David directed me down another long corridor to a door. He paused for a moment, searching for something. “Ms. Moreau, you have captured Jackson’s attention, haven’t you?”
“We are friends, Mr. Black. Look, if you have any further questions, you can ask Jackson.”
“You are truly naïve.”
“No offense, but I don’t care what you think.” I proceeded through the door.
He turned me around and a growl came out of him. “I can see why Jackson would be interested in you.” His eyes leisurely perused my dress. “You distract him—and nearly caused a publicity nightmare the other evening.”
“I didn’t know about Zara until that night.”
He towered over me. “You have caused quite a dilemma. To ensure this doesn’t happen again, I am prepared to make you an offer?”
“Excuse me?”
“Stay away from Jackson, and I will make it possible for you to have whatever you desire.”
His words sent chills through me. His eyes were dark, his tone threatening.
“Mr. Black, I don’t think that’s necessary. I completely understand the severity of the situation, and I can guarantee that I will not be a problem. I do care about Jackson. I would never jeopardize his career.”
“Think about it. You are young. You can find other boys, but you will never get this chance again.”
I thought I understood Jackson’s level of importance to the studio. I was clearly way off base. Mr. Black was acting as if it were life or death.
“I think you over-assessed our relationship. I was shocked, as I know you were that Jackson was interested in me. I don’t want to admit to you that he makes me happier than I have been for a long time, but I hope I do the same for him. I don’t know where our relationship is going, though I plan to see where it might lead. With that being said, I will not, nor would ever, accept your offer.”
“Think about your family, Lauren, and what it could cost them.”
The memory of Jackson’s disclosure of his threats came to mind. “My family is very capable of providing for themselves, Mr. Black.” He had nothing to hold over me. My life was an open book.
“Your brother Blake may be able to take advantage of this opportunity.”
However, Blake was another story, and I had to respond carefully. “My brother is excited about the opportunity he’s been given. He deserves it, and I know he will do a great job for the film. I also know my brother well, and he will support any decisions I make in this matter.”
“You may want to take some time to consider my offer.”
“No need.”
“I wouldn’t be too quick to decide.” The tone of his warning was clear.
“I’m fairly certain I will not be changing my mind.”
“How unfortunate for you.”
After a very long and uncomfortable pause, he excused himself and picked up his cell to make a call.
That exchange was insane.
He soon returned. “The driver will pick you up across the street due to lane closures. It was a pleasure, Ms. Moreau.”
“Mr. Black.”
“And Lauren, consider this conversation confidential; an addition to your signed agreement, you understand?”
Reminding me I signed a confidentiality agreement regarding anything to do with the filming was my cue to leave.
I exited through the back doors and started walking toward a bench I spotted across the lot; all while ignoring the fact I could sense Mr. Black’s eyes penetrating my back.
Since it was Mardi Gras week, a lot of people were on the streets. Everyone looked dazed, and drunken tourists kept bumping into me. It made me more anxious, and I swore that if one of them vomited on me, I would lose it.
It took longer than expected for the driver to arrive. The streets started to thin out, and I heard yelling close by. Crowds of people rushed toward some intoxicated men fighting.
I decided not to sit down on the dirty bench in my dress at first, except it was taking too long. I thought of calling Jackson, but then Mr. Black crossed my mind. Trying to bribe me then threaten me in the same breath was unsettling. As I reached into my purse for my cell phone, I felt a cold wind whip past me.
Something wasn’t right.
A pungent, musky smell saturated the air. It tried to mask someone’s horrific body odor. My head snapped up, and I could see someone plowing toward me. His eyes bored into mine as fear gripped me. I tried to shake it off as being paranoid.
I finally retrieved my cell, but dropped it when a strong gust of wind forcibly whipped by me again. When I kneeled to retrieve it, I saw the man stood in front of me. He had on a grimy blue sweatshirt with the hood over his head. All I focused on was his blood-shot eyes encompassed by black circles.
The stranger tilted his head and stared at me. I stood slowly, unable to speak. Everything inside me screamed, Run! However, before I was able to take a step, I thought I imagined something.
In his hand was a gun, but the noise from the shot made it all too real.
A flash of cold, soulless eyes seared my memory. I knew, I felt, something was wrong, and it wasn’t paranoia. He was a she, and when she raised the gun, I couldn’t move.
“Bye,” she whispered, pleased.
The gunshot was deafening, and suddenly, some . . . thing, unknown to me, pushed me to the ground. It all became a living nightmare. Something was hovering over me. I lay still as its weight bore down on me for a split second. In a blink, I saw a blur of two human forms soaring overhead in some sort of battle, but I was stuck in my dream. Images of giant eagles’ wings extended from their bodies as light.
I was engrossed in that dream until everything faded to black.
I tried, unsuccessfully, to open my eyes. I heard people screaming, then a lot of running footsteps. That strong, cold breeze circled around me again. I heard flapping noises, similar to birds’ wings, and felt another gust of wind whisk by my head; a sweet floral fragrance saturated the air behind it.
