“Because I must remain essential to Ash’s survival.”
“What makes you think you aren’t?”
“Kay Gibson.” He scowled at the manager’s name. “Charley, I’ll let you in on a secret. I sent the original hoax letter bomb.”
Charley almost stumbled over the sofa in shock at his confession.
“That red she-devil wanted to fire me before the tour even started!” he revealed, still advancing on her. “Thought I was too old to be a bodyguard. But I proved I wasn’t by ‘saving’ Ash’s life. It worked. My contract was renewed. She even gave me a raise!” He laughed. “Then that Brandon began sending Ash real death threats. That’s when Kay decided to hire you.” His eyes narrowed. “In fact she insulted me by hiring a teenage girl!”
“But you’ve helped me, backed me up when things went wrong!”
Big T nodded, the smile on his lips both tender and regretful. “I like you, Charley. You impressed me from the start. I’ve seen many wannabe bodyguards come and go in my time. Until a person’s tested, you don’t know them. And very few have the right stuff. But you do.”
Charley found herself backed up against the bar. “Then why are you doing this?”
“Because you’re too good. After defending Ash in Miami, then resuscitating him in Dallas, you started to eclipse me. And, when the student becomes greater than the teacher, the teacher must crush the student.” The marker pen in Big T’s fist snapped in his furious grasp. “I tried to get rid of you! Give you a way out with the first threat on your mirror. If you’d told your colonel, you’d have been reassigned. But you kept quiet. That’s why I need you to be seen as a security risk to Ash—to fail in your duty while I’m the bodyguard that saves the day.”
“But my assignment’s over. I’m no threat to you.”
“Yes, you are,” he contradicted, sorrow entering his old watery eyes. “Kay’s firing me. You’re to be my replacement.”
Charley’s mouth fell open. “What?”
“She spoke to your Colonel Black this very evening about extending your contract.”
Charley held up her hands. “Believe me, I had no idea about this.”
“Well, you do now,” growled Big T, closing in on her. “Tonight I was going to be the hero and discover the bomb. Change of plan, Charley—you’re going to discover the bomb.”
“Me?”
Big T nodded, his expression grim. “Unfortunately, you’ll set it off ‘by accident’—a tragic end to a promising career. But at least you’ll have the consolation of dying in the line of duty.”
41
Charley bolted for the door. Big T lunged forward and seized her by the arm. “Sorry, Charley, can’t have you blabbing.”
“Let me go!” screamed Charley as he dragged her toward the bedroom.
“Everyone thinks you and Ash are dating. So it won’t be suspicious if you’re found in his room,” said Big T more to himself than to her.
Unable to break his iron grip, Charley pulled out her phone and pressed the volume button. Intent on shocking the traitorous bodyguard senseless, she thrust the arcing metal studs into his large gut.
“No, you don’t!” said Big T, grabbing her wrist before she could make contact. “I saw what you did to Jessie.”
He slammed her hand against the edge of the bar, forcing her to drop the iStun. He kicked the phone under the sofa. Despite having both hands pinned, Charley booted him hard in the shins. His eyes flared with pain, but he didn’t let her go. With the practiced brutality of a bouncer, he lassoed a muscled arm around her neck and trapped her in a crushing headlock.
“Please don’t struggle!” he said, his tone more imploring than angry. “You’ll only make it worse for yourself.”
Fighting for breath, she felt her neck being crushed in his grip. Charley reached across to Big T’s hand, found his little finger and wrenched it backward. There was a sharp snap and a pained grunt. But the pressure on her throat didn’t ease.
“Nice try,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “But I’ve broken too many bones in my lifetime to worry about a little finger.”
He began hauling her across the room like a giant with a doll. Charley clawed at his arm, but it was pointless. His muscles were as unyielding as steel.
“Why did you have to find me?” he muttered. “I had it all planned. No one was supposed to get hurt, especially not you. But you’ve forced me into this . . .”
