by Jillian Dodd
“How did you find me?"
"I followed the breadcrumbs. You toured with him this summer. I heard he was going to be here. Took a chance. So, where are they keeping you?"
"Here in Florida," I lie. "I'm in a witness protection program. So, you found me? You’ve found me a couple times before, but I keep getting away.” I try to make my voice sound like I'm unaffected by him.
But I’m so affected.
I will my body not to tremble.
Don’t let him know you’re scared, Keatyn.
Vincent’s still gripping my waist so tightly that I know it’s going to leave a mark.
“You won’t be getting away this time. So here's how it's gonna go down. First, we’re going to dance. You want to be an actress; consider this your biggest role. You're going to dance with me like you were dancing with that boy at your birthday party."
I can't hide the surprise from my face.
Vincent nods, gripping my waist tighter. "Yes. I was watching. Even went to visit him in Oregon. He didn't know a thing. Not even your best friend, Vanessa, seems to know where they've been keeping you. She's quite the fun little distraction though. From what I understand, you left without saying goodbye to your friends."
"I just told you I’m in the witness protection program. Even my family doesn't know where I am.” I put on a French accent and say, "I am a foreign exchange student named Michelle."
"You're not going to say goodbye to anyone tonight either. After we dance, you'll accompany me to my car and we’re going home."
"Home?"
“Yes. We'll start filming immediately. I have everything prepared."
"And what if I scream? There are a lot of people here."
"I have a gun, Abby. If you even move wrong, I'll start shooting. And I'll start with your friend, Damian. He's scheduled to go onstage about now."
The music stops. Damian walks out onto the stage.
I can’t let him kill Damian.
“My name’s not Abby. I’m Keatyn. Don’t you remember that? I’m Abby’s daughter.”
He just grins at me.
The kind of grin that makes my skin crawl.
“We’re going to dance. Now.”
He pulls me out onto the dance floor and pulls me into his arms.
I put my hands on his back but I can't move them.
I can’t make them move. I don’t want to touch him.
Anywhere.
He pulls me in close and runs his hands all over me. Down my back. Cupping my ass. Down the outsides of my thighs.
I feel like I'm going to throw up.
"It feels so good to finally have you in my arms. I heard we just missed each other at Long Beach."
"How do you know that?"
He grins. "I have my ways. And then we met again in New York City. Wasn't that something? Cat and mouse chase through the streets. We may have to add that to the movie. It was very exciting." He pauses. "You're not dancing with me like you did him. Move your hands," he commands.
My mind is going a thousand miles a minute. Don't make a scene here. Just do what he says. Then when he tries to get you out to his car, you can fight him.
Punch him.
Run.
Get the gun.
Something.
The gun. That's it.
I'll get the gun and use it on him.
Where could it be?
In the movies, they always tuck them in the small of their back. I swallow and move my hands. I close my eyes and try to pretend that he's anyone but Vincent.
I run my hands up the inside of his jacket, trying to make it feel sexy and not like a pat down.
"That's it, Abby," he says, smoothing the back of my hair. "God, that feels good."
Shit.
There is no gun in his waistband.
Shoulder harness?
I move my hands back to his chest, work my way up to his collarbone, then move under his arms and down his side.
He shoves his leg between mine, then moves his hands down my body. "I know what you're doing," he whispers.
Shit.
He knows.
"What am I doing?" I say, in my coyest and sexiest voice.
"You're trying to get me all turned on so I can't think straight."
Oh, thank god. He doesn’t know I’m trying to find the gun.
"Is it working?" I purr.
He gives me a grin that if I didn't know how sick he is, would have made my heart flutter.
My heart is fluttering, but it's a bad way.
I'm going to have a heart attack way.
"I almost forgot," he says. "I did something just for you." He pushes me back just a little, flips over his hand, and shows me the chaos tattoo on his wrist. "Now we match."
“I heard about Tiny. How he died in a mugging gone bad. Suspiciously the same way your mother died.”
Vincent smiles a sick smile. “I heard that too. You really have to be careful on the streets these days. Bad stuff can happen to anyone.”
“Is that a threat?”
“No, Abby. It’s a promise.” He tucks his fingers under the waistband of my skirt and pushes it down slowly.
I know what he wants. He wants to see my tattoo.
I back away quickly, causing his hand to fall in front of him.
He grabs my arm and squeezes hard, pulls me back close, and gets in my face. "Don't even think about it. I want to see your tattoo. Now."
I hesitate.
“I said now."
I lean my back away from him and slide my skirt down a little further on my hips so that my tattoo is visible.
He puts his wrist against my skin.
Making our tattoos touch.
He keeps his hand in place but pulls the rest of my body back in closer.
"It's like our tattoos are making love," he says.
He pushes his hips further into mine so I can feel how this has aroused him.
I can barely choke back the bile in my throat.
I really feel like I’m going to puke.
Maybe that would be a good idea. If I puked, wouldn’t someone come help me?
Or would he say that I’m sick and he is taking me home. No one would believe he was being anything other than helpful.
My chin is up by his shoulder so he can't see my face.
I allow myself a moment to be horrified.
To stop acting.
