“Honey,” she says, touching my arm. “You’ve spilt ketchup all over yourself.”
I look down at my left arm and side. It’s misted with dried blood. My hands are caked in the stuff and Makayla’s clothes are too. “Oh,” I say. “I just really love hamburgers. I must have gotten carried away.”
She laughs, touching my forearm. “You’re too funny.”
I give a strained smile, hoping neither of them notice how traumatized Makayla looks. The distraction of looking after her is helping keep the flashbacks at bay, but the smell of sand and blood reaches my nose. I can feel the sun on the back of my neck, even though I’m in an artificially lit elevator. There’s a rifle strapped to my back…
No. I’m in an elevator. I’m not in the war.
The doors ding when we reach the lobby. I lead Makayla and my dog to the garage, ushering everyone into the car. I rip out of the parking garage and head toward my safehouse, stomach clenching when I think about what I am going to have to do to keep her safe. I’m going to have to break her heart again, and I fucking hate myself for it.
36
Makayla
Jesse’s safehouse is a sparsely decorated building in the middle of town. We’ve been here for a day already, and Jesse and I have hardly spoken. I try to wrap my head around the fact that it was only four days ago that Jesse came back into my life. Four days and so much has already happened. I had to go to the set and film this morning, despite Jesse’s insistence that I stay somewhere secluded. When I threatened to walk if he didn’t take me himself, he finally relented and went with me. I think I set a record for the number of takes needed to satisfy Camillo today. My mind is anywhere but on the job.
No matter how much I try to push what I saw from my mind, it keeps coming back. I can still hear the ear-piercing rip of gunfire. I can see the blinding flashes of light and freeze-frame images of a man falling to the ground, mortally wounded. I can smell the gunpowder and blood, the burnt upholstery. I still can’t seem to completely get rid of the tightness in my chest, the looming sense of dread. Everything has taken on a sense of immediacy, and I can’t stop the flow of melodramatic thoughts assaulting my consciousness. I wondered if the shower I took this morning would be the last, or if today would be my last day on set. The questions have had the unsettling side effect of making me question what I’m doing with my life in the first place.
If I really want to act in movies, why am I settling for a TV show? Why am I assuming I have all the time in the world to slowly work my way toward my goals?
Just thinking about it all makes me want to hyperventilate. I’m on a simple, uncomfortable couch in Jesse’s safehouse. He had to let me stop on the way home to buy a few spare sets of clothes and underwear. More than anything, I wish I could just relax in my own apartment for a day, using all my normal shampoos and soaps and maybe even drawing myself a nice, hot bath. Instead, I’m in this cold box of a building. It’s a converted movie set that he apparently bought out.
I’m sitting on the stage, overlooking seating large enough for a small crowd of about four hundred. There’s a bed and particle-board furniture props to make one side of the stage look like a bedroom. The other side of the stage is set up to look like a kitchen, complete with plastic sink spray painted in glittering silver. Jesse turned on one of the bright stage lights, but we couldn’t figure out how to get it off the blue setting, so everything is bathed in a deep, midnight blue light.
He has been on his phone all morning, talking in low tones and casting regular glances my way. What are you up to? Ever since the gunfight in his apartment, he has been distant, cold. If it wasn’t for Makayla, the bulldog, I would feel completely alone. She’s nuzzled beside me, panting happily and displaying the jutting shelf of her lower jaw proudly. I rub the folds of skin on top of her head, sighing.
How did this all happen? One day, I’m living my life like normal, completely tunnel-visioned on my goals, occasionally daydreaming about the guy who let me go. The next? I’m wondering how everything fell apart so quickly, and why someone would want to hurt me. I’m no saint, but I can’t think of anything I’ve done that would make someone want to hurt me, let alone kill me. The masked man’s words from the café come back to me. Someone I trust. Who do I even trust? Kennedy? Jesse? My stepfather?
Jesse obviously doesn’t want to see me hurt. Kennedy would have no reason to want something bad to happen to me. That only leaves Hubert. I can’t buy that either. He has always been like a collector of people and things, gathering what he considers to be pretty and valuable and then hoarding it for his own satisfaction. I’ve never known him to give up the things he prizes, and as far as I know, he prizes me. So who then? All I can think of is that the man in the golden mask was wrong. After all, is that so hard to believe?
Jesse hangs up the phone and stalks toward me. He looks gorgeous in a gray suit and crisp black undershirt. He looks deadly.
He is deadly.
The thought bubbles up without warning, turning my stomach. Why does that draw me to him so much? I hate violence, yet seeing how brutally effective and competent he is does things to me I’m not proud of. It makes me feel safe, cared for, and prized in a good way, not in the selfish kind of greedy way that Hubert prizes me.
“I’m going to check the perimeter. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
I frown, already so dependant on his presence that I don’t like the idea of being left alone. I watch him walk across the stage and exit out the back.
After ten minutes go by, I start to worry. I get up and move to the exit, carefully stepping out so his dog doesn’t follow me. Just as I’m leaving, I see Jesse leaning over a car and talking to two men in suits. They nod as he walks away and step out of the car. My heart stops. What’s going on? I watch Jesse get in his car. I see him punch the dashboard and yell something I can’t hear behind the closed doors before he drives off.