Darkness began to seep into Charley’s vision. Then she remembered the kubotan pen in her pocket. Seizing it like an ice pick, she drove its reinforced point into a cluster of nerves in Big T’s forearm. The sudden unexpected jolt of concentrated pain ripped through him. Charley felt the headlock loosen, and she stabbed the tip into his upper thigh. A second excruciating burst of pain caused Big T to crumple, and he dropped Charley to the floor.
“You really are a wildcat!” he raged as he hobbled to the wall for support.
Gasping for air, Charley used the bar to pull herself up. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flicker of movement and ducked. Big T’s legendary right hook whistled a hair’s breadth from her head. Knowing she wouldn’t survive one of those punches, Charley grabbed a glass bottle from the bar, spun around and smashed it on Big T’s bald head. Liquid and fragments of glass showered over him, but he barely flinched.
“Now the gloves are off!” he snarled, and brought a bottle hammering down toward her head. But her earlier strike had obviously had some impact, for he wasn’t quite on target. The bottle caught Charley a glancing blow—enough to briefly stun and drop her, but not to knock her out. With her skull throbbing and her vision doubled, she collapsed beside the sofa.
“Now stay down!” Big T slurred, propping himself against the bar.
In her daze, Charley spotted the gleam of two metal studs beneath the sofa. Reaching out, her fingers found the edge of her phone. Desperately she tried to get a grip. Behind her, she heard a tinkle of glass and knew Big T was heading for her. He grasped the back of her top and pulled her away from the sofa.
With a hand clamped around her throat, Big T lifted her off the ground. Charley spluttered and gagged.
“You were like a daughter to me,” he said, looking at her with bloodshot eyes. “Believe me, I didn’t want it to end like this.”
“Me neither!” she gasped, thrusting the iStun into his chest. The points contacted straight over his heart.
Big T convulsed, choked and staggered back through the open patio door.
But one jolt wasn’t enough. The bodyguard was as strong as a grizzly bear. He still had her by the throat. Charley hit him again. Big T’s body went into spasm. He fell backward and hit the balcony rail. It cracked under his weight. Losing his balance, Big T began to topple over the side.
He made no effort to save himself.
“I’m so sorry, Charley,” he gasped, regret in his eyes as he tumbled into the darkness.
But his muscles were still locked out by the iStun—and Charley was caught in his death grip. Screaming, she was dragged over with him.
42
“The doctor tells me people who fall more than ten stories rarely survive,” said Colonel Black, standing stiff and awkward beside Charley’s bed in the intensive-care unit of Children’s Hospital Los Angeles. “Big T died on impact, but his body broke your fall. You were extremely lucky.”
Charley stared down at herself, her eyes unfocused, yet seeing all too much.
Lucky? she thought bitterly.
Her paralyzed legs were sprawled on the bed, lifeless and bizarrely misshapen. She felt sick. They looked like a scarecrow’s in a horror movie, feet bent at unnatural angles. She couldn’t feel them. It was as if they weren’t her legs at all.
“Mostly it’s positive news,” the colonel went on, a leaden smile on his haggard face, but Charley was barely listening. “Your broken arm and cracked ri
bs will heal with no long-term effects. You haven’t got any pelvic injuries, which is a miracle—that can be problematic, even fatal. The only serious damage from the fall is to the base of your spine, but the doctors are doing more tests.”
Charley had little memory of the fall. She recalled the bright joy of the rooftop party, the thrill of her kiss with Ash and her wide-open hopes for the future. And she remembered the scrawled threat on the mirror, her deep shock and sadness at Big T’s treachery and the crushing grip of his fingers around her throat. Then she had been falling . . . plunging into a deep well of blackness. Drowning in darkness, she had almost never come back up. Perhaps that would have been a blessing? For when she did surface again, she knew that not all of her had returned.