The pain in my side was unbearable. I tried to move again, though hands pushed me down.
“Stay still,” a soft voice said.
“Hold on. Help is on the way,” came from my other side.
Footsteps shuffled around me, before I heard someone ask, “Where are they?”
A jolt of electricity paralyzed me as the familiar sound of my dad’s voice hung in the air.
But how could that be?
I tried calling to him, “Help me, please,” but the pain of his memory weighed down on my chest. I couldn’t breathe. He had been left alone, on the same city streets to die.
Panic set in, and all I knew to do was pray.
I wasn’t ready for my fate—not yet.
My eyes shot open, and I saw swirls of color circling above. Strange shadows resembling monstrous birds hovered overhead. Streaks of lightening synchronized across the sky, followed by low rumbles of thunder.
Then something was placed over my face. I didn’t want to sleep. But, I couldn’t fight it.
When I came to, I was in a room with white curtains on each side. A frazzled-looking woman pushed them away. “Sorry, dear. This place is a madhouse during Mardi Gras. It’s our busiest time,” she said, standing over me.
“Where am I?” I asked.
“You’re in the emergency room. Do you remember why you’re here?”
“I was at a ball. I went to wait for my ride. A man—woman walked toward me . . .” I started to panic.
“Take a few deep breaths.”
“She-she had a g-gun.” I forced out the words.
She handed me a cup of water. “You were grazed by a stray bullet.”
“Grazed?”
“You were lucky. We’re told there was a gang fight nearby, and someone started shooting. One of the bullets nicked your right side.”
That couldn’t be. She aimed directly at me. I remembered the sound of the gun . . . and being hurled to the ground! “No. The gun fired, and the next thing I knew
I was being shoved to the ground by . . .”
What was I supposed to say?
Some large, shadowy, ghostly creature with wings shoved me to safety.
It sounded crazy even thinking it in my head.
“Sugar, I’m not sure what you saw, but you’ll be able to let the police know. What’s your name?”
“Lauren. Lauren Moreau.”
“It may take a while before you remember everything that happened, Lauren.”
“I thought I did . . .”
“You’re still in a state of shock. Don’t worry. Time heals wounds.” She smiled sympathetically. “You’ve been in good hands. You needed stitches, but you’ll heal. An overnight stay isn’t required. Your wound was a clean cut, and the doctor feels comfortable letting you go home, as long as you have someone who can monitor you throughout the night. If not, it may be tomorrow before a bed opens up in the hospital. The emergency room is over capacity and they’re transporting some folks to neighboring hospitals. The doctor will release you soon, if your vitals are normal.”
“Really?”
“Lauren, you had no identification on you. When you’re ready, someone will be by to take your information. Can I call someone for you?”
“Um, yes. I have someone.”
“Usually, an officer is here to take your statement, but they’ve been swarmed with others injured. With all the witnesses’ statements, along with Mardi Gras, I’m afraid their response time is very slow. We were told if you were cohesive enough when you woke, they would take your statement sometime before daybreak. Or, they gave you the option to have your statement taken at the station, as soon as you’re able. Which would you prefer?”
“I’d rather go to the station versus wait here until morning.”
I wasn’t clear about what had really occurred, but the one thing I did know, I was thankful my injuries were minor.
I had an overpowering need to see my family, then realization quickly set in that I couldn’t tell them. They would freak if they found out. Blake especially. We both had this unhealthy reaction when it came to near-death experiences—specifically, if it concerned a family member. There was only one person I could call.
When I handed my contact information to the nurse, she did a double take. I could see her mind wondering as she reached for the telephone and she dialed.
“Cary.”
“Lauren, where are you?”
“Can you pick me up? I’m at St. Mary’s emergency room.”
“Emergency room! Are you hurt? What happened?” Panic and anguish filled his voice.
“I’ll explain when you come. Hey, please don’t tell anyone until I explain.”
“I’m on my way.”
I should have called Jackson, still I couldn’t. Cary was family, and I needed someone I could trust to keep what happened quiet.
I explained everything I could on the way to Cary’s house, purposely leaving out how some ghostly thing pushed me to safety. I felt I could tell Cary anything. I just couldn’t wrap my head around what I thought I saw.
I insisted Cary not take me home. Everyone assumed I was with Jackson anyway, and Blake planned to stay with a friend.
Cary was furious Jackson didn’t make sure I got home safely. He cursed and muttered under his breath what a “good-for-nothing arsehole” Jackson was. I tried to explain he was working, but Cary wouldn’t hear it. That was not going to help their already strained relationship.
Cary was concerned with how calm I was, and so was I. I should’ve been freaking out, but I felt no emotion. The doctor explained I was in shock. I figured I would break down later. I knew it could go either way.
After everything I’d been through, the past few years, I knew myself quite well. I could hold my emotions deep within, as a coping method, when needed. However, lately, it was becoming harder to do. It wasn’t the best way to deal with things, even if it worked.
We pulled into a garage; the building a new high-rise with a cool entrance that looked similar to a luxury hotel. Cary walked us to the elevators that led to the top floor. We entered his apartment, and in the darkness, I could see shadows of the décor. The curtains were open, and the lights from the city lit up the main room.