Jesse… What are you doing?
I watch the two men approach with a creeping dread, knowing there’s no point in running. The taller man holds a calming palm to me when he notices me. He’s freakishly tall with a bald head and a long face. The other is shorter with thick lips and protruding ears.
“We’re your new protection,” says the tall man. “I’m Edwards.”
“Rosenthal,” says the shorter man.
I realize I’ve backed up until I’m pressed against the door. I force something like calm to come over my face, but my mind is racing. New protection? “Where’s Jesse?”
“He has been reassigned,” says Rosenthal. From their demeanor, I gather that Rosenthal is the more serious of the two. Edwards has a calm ease about him while Rosenthal looks like he doesn’t know how to smile.
“Why didn’t he say anything to me about it?” I ask. I feel like I’m on the verge of absolute panic. My pulse pounds in my head, breaths coming shallow.
“We’re not at liberty to say,” says Rosenthal. “Miss, we should really get inside. It’s safer.”
I feel a cloud of anger settle over me. Edwards has the decency to flinch a little. Some professional, I think. “I’m not taking that for an answer. I paid a lot of money for Mr. Slade’s protection. He can’t just--”
“Your money is already refunded,” says Rosenthal. “Mr. Slade also paid our fees for you. Everything is taken care of. Now, can we please step inside?”
“Not until--”
Rosenthal manhandles me, wrapping my arms in front of my chest and pushing the door open. He leads me inside and lets Edwards in before slamming the door behind us. “Let me make one thing clear. Your protection is my top priority. If I have to displease you or upset you to keep you safe, I won’t hesitate.”
Edwards looks at me apologetically, spreading his big hands and shrugging.
I pull away, straightening my clothes and glaring.
Two weeks. Two fucking weeks and I haven’t heard a word from Jesse. Instead of the immediate, heart-crushing pain I felt when he left me ten years ago, all I feel now is a creeping
sort of finality. It’s like I’m walking on a frozen lake, watching the cracks spreading beneath my feet, threatening to give out. And here I am, ignoring the chilly promise of oblivion just beneath the ice.
I go to work. I read my lines. I spend time with Kennedy. I even met with Hubert once. All the while I ignore the two men who shadow my every move, unable to avoid constantly comparing them to Jesse, to marvel at how much safer I felt in the protection of one man than I do with these two. I keep thinking I see Jesse. In the corner of the coffee shop, looming behind the crew while I’m on set, waiting in a parked car outside the safehouse, or mixed in with the crowd on the street. I see him everywhere, and I can’t stop thinking about him.
I’m trying so hard to hate him for leaving, but I can’t. All I can do is miss him and think about what I would do differently if he came back. I’m definitely still pissed, and if he has the nerve to show his face, he had better get ready to be slapped. But beneath the shallow layer of anger is a deep need to be with him again. I already crave his touch and his smell, wishing I could have his strong arms around me again, protecting me and making me feel safe.
I pace around the stupid abandoned stage that has become my prison. I feel like a maniac, waffling between hating and missing Jesse, wondering if leaving his dog with me means he plans to come back. I don’t want to be weak, waiting around and hoping he comes back. Even if it’s slightly artificial, I decide to stop letting myself miss him. I won’t waste my time again. I’m not going to go another ten years secretly hoping he comes back. I’m moving on. I’m going to live my life for myself, and I’m going to shut him out of my thoughts as much as I can. It won’t be easy, but I’m going to move on.
37
Jesse
I rip the golden mask from his face and punch him across the jaw, leaning in so he can see my face clearly. He blinks through the pain, wincing and working his jaw, struggling against the ropes that tie him to the chair.
I prowl around him like a restless animal, hungry for blood and on the edge of losing myself. How long has it been since I walked away from her again? Two weeks? Three? It has all been a blur of too little sleep and far too much blood. All I have to do to find these gold masked fuckers is tail Makayla. It’s like a small army of the worthless pricks is out there, creeping around. The toughest part is sifting through the pretenders and the real deal. Ever since the news picked up the story of the “Gold Stalkers”, there has been an explosion of activity. Celebrities are being kidnapped, beaten, and even killed.
“Who do you work for?” I ask.
I already suspect this guy isn’t just a pretender by the way he took my punch. He’s a professional. Not like the last couple I rounded up.
“Who do you think?” he asks.
I crack him across the face with another hard punch. I nearly topple him and the chair, but he manages to stay upright. “You’re going to kill me anyway. Why should I tell you anything?”
“Because there are all kinds of ways to die. And I can get real fucking creative if you piss me off.”
He huffs a laugh, shaking his head slowly. “The reward isn’t good enough for this shit.”
I turn, a little surprised at his change of heart. I listen intently, sensing that he’s about to finally tell me something I don’t know. “Reward?”
“Yeah. The price on Makayla Pierson’s head. Whoever clips her gets the money. That simple.”
“Who’s offering the money?”