“And I guarantee you’ll get the best care possible. No expense spared.” The colonel paused and fished something out of his pocket. He tried to make eye contact with her and failed. “Charley, I realize this isn’t much after all you’ve lost but . . .” He held up a small gold shield with Guardian wings. “For outstanding bravery and sacrifice in the line of duty.”
When she didn’t react, he swallowed uncomfortably and placed it on her bedside table.
Charley ignored the gold badge . . . and Colonel Black.
“Right. I’ll return tomorrow,” said the colonel, a crack in his voice. “Is there anything you want?”
YES! A pair of legs that WORK! Charley screamed in her head.
When she remained silent, Colonel Black nodded good-bye and walked out.
Charley stared at the two lumps of meat that had been her legs, now propped on the bed. In her head a single maddening question repeated over and over . . .
Will I ever walk again?
43
At first Charley grieved the loss of her legs, crying herself to sleep each pain-racked night.
In her dreams she was whole again, surfing endless oceans or running over mountains, faster and faster, her feet barely touching the ground. Then she’d wake believing she could walk, her heart light and her head happy until she tried to move. Her legs would refuse all commands. Sweat would pour from her brow as she mentally screamed at them to respond.
This denial of her disabled state didn’t last long. Soon Charley grew to hate the sight of her legs. What use were they if they didn’t work? They were like two logs of rotten wood. She could saw them off, and she wouldn’t feel or notice a difference!
At the end of her first week in the hospital, she was moved from the intensive-care unit to the high-dependency unit. Progress, the nurse told her with a cheery smile.
It didn’t feel like progress to Charley—just a different room with the same antiseptic smell and the same routine as before.
Then, in the second week, while a nurse was washing what used to be her legs, Charley felt a slight sensation of pins and needles. She still couldn’t tell which leg the nurse was touching, but there was a definite feeling. She’d enthusiastically told the nurse, and a doctor had been called. But when he performed a series of sensory tests, her legs didn’t react to any other stimuli. The doctor was encouraging, but Charley’s spark of hope faded.
Yet a couple of days later, some sensation returned to her lower abdomen. This time the doctor was noticeably animated. A vital neurological sign for future leg function, he’d said. It still seemed like the thinnest of threads reconnecting her to her lower half. But it was enough to reignite Charley’s hope and carry her through the long dark hours, alone and scared of what the future might hold.
The changes were small, but toward the end of the first month, Charley was convinced some feeling had returned to the soles of her feet. It was as if her legs were waking up from a decade-long hibernation. Some days she could even sense their position on the bed. At night the nerves inside buzzed, like a broken hard drive trying to reboot itself.
One glorious morning Charley discovered she could wiggle her toes. Only a fraction—but it was movement. Then, just as she was celebrating this progress, her whole body went into spasm. It started in her legs, rushed up like a tsunami through her body, arched her spine backward and turned her hands into claws, crushing the paper cup in her grasp and sending water flying.
There was no pain. But Charley was terrified.
The spasm lasted a minute or so, yet felt like eons to Charley. When it subsided, she discovered the doctor at her side. Soothing her, he explained that spasms were a side effect of her spinal injury. Her body’s normal reflex system was being short-circuited. The explanation brought Charley little relief.
One afternoon, after a particularly violent spasm, there was a knock at her door. Ash popped his head in.
“How you doing today?” he asked.
“All right,” she lied, wiping perspiration from her forehead with the back of her hand.
“I’ve brought some more grapes and a couple of new books.”
“Thanks,” she replied as he put the gifts on her bedside table and pulled up a chair. He’d visited her almost every day, and this afternoon he seemed more lively than usual, his knee jittering up and down with repressed excitement.
Ash took her hand. She let him, her fingers lying in his palm as lifeless as her legs. “I know I’ve said this before, but I’m so sorry about all this.” He glanced down the length of the bed.
Charley forced a smile. “Pool had to be on the roof, didn’t it?”
Ash’s laugh was as hollow as her smile. “Hey, I’m not doing that crazy stunt ever again. Where’s your phone, by the way?”
