gut

  says I should keep my cash card and my old identification that lets me

  withdraw larger amounts in my purse, just in case.

  Removing the new card my handler has given me, I slide it into the

  machine and punch in the code I’ve been given, searching for my balance.

  My name comes up on the account and I wonder how my handler managed

  to set up the account without my signature. My balance is $5000. My new

  rent is $2200, but it’s paid for this month already. I have no idea if I really

  will get more money as promised, and I’m too cautious to assume I will.

  That means I have to hold onto two months’ rent to feel secure until I see

  another cash deposit in this account. That leaves me with $800 to buy

  clothes and food. I’ll need more money to survive. Please let there be more

  money.

  My head begins to spin and I remind myself my handler said he’d

  deposit weekly installments into this account, but when? On what day? Do I

  have utility bills to consider? I remove the card and head into the lobby.

  There is no way I’m letting anyone, not even my handler, track me by my

  card number. I’m withdrawing all the money now.

  ***

  Fifteen minutes later, I’m in a dressing room in a store by the mall,

  wearing a pair of black shorts and a pink tank top, with a cheap, but cute,

  pair of black Colosseum-style sandals on my feet. And what a relief they

  are. In only a few blocks my feet are blistered—or, as my father used to say,

  my dogs are barking. I’m going to take the tags to the cash register and

  wear my clothes out of the store.

  I’m just gathering together several other small items, enough to

  make three cost-effective outfits that I can wash and rotate, when the

  phone in my bag starts ringing. I sit down on the wooden bench against the

  wall and listen to it, fighting the urge to pull it from the bag. I should have

  taken the phone by the hotel first, but the idea of walking into that fancy

  place with my t-shirt and skirt on was too much. And now it’s ringing and it

  can be only one person. Liam. Liam is calling me and I want to answer.

  Without a conscious decision to do so, I reach in my bag and pull out

  the box holding the phone. It stops ringing and starts back up almost

  instantly. I set the box down on the seat and stare at it like it’s some kind of

  alien. It stops ringing again and my stomach twists and turns like rope in a

  tangled mess. I’m a tangled mess. A beeping sound comes next. A message.

  Liam has left a message and I don’t even think. As if I want to prove I am

  indeed a mess, I snatch up the box and open it, punching the message line

  and listening.

  I haven’t heard from you and we both know you’re in some kind of

  trouble. Call me, Amy.

  Don’t text. I need to know you are okay. If I don’t hear from you in the

  next fifteen minutes I’m leaving my meeting and heading to your

  apartment.

  A thunderstorm of emotions rushes through me, and I let the phone

  drop to my lap. Liam is worried about me? He’s going to leave a meeting to

  check on me? He barely knows me. Why would he do that? We both know

  you’re in some kind of trouble. I squeeze my eyes shut, conflicted clear to

  my soul. No one worries about me. No one should know enough to know to

  worry about me. But Liam does. He does and I want him to. I want him. The

  phone starts to ring again and I can barely catch my breath. I have to talk to

  him, and I tell myself it’s not because some deep part of me craves the

  sound of his voice. I have to turn him away and be convincing.

  For him. For his safety. Money can buy things, and even people, but

  it can’t keep him alive. Not from a threat I don’t understand enough to

  explain.

  I draw a breath and answer the call. “Hello.”

  “Amy,” Liam says, and somehow my name is both a command and a

  caress.

  “Liam,” I reply and I like how my name sounds on his lips. I also like

  how his name feels on my tongue. Even more so. I like how his tongue feels

  against mine, how he feels when I am with him.

  “You didn’t text me like I told you to.”

  Normally I would bristle at the command, but it takes effort to

  muster objection. “I’m not good at taking orders, Liam.”

  “Is that why you didn’t text
me?” His voice is softer now, his tone too

  intimate and yet still not intimate enough to satisfy the craving his voice

  creates in me. I will myself to say more, to say goodbye, but I can’t get the

  words out. I settle on, “I’m going to drop the phone by your hotel. I can’t

  accept it.”

  “It’s a gift.”

  “I pay my own way.”

  “The money is nothing to me and everything to you.”

  This time I do bristle. Money is nothing to me beyond basic survival.

  “Your money is nothing to me, Liam.”

  “And while that makes me immensely happy in some way, Amy, it

  does not now, when we are talking about the phone. Money is just money.

  You are right. But your safety is another story. You need the phone.”

  I think of the phone my handler gave me, and it bothers me he can

  track me. He can perhaps see my phone records. But won’t Liam be able to

  do the same? “I’ll get my own phone.”

  “Use this one until you do.”

  I open my mouth to object and he seems to read my thoughts.

  “Compromise, Amy.”

  Compromise. And while I feel that is all I have done my entire life, it

  is strangely appealing with Liam, maybe because it implies there is a

  relationship between us that there isn’t.

  Is there? “I can’t keep the phone.”

  “At least keep it and use it until we can talk about it tonight.”

  Tonight? “No. No there isn’t a tonight. I can’t see you anymore.”

  Silence. One beat. Two. “There is that word again,” he observes, and

  then repeats, “We’ll talk tonight, Amy.”

  “No, Liam. No.”

  “You think you’re alone but you aren’t.”

  “Because I have you now?”

  “Yes. I know you don’t believe that, but you will. Soon, baby, you

  will.”

  The idea of having him is bittersweet in so many ways I can’t tick

  them off in a year.

  “You don’t know what I think or what is important to me.”

  “I know enough. The rest I want to find out.”

  “No.” But it sounds like yes. “I won’t be here tonight. I have plans.”

  Like locking myself in that cage of an apartment and going nowhere.

  “I’m not going away, Amy. You do know that, don’t you?”

  His voice is possessive, a rasp of sandpaper over my nerve endings

  followed by pure silk, and it does funny things to my stomach. “I don’t need