I shut my eyes tight. Breathe heavily and try to keep myself from crying.
"Keep doing that," Vincent says. "That way you’re breathing. Having our tattoos touch is turning you on too, isn’t it?"
I can't say anything.
I can't act anymore.
I cannot do this.
I just nod my head into his, so he thinks I am agreeing.
"Abby, god, this is amazing," he says, pulling me closer and rubbing his tattoo harder up and down against mine.
Gun.
Remember the gun.
Find the gun.
Get away.
I move my hands down his chest. To his front pants pockets.
He moans again. “Abby. Abby.”
I still don’t feel a gun.
Instead, I feel his erection.
Definitely not a gun.
That leaves his ankle. James always keeps a spare gun in an ankle holster.
I pull myself closer to Vincent and slide my foot down the side of his left leg.
I don’t feel a holster.
That leaves his right leg. Which I should have checked first. He’s right handed. Of course, it would be on the right side. A plan forms in my head. I’m going to find the gun. Shake into him or something. Drop it low. Get the gun. Tell him to get the fuck out of here and that if he touches my tattoo one more time, I’m going to shoot him.
But then I’d be the crazy person in the club with a gun.
I’d have to kill him, so he’d have no defense. So that he couldn’t make up a story.
I have to kill him.
"What
the—” Vincent says.
Vincent is shoved away from me and knocked to the ground in a blur.
Dallas grabs my hand and pulls me off the dance floor, with Riley right behind us.
"No!" I yell at Dallas. "I have to go back there. He has a gun."
"He said that? That he has a gun?” Dallas’ face goes white and he looks scared.
"Yes, he said if I didn't do what he said that he'd start shooting people."
"Fuck," Dallas says. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and sends a text. Why he's doing that at a time like this, I have no idea. “I’m sorry,” he says, “This is all my fault. I shouldn’t have gotten you involved in this mess or put you in danger. Come on, we've got to leave."
He pulls my hand, bringing me and Riley with him.
I follow him, even though I have no idea how he could have put me in danger. I’m the one that’s putting them in danger.
I listen for gunshots. I'm praying Vincent doesn’t follow through with his promise to shoot Damian, who is still on stage singing.
I've got to warn him.
"I've got to go backstage first. I've got to tell Damian. He knows we came here with him. He threatened to shoot him.”
Dallas looks like he's ready to cry. He runs his hand through his hair. "I'm sorry. This is all my fault."
I don't understand why he's rambling about it being his fault, but I do know I need to get to Damian.
Fast.
I run to the door leading backstage. Flash my backstage wristband to the guy standing in front of it.
I sprint through the hall, up the three black metal stairs leading to the stage, run across the stage and leap on Damian, bringing him and his guitar crashing to the ground.
Big guys dressed in black rush onto the stage, surrounding us and trying to pull me off Damian.
"What the hell did you do that for?" he whispers.
"He's here. Vincent is here. You've got to get off this stage."
The bouncers pull me off him and carry me off. They pull Damian to his feet, and he runs after me.
"Put her down," he says, once we're both safely offstage.
I can see the other backstage door from here. I see Vincent standing in front of it. He passes a wad of cash to the bouncer. The bouncer opens the door and lets him in. Riley and Dallas, who are both out of breath, come running up to us.
"We're leaving out the back. This way," Dallas says as he pulls me to the back exit.
I don’t even have time to think. I just let him lead me. He seems to have a plan.
As we rush out into the back alley, I see three identical blacked out Suburbans. Men in dark suits pull me, Dallas, and Riley into one and Damian into another.
Vincent runs outside, only to watch the SUVs squeal out of the alley. He reaches down to his right ankle, pulls out his concealed gun, and takes aim at a tire.
Something makes him stop though.
Self-preservation, perhaps.
The men in dark suits didn’t look like rentals. They looked like the real deal. Like someone who would have been guarding the president. Which makes no sense.
He puts the gun back into place and then slams his hand into the wall in frustration and screams out. He had her. He fucking had her. Exactly where he wanted her. He shouldn’t have danced with her. He should have grabbed her and pulled her out of the club immediately.
He fucked up.
He screams out in rage again. The club owner comes out of the back door, causing him to immediately calm himself.
“Are you alright?” he asks Vincent.
“Yeah,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Women.”
“I hear ya, man. Come back inside. Did you see the cluster that just happened? I don’t give a shit how popular that Twisted Dreams gets, that asshole is never coming back. To leave like that. Like those rockstars don’t love girls jumping them on and off stage.”
“You’d think,” Vincent says. “A drink sounds good.”
As the man turns around and walks back in the club, something shiny catches Vincent’s eye. He reaches down and picks it up.
It’s a dainty necklace. The one Lacy was wearing around her perfect neck. A delicate chain decorated with silver stars, like the night sky when Lacy and Vince are together after he kills off everyone for her. She left it for him. It’s a sign.
And now he understands what is really going on. She didn’t want to leave. Someone made her. They are making her stay away from him.
But she doesn’t want to.
He must find and rescue her.
He slips the chain in his pocket and decides not to follow the man into the club. Instead, he runs down the alley, around the corner, and to the front of the club, where he tosses a hundred dollar bill and a stub to a valet.