Charley nodded to the desk drawer. Pulling it open, Ash paired his own phone with hers and transferred a file. As he waited for it to download, he explained enthusiastically, “I finished recording your song last night. Finally nailed it. The producer and Kay both think the track’s a classic. It’s going to be the lead single off my new album—”
“Why do you keep visiting me?” Charley interrupted.
Ash blinked in surprise. “Because I want to.”
“No, really?”
“To support you, of course. Like you looked after me. That’s why I’ve stayed on in L.A. to record my album.”
“Not because you feel obliged to . . . or guilty?”
Ash averted his eyes. “Of course I feel guilty. You were hurt protecting me.”
Charley withdrew her hand. She no longer wore his bracelet, and she was sure that he’d noticed—not that she cared. During her enforced stay in the hospital, she’d had a lot of time to think, and one doubt had been plaguing her. “How come so many people were out to get you?”
Ash shrugged. “I’ve wondered that myself. I suppose fame makes for an easy target.”
“Okay. Then tell me one other thing. Did you honestly write ‘Only Raining’?”
Charley saw the answer in his eyes before Ash even replied.
“Yes . . .” he began, before looking away from her withering glare and admitting, “most of it.”
He sighed heavily. “I had a verse but no chorus. Brandon Mills wrote the chorus. And he would’ve been credited if he hadn’t cheated on Kay. He hit her too. Brandon wasn’t a nice guy. So Kay literally wrote him out of the song. Her revenge. She swore me to secrecy. You see, Kay was building a story around me as this genius singer-songwriter. We had to protect the legend.”
Charley nodded, accepting it without judgment.
“I wrote all of ‘Angel Without Wings,’ though,” Ash was quick to point out. “And it’s better than any song I’ve ever recorded.”
He reached out to take her hand again, but this time she refused to take it.
“Charley,” he said, “I’m donating all the royalties from this song into a recovery fund for you.”
Charley was briefly at a loss for words. Then she snapped, “I’m not a charity case! Don’t pity me!”
“I’m not,” he replied, his tone wounded. “I just want to help you.�
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“Then leave me alone.” Charley turned her head away and stared resolutely out of the window.
“No, you’re my muse, remember? My inspiration. I have to take care of y—”
“I said, LEAVE ME ALONE!”
Stunned by her hostile reaction, Ash sat motionless for a full minute, then stood up. “If that’s what you really want, Charley. But I won’t abandon you. The song is yours. The money too. And if one day it can help you walk, then it’ll be the greatest song ever written.”
With a longing last look at her, Ash left the room.
When he was gone, Charley sobbed her heart out. Why was she pushing away the only person she truly cared for?
But she already knew the answer. Ash reminded her too much of all that she’d lost.
Through tear-filled eyes, she saw an update blink on her phone: FILE DOWNLOADED.
Slipping on her headphones and pressing Play, Charley listened to the song—her song—and wept . . .
44
“Why here in particular?” asked Jason, pushing her wheelchair down the boardwalk of San Clemente pier. “There are other beaches far closer.”
“I used to surf here,” replied Charley sadly. “Used to.”
Foaming white breakers rolled in like familiar friends along the sandy strip of coast. But they passed her by on the pier, like they’d forgotten who she was, no longer recognizing her.
And who’d blame them? She was paralyzed, in a chair.
Charley watched a young girl with blond hair catch a wave and ride it all the way in. It could so easily have been her. But surfing was just a pipe dream now. Like everything else in her broken life, nothing was simple or easy anymore. Just taking this trip down to the beach had been a mission. Climbing out of bed, going to the bathroom, putting on clothes, getting in and out of the car, negotiating the path, even making it up the shallow incline to the pier. It had been one major challenge after another. On this, her first excursion into the outside world, Charley was confronted by all the things she used to do effortlessly. Instead of celebrating her day out of the hospital, she just felt an aching sense of loss.
Traitor Page 13
