by Holly Hart
My pulse quickens as I snatch it into the room and quickly close the door. I just assumed they’d contact me electronically, not physically. That kind of risk shows a level of confidence I wouldn’t have expected from these people. I guess I underestimated them. That’s my first lesson.
I open the case and tip its contents gently out onto the sofa: a no-name electronic tablet, a sheaf of papers, and a gold ring. Nothing else.
I hit the power button on the tablet first. It comes to life with a video of the blonde woman again.
“Hello, Cassandra,” she says. “I hope this finds you well. I trust you now have in your possession a printed file of information on your pursuers. You should also have a ring. Please place the ring on your finger now.”
She pauses for a moment, so I do as she says. It’s a perfect fit.
“Excellent,” she smiles. I get the sensation that she can see me, even though I know that’s impossible.
Right?
“The ring contains a device that will allow us to track your movements during the Chase. Please make sure you wear it throughout; a sensor in the band is sensitive to your body heat and will alert us if you remove it at any point.”
“I’m sure that would be dealt with accordingly,” I say.
“One final rule of the Chase,” she says, holding an old-style skeleton key up to the camera. “Each pursuer will carry a key identical to this one. It opens a room in the Regent Hotel. If and when you are presented with this key, it means the Chase is concluded and the presenter has won.
“You will accompany him to the Regent and complete the transaction.”
So now I know. It’s like they’re all carrying a key to my soul. And losing my innocence will be a transaction.
An image of the redheaded girl in the video flashes in my mind and I feel the hot sting of tears behind my eyes.
Chapter Thirteen
13. CARSON
I almost never use the blinds on the floor-to-ceiling windows that wrap around my penthouse, but now I hit the button to activate them as soon as I walk in the door. Someone would need a telescope to spy on me at this height, but I’m not going to take any chances.
I take a seat in the center of the twelve-seat sectional couch that sits right in the center of the living room, and spread the contents of the case onto the low, wide block of solid walnut that serves as the coffee table. Even with the blinds down, I make sure the only light in the apartment is the soft LED glow from the post-modern lamp next to the sofa.
The contents are less than I would have expected: a tablet, a few papers and an old-fashioned brass skeleton key.
The papers are a dossier on my quarry. She’s thirty, the same age as me. The military college she graduated from is somewhere on the southeastern seaboard. That narrows it down.
Red Dress said the quarry graduated at the top of her class. A year early, to boot. Much better than my two years at Harvard before I dropped out.
That should narrow it down even more.
My heart is racing. This woman is turning me on more than any has in recent memory, and I don’t even know what she looks like, let alone her name.
Her file says she’s worked with two distinct government agencies – it doesn’t specify which, but I assume it’s some exotic combination of Army Intelligence, the NSA and/or the CIA. She’s been an analyst and an active field agent.
I don’t know much about this kind of stuff but I do know those two jobs rarely align. They take a totally separate set of skills: one is a thinker, the other is a doer.
This lady is both. Brains and brawn. Just like me.
An involuntary grin creeps across my face.
There’s precious little other information: a list of places she frequents, her neighborhood (Midtown), a few more background details. She’s from a military family, like me. Hopefully that will help me get inside her head.
I pick up the tablet and hit the power button. The screen remains black but suddenly a line of green text appears across it, a hallmark of dark web sites. It’s like being in The Matrix.
Enter account details.
This is it. I use the browser to call up my slush fund and watch as the sum of $20 million disappears into the ether.
As soon as that’s done, a new line appears.
Transfer verified.
The screen goes black again and suddenly it’s filled with a video of Red Dress smiling at me. She looks exactly the same as she did the night we met at the Regent. Did she meet all the competitors wearing the same outfit? Or did she film a different video for each of us?
I don’t know, and I can’t figure out which I’d find more strange.
“Congratulations on joining the Chase,” she says, ignoring my dilemma. “I trust you currently have in your possession a case containing both a dossier on your quarry and your key.”
She holds up a key that’s identical to the one sitting on my table. I wonder again how many of these are now floating around New York.
“Allow me to reiterate the rules of the Chase,” she says. “You are not to speak of it to anyone. Your pursuit of the quarry cannot draw attention to you in any way. Any attempt to circumvent this rule will be dealt with accordingly.”
I assume that means I can’t take out an ad in The Times saying “Hey, quarry, I’ll pay you a bonus if you come to my apartment and let me give you my key.”
The thought of being dealt with accordingly gives me pause, though. How much power do these guys have that they can make veiled threats to a gang of billionaires?
I think about the giant that disappeared on the street outside the Boom Boom Room and realize I probably don’t want to find out.
“As you know, the quarry will be monitored by us at all times,” she continues. “Any actions deemed inappropriate will be dealt with accordingly.”
No cheating. Gotcha.
“Finally, the Chase will end when the quarry is caught by a contestant. All remaining contestants will be informed by an untraceable text message that simply says ‘over.’”
You won’t be on that damn recipient list, I tell myself.
“In the event the quarry avoids capture for the full term of the Chase, the prize will be auctioned off among the remaining contestants.”