The furniture was cozy, yet modern, in white, gray, and green. The place was spotless, which impressed me.
Cary guided me down a hall from the main room. Pictures lined the wall, and I stopped to look at one of us when we were younger. It was Blake, Cary, and I huddled in front of Mamaw’s house. It made me smile.
We entered a bedroom that had a light, airy feel. The floor-to-ceiling windows gave an incredible view overlooking the river. New Orleans was beautiful at night, and the city seemed peaceful that high up.
“Are you hungry, Lauren?”
“No, thank you.”
“When was the last time you ate a proper meal?”
I couldn’t remember, so I looked at him and shrugged.
“You should eat. It may help with the medication you’re taking. I’ll make you something.”
It never mattered what I said, Cary would do whatever he wanted.
“I’ll lay out some towels in the en suite. I also have an extra pair of pajamas you can sleep in. You should be comfortable.” His eyes creased with concern. “Lauren . . . the proper thing to do is to ring the family and tell them you’re here with me.”
“No! They’ll ask questions. I don’t want them to worry.”
He hesitated for a moment. “All right. You should have everything you need. If I’ve missed something, let me know. Leave your dress on the bed; I’ll have it mended and cleaned.”
I nodded, and our eyes met.
He stood there for a while; his expression torn as his eyes sought assurance I was okay.
Cary walked over and wrapped his arms around me. He held me tight, kissed the top of my head, then left.
As I stepped into the bathroom to undress, I looked at my reflection in the mirror, and everything hit me at once. Seeing the bandages and large torn blood ring on my dress, made the entire experience real. Thoughts of those ghostly images swirled around in my head, and I wondered if the whole thing had been a hallucination.
I splashed cold water on my face, and looked into the mirror again . . . when the shooter’s face suddenly appeared next to me. I jumped back, releasing a bloodcurdling scream.
“Lauren!” Cary yelled, pounding the door. “Let me in!”
“I’m fine. Everything’s good.” The face disappeared. “Sorry, I’m fine.”
“You don’t sound all right. Open the door! I’m ringing Mamaw.”
I cracked open the door so he could see my face, but his expression of worry didn’t ease. I tried to force a genuine smile. “Please don’t call. I don’t want her to get upset,” I pleaded. “It’s bad enough I had to bother you. I’m okay.”
It was a lie; nevertheless, it convinced him not to call. He gave me a skeptical look, hesitated, then walked away.
The sight of me in Cary’s oversized pajamas lightened the air a bit. He chuckled when I walked into the kitchen.
“Let me help you.” He rolled up the pant legs then the sleeves.
“I don’t think this is going to work, Cary. Can I wear one of your T-shirts and some boxers?”
Those clothes were a much better fit. When I entered the kitchen the second time, he stared at me peculiarly. Something was troubling him, but as I walked closer, he composed himself.
I saw my dress lying in a clear garment bag. “I loved that dress.” I sighed.
“You looked stunning in that dress.”
I rolled my eyes. “Blood stains and all?”
“When I saw you . . . you looked different.”
I smiled. “Different. What happened to stunning?”
“You looked beautiful, love.”
My heart exploded, and I instantly thought I couldn’t pretend anymore. Every time he called me “love,” it made my heart beat a little faster.
“Lauren,
are you sure you’re okay?”
I needed to get out of my head. “You didn’t have to cook. A peanut butter sandwich would’ve been fine.”
“Eat,” he ordered, setting a plate on the breakfast bar.
“This is good, Cary.”
“Thanks.” He shrugged, as he plated himself some salad.
“When did you learn to cook this well?” I asked, shoving a large piece of chicken into my mouth.
“You didn’t know about my mad culinary skills?”
Cary’s face was always animated. He didn’t realize how expressive he was.
“You have domestic staff. Don’t they cook for you?”
“I prefer to stay in and cook a proper meal for myself. And there’re plenty of takeaways.”
“So, you’re not one of those celebrity types who go to the same restaurants where the paparazzi hang out.”
My comment about the paps made me pause and realize I’d made a huge mistake.
“I’m a fool! This is going to be in the tabloids.”
Why did I always forget Cary was famous?
I didn’t want anyone to know, yet I called the one person who could be followed.
Cary placed his hand under my chin, and he raised my head so I could see his eyes. “No one followed us, and no one will find out.”
“How can you be sure? They’re lurking everywhere.”
“They’re not everywhere, and besides, people still think I’m in London. Keep calm and carry on. Now eat.” He laughed at his corny joke, pushing the plate more toward me.
We ate in silence for a couple minutes while pondering our thoughts.
“Cary, do you believe in the supernatural?”
“Is there a specific reason you’re asking me that, love?”
“Being shot made me think about . . . things. It’s strange how the witnesses’ accounts of what happened don’t match up to mine.”
“I don’t think it’s unusual. I hear that happens often with eye witnesses.”
The Devil has a British Accent: Book One: Jackson (White Carpet #1) Page 12