“I’m in a hurry,” he says, noting the long line waiting to get their cars.
The valet looks at the tip and says, “Yes, sir.”
Soon Vincent is behind the wheel of his rental and back in his hotel room.
He grabs his laptop and calls every five-star hotel in the city, telling the same story. That Keatyn Douglas, best friend of Damian Moran, lost her necklace at the club Damian was performing at. That he needs to be connected to his room.
The trucks split up and we go flying down the street, slowing only to make numerous turns.
Dallas doesn't say anything, but I can tell he’s as tense and scared as I am.
I put my shaking hand on his leg and start to say something. He gives me a slight head shake and moves his eyes toward the guys.
How did Dallas get these men here so fast? And just who are they?
After a fifteen minute drive full of turns and doubling back, we pull into an underground parking lot and are hustled to a nondescript elevator.
After a short ride, we enter a plush hallway to a huge Presidential suite with sweeping views of Biscayne Bay.
Dallas stops to give me hug and whispers in my ear. "They are going to want to debrief us. Just agree with me. I’ll explain everything to you later. I’m so sorry that I put you in danger.”
“But . . .”
“We’ll talk later,” he says firmly.
I nod as he leads me to a sofa, which I promptly collapse on.
I look out at the beach.
Try to pretend I'm back in Malibu and Vincent doesn't exist.
Two guys in suits sit down.
"Tell us what happened," one of them says to Dallas.
"I did what I was told to do if I ever felt threatened. An old guy had ahold of her on the dance floor and wouldn't let go. He grabbed her arm hard. At first, I thought it was just because she's pretty and turned him down or something. But I could tell he was threatening her. Riley and I decided to get her away from him. When we did, she told me he had a gun. That's when I texted."
The guy in the suit turns to me. "What did he say to you and did he threaten the Senator's son directly?"
"He told me he had a gun and that if I didn't dance with him he'd start shooting."
"But he never mentioned his name?"
I shake my head. What is going on here? Do they think Vincent was after Dallas? “No, he didn’t say anything about Dallas. He only mentioned Damian, the guy you put in the other truck. He’s my friend. That’s why we were at the club in the first place. To hear him sing.”
Another black-suited guy stands in front of us. “We’d still like to question him. I have a man in the club. Can you give us a physical description of the assailant?”
“He was white, dark haired, about six-two, and was wearing a dark jacket,” Dallas replies.
“That’s half the people at the club.”
I could give them his name and a much better physical description, but I’m a little confused right now, because I think they think he was going to shoot Dallas, not me and Damian.
“Look, guys,” Dallas says to the suits as he takes a calming breath. “I’m sorry for the hassle. It's the first time I've ever been in a situation like this and I panicked.
"
"Well, you're safe. That's all that matters,” the suit says.
The other guy in the suit, who has been on his phone the whole time we've been talking, raises his head. “The senator will be calling you shortly. We've kept him abreast of the situation and we'll make sure you get safely back to school. You're free to retire, Miss Monroe."
I'm pretty sure I'm being dismissed.
"My friend, Damian, where did you take him?"
"We took him to where you were staying. He was not followed and is secure. We’ll get your belongings brought here.”
"Thank you,” I say, because I can’t come up with anything else.
I'm led to the door of a large bedroom. I walk in and collapse on the bed.
A few minutes later, Dallas and Riley walk in. Dallas grabs the bottle of champagne that was chilling in the corner. Probably waiting for the senator’s arrival.
He pops it and pours us each a glass.
"So now that we're safe, I need to apologize to you," Dallas says as he climbs on the bed with me.
"Why would you apologize? You helped me.”
"Because I've told you more than once not to lie to me, but I told you a lie."
"You did?"
He sighs and runs his hand through his short blond hair. "Yeah."
"What did you lie about?"
"I told you I got caught smoking weed and that I was an embarrassment to my dad."
"Yeah, I kinda thought your dad sounded like a dick."
"He's not. My dad is awesome."
"So why did you lie?"
Riley has been pacing the floor. "You lied too, Keatyn. About why you're here."
I lower my head. "Yeah."
"We'll talk about you next," Dallas says. "I need to get this off my chest."
He leans back on the pillows. I pull my feet under my legs and snuggle up next to him.
Riley turns from the window and leaps across the room and onto the bed. "How ‘bout we all get naked and do something worth lying about?"
Dallas and I laugh.
Riley pulls me back into a hug. "You seem like you're doing better. Are you?"
I kiss his arm and nod.
Dallas says, "Okay, so I'm the youngest of five kids. I was the oops baby. I’m the same age as most of my brothers’ and sisters’ kids. They are all grown, married, and spread across the country." He pauses and sighs. "So, my dad was threatened by this extremist group. They specifically threatened our family. My mom and me. They were going to make me leave my normal school and go live in Washington with them, but I didn't want that." He rolls his eyes. “I threw a bit of a fit. So the drug thing was a lie. Dad let it be publicized. Said he was sending me to military school. That drugs are killing our youth, blah, blah, blah, and I went to Eastbrooke. To stay safe."