Wait, what? Red Dress never said anything about that at the Regent. So no matter what the quarry does, she’s giving up her virginity to one of the competitors.
I lean into the low back of the sofa and run a hand over my chin. I don’t think I like this development. I just assumed I was going to win – I still do – so it didn’t really matter that she was losing her cherry. Her first time would be with a guy who, all false modesty aside, is built like a statue and has spent the last ten years learning every bedroom trick in the book.
It’s disturbing to think that she might end up underneath some bloated old toad, or worse, an entitled bastard who thinks it’s perfectly fine to hit women, just because they were the highest bidder.
Red Dress smiles at me from the tablet screen one last time.
“I wish you luck. Let the Chase begin.”
The screen goes blank, and as soon as it does, more text flashes across the screen: Rewriting hard drive.
Might as well say erasing all evidence.
Ten seconds later it powers down, now a blank slate, and I have to resist the urge not to smash it against the table. I don’t like being duped like this, but I’m already in. I can’t turn back now, and not because of the money. That doesn’t matter.
What does matter is the quarry. There’s no way in hell I’m going to let someone else get their hands on her. The stakes of the Chase have suddenly gone up exponentially.
“I’m coming for you,” I whisper to the room. “I hope you’re ready.”
Chapter Fourteen
14. CASSANDRA
I’ve walked through the front door of Patty’s more times than I can remember over the past few months, but it’s never felt like this before.
My senses are on
high alert, as if I’m walking into a den of arms dealers in Libya instead of a Midtown treat shop. I brace for the scent of sweat and distrust and catch a sultry whiff of freshly baked brownies for the fudge delight platters.
Tricia is behind the till, chatting with an elderly lady who’s picking up a red velvet ice cream cake. Suddenly I envy Tricia’s simple life: her biggest challenge today will be making sure the single-serving cups she’s catering for a kid’s birthday party don’t melt.
I, on the other hand, have to keep someone from handing me a brass key. And keep my virginity intact for as long as possible, of course.
When I say it that way, it sounds ridiculous. If only it was. I checked my Cayman account at midnight last night and the balance was $250,000 USD.
Shit, as they say, just got real.
I take a seat at my usual table, managing to return Tricia’s welcoming smile and wave. She disengages from the cake lady and brings me my usual double espresso.
“Howdy, partner,” she says, plopping down across the table from me. As always, her blonde curls are constrained in a hair net and her face is dotted with patches of powdery white flour.
“Thank you for bringing me the water of life,” I say, raising my cup in salute. The concentrated coffee stings the back of my tongue with bitter goodness, as it always does.
In almost every respect, this is exactly like every other day that I’ve come into Patty’s since Tricia and I first met. Except, of course, for the fact that I’m now being stalked by a bunch of billionaires who want to crawl on top of me, and if I don’t fend them off for two weeks, my dreams are going to go up in smoke.
Other than that, everything’s just fucking peachy.
“Guess who came in just before you did,” Tricia says, eyes shining. Her smug grin says she’s got a secret she’s dying to share. “Go ahead, you’ll never guess in a million years.”
I can’t help but smile back. Trust Tricia to distract me when I need it the most.
“Let me think,” I say, rubbing my chin. “Was it that UPS guy whose butt you always stare at?”
“Like I’m the only one,” she says. “We both know that thing is hypnotic, like a cobra’s stare. No, I’ll give you a hint: it was somebody famous.”
“Man or woman?”
“Woman.”
“Young or old?”
“Young.”
Hmm. Nothing on the menu at Patty’s is less than three hundred calories, so that rules out supermodels.
“Singer or actress?”
Tricia frowns for a second. “Sort of both. Mostly actress.”
That rules out Miley Cyrus; she’s “mostly singer.” Who else is on the list of dual threats these days? Selena Gomez? Singer. Hailee Steinfeld is mostly actress. Jennifer Lawrence sang in that Hunger Games movie. None of those are pinging on me, though.
Tricia looks at me triumphantly.
“You’ll never guess,” she says. “Want me to tell you?”
“What did she buy?” I ask.
Her eyes narrow. “A gallon of Fudge Fantasy. Why?”
A face flashes in my mind. It’s only going to be an educated guess, but I’ve learned to trust my instincts over the years. They’ve kept me alive more than once.
“Anna Kendrick,” I say, taking another sip of my espresso.
Tricia’s face drops for a second, then contorts into a mask of frustration.
“How do you do that?” she yelps. “I never get one over on you!”
“It’s obvious,” I grin, pretending I was way more confident than I truly had been. “I happened to read once that her favorite food is Taco Bell. Any woman who eats at Taco Bell on a regular basis isn’t going to be afraid of Fudge Fantasy. Did you get any selfies with her? Pics or it didn’t happen...”
Tricia brightens again and comes over to my side of the table with her phone out. She flips through a half-dozen shots of her with her arm around Anna Kendrick’s neck. To Anna’s credit, her smile seems genuine.
The bell over the front door jingles, signaling the entrance of a new customer. I don’t jump and spin to see who it is, because that would be a dead giveaway that I’m paranoid. I’ll check out the new arrival with a casual glance in a few moments.