“No idea. But whoever it was had enough influence to get the message trickling through most of the top military contractors. There are a ton of ex-military with their eye on the reward, but rumor also spread pretty fast that people who started tailing Makayla had a tendency to turn up dead. Still, it’s only a matter of time before someone hungry enough gets to her.”
I clench my fists. “Anything else?”
He sniffs, looking down sadly and shaking his head. “That’s pretty much it. Can you try not to fuck up my face when you kill me?” he asks.
I pull a knife from my hip and kneel in front of him. He watches the tip closely. I reach behind him and cut the ropes holding him in place. “Get the fuck out of here. If I see you within a mile of Makayla again, I’ll end you, and your face will look like a Mr. Potato toy by the time I’m done with it.”
He smirks. “Fair enough.”
I help him to stand and watch as he hobbles out of the building. It’s one of half a dozen properties I own around the city. They serve as safe houses and double as investments. Lately, they have been good locations to torture and dispose of the people who want to hurt Makayla.
I rub my lips slowly, trying to think of how I’m going to deal with this. They may have just been words, but I didn’t like that he said someone would get to her eventually. I realize it’s true. I can’t just keep picking off the runoff like this. I need to find a way to Liam, or this is never going to end. But I have a sinking feeling I’m not just dealing with one person. I think this whole mess might just be serving as a convenient cloak for the people who want to use it for their own gains. Liam is using it to lash out at me and someone else is using it as a way to order a hit on Makayla. Chances are the majority of the violence coming from the group is similar. Just fucked up people grasping at an opportunity to disguise their intentions.
What a clusterfuck.
I swore I wouldn’t hurt her again and look at the shit I’ve pulled. Edwards and Rosenthal may not seem like much, but they are at least the best protection I know of excluding myself. Still, I’m not letting her out of my sight. The only difference is now she doesn’t know I’m looking after her.
38
Makayla
“You have to go,” says Kennedy. She leans back in her loveseat, twirling a stray lock of her black hair.
Rosenthal looms near the doorway while Edwards helps himself to some sugar cookies from her pantry.
I sigh. “I know. I wasn’t really planning on ditching it. It’s just…”
“Scary?” asks Kennedy.
I realize she must think I don’t want to go to the red carpet event because I’m worried about being exposed in public and giving an open invitation to anyone who wants to hurt me. I shake my head, not wanting to keep my best friend in the dark. “I’m trying really hard to be over Jesse, but I just--” I laugh a little, shaking my head. “It’s stupid. I was worried I might run into him there, you know. These knuckleheads won’t tell me who he was reassigned to, but if he’s protecting a celebrity, chances are good he’ll be there. Screw it though. I need to get over it and just go.”
Kennedy gives me a sympathetic look but smiles. “You know, if you really want to move on, you should consider seeing someone else. Not that you were seeing Jesse, of course,” she adds with a mischievous little smile.
“Why do I have a feeling you have someone in mind?”
“Because you’re my bestie and you know me better than anyone!” sings Kennedy.
Rosenthal actually grimaces to be subjected to so much girl talk. Edwards doesn’t seem to notice. He’s found a small bag of candy and is making his way through it with enthusiasm.
“So,” says Kennedy. “I’m taking Patrick Lockheart.” She pauses, waiting for me to react.
I realize I’m supposed to recognize the name so I raise my eyebrows and do my best impressed gasp.
Kennedy doesn’t fall for it. “Seriously? You don’t know who he is?” She clicks her manicured fingers on her phone a few times and waits, turning the screen to show me a picture of a guy who looks a little too young, but is undeniably attractive. He has sandy hair with a strong, stubble-covered jaw and bedroom eyes. “He plays the lead for the Men of Mayhem? Not ringing any bells?”
“Sorry, no.”
“Well, he’s going with me and he is really bummed that his cousin couldn’t find someone to go with. You could take him. He’s really cute, and if Jesse happens to be there, I’m sure it would drive him nuts to see you hanging on some hunk’s arm. You can borrow my Jea
n Bernice dress! It’s a little slutty, but God you would look killer in it!”
Rosenthal clears his throat, suddenly looking very interested in the rug at his feet.
I smile a little. “I don’t even have any idea if he’ll be there, Kennedy. And even if he was, I don’t need to make him jealous. That would just prove I’m still thinking about him. Which I’m not.”
She gives me a skeptical look, narrowing her eyes. “Didn’t you just say--”
“Shut up,” I say, smirking.
I step on the red carpet with Hunter Smith, Patrick Lockheart’s cousin. I’m wearing Kennedy’s Jean Bernice dress and fighting the urge to pull at the fabric to cover more of my scandalously exposed breasts. It’s tight in all the right places and way more revealing than anything I would normally wear. I totally didn’t wear it because I want to make Jesse jealous. It was just easier than going through the trouble of getting my own dress and less embarrassing than sending one of my bodyguards to go rummage through my closet at the apartment to find it, since they still insist on keeping me at the safehouse. At least that’s what I keep telling myself to avoid feeling like the silly little girl I’m being.
Cameras snap and bulbs flash, making my eyes burn with red afterimages. The sound of the reporters’ chatter reaches a fever pitch