“She said Elizabeth Banks told her about us,” says Tricia. “I’ve talked to Elizabeth lots.”
Her eyes light up suddenly and I can practically see the light bulb over her head.
“What if we could get them to do a commercial for us when we go national with Tricialicious? That would be amazing!”
I chuckle. “Slow down, Turbo. Let’s make sure Anna doesn’t get sick from all that fudge first.”
She drops into a pouting pose and sticks out her tongue. “Killjoy.”
Now I’m full-on laughing. “Okay, okay,” I say. “It’s actually not a bad idea. We’ll have a pretty substantial marketing budget when we’re ready to launch next year. I’ll see if I can track down their agents and see if they might be amenable.”
“See?” Tricia says. “That’s what I mean when I say you’re the smartest person I know. That would never have occurred to me.”
“Of course it would have.”
She gathers up my empty cup and stands. Just before she goes back behind the counter, she leans down beside me and nods her head toward the window, where I heard the new arrival sit down a couple of minutes earlier.
“Whoa,” she whispers. “If you think UPS guy is hot, check that out.”
I grin and turn to my right to see who could possibly have taken the place of the man in the brown shorts in Tricia’s eyes. The first thing I notice is the chiseled torso under his white tee-shirt and the sleek, powerful legs protruding from his tight gym shorts under the table. I can’t see his butt, but I’m quite sure it would put our delivery driver’s to shame.
The summer glare through the storefront window is strong, dimming the features of his profile a bit a bit. As if to rectify the situation, he turns and looks in my direction.
Our eyes meet and suddenly my world turns inside out. It’s a face I know as well as my own. The chin is a little wider than the last time I saw it in the video two nights earlier, the hair a bit longer and a shade darker.
But there’s no mistaking those smoky gray eyes.
I’m looking at Carson Drake. And he’s looking at me.
Chapter Fifteen
15. CARSON
Welcome to Patty’s ice cream and treats. Here’s your coffee. Would you like a side of teenaged heartache to go with that?
I came in here because I love their brownie sundaes, even though Matthias always makes me do a dozen extra burpees whenever he finds out where I’ve been. Plus, it’s on the list of places “the quarry” has been known to frequent on occasion, so I thought I’d scope it out and see if anyone set off any alarms in my brain. Like a dozen other places on the list, I planned to set up a baseline that I can compare against over the coming fortnight.
Now, out of nowhere, I’m staring into Cassie Vincent’s pale sapphire eyes.
I feel like I’ve been caught in the gravity well of a black hole – I can’t look away. I’m trapped. It’s a vision of the life I always wanted, but one I’d given up on.
Cassie has changed a bit since the last time I saw her. Her hair has gone a shade lighter, almost strawberry blonde but not quite, and straightened somewhat. The freckles that I used to count during our make-out sessions have faded a bit, but the skin is still the same milky pale it always was.
Her body, though. Wow.
She was always reedy, almost to the point of being gangly, back in high school – we both were. Not that I could have cared less. She was still a goddess in my eyes.
But now there are wicked curves under her yellow sundress. Shapely legs that have seen more than their share of exercise. And the cleavage peeking out to say hello to the world was definitely not there the last time we were together.
The last time we were together before she stood me up for the prom and disappeared fro
m my life for a dozen years.
Her eyes are as wide as I imagine mine must be. We’ve been staring at each other for what seems like a week, but is probably only twenty seconds. In the real world. Which couldn’t be further from how I feel right now.
“Uh, do you guys know each other?” the blonde to Cassie’s left asks. I’ve seen her here before; she’s the owner, I think.
Cassie finally blinks and seems to come back to herself. Thank God. I don’t know if I would have been able to break the spell on my own.
“Yes,” she says with a smile that looks about as genuine as a $3 bill. “We, uh, we were … friends. In school.”
Friends. All right, then. I guess I know where I stand, at least now.
My charm autopilot kicks in and I stand up. The blonde gasps slightly as I do. I lean forward and extend my hand to her.
“Carson Drake,” I say. “Pleased to meet you.”
“I’m so sorry,” Cassie says, obviously flustered. “Carson, this is Tricia Clarke. She owns Patty’s.”
“Not for long,” Tricia says as she takes hold of my hand. She holds onto it for longer than most would consider polite, but eventually lets go. “Pretty soon Sandra and I are going to be partners. Why don’t you have a seat with us?”
Cassie flashes her a look as I sit.
“So,” I say. “Still going by Sandra?”
She looks like she swallowed a bug. “Yeah,” she says. “It’s, uh, it’s my name.”
This obviously confuses Tricia.
“What else would you call her?” she asks.
“She was always Cassie to me,” I say. “But her dad thought Sandra sounded more serious.”
“You were the only one who ever called me Cassie,” she says.
I knew that. How could I forget?
I’d whisper it in her ear during the nights we spent exploring each other’s mouths with our tongues. It made her feel special, something only the two of us shared. And that meant more to me than any night spent with a supermodel in the last few years.
Tricia looks Cassie up and down, appraising her like she’s a used car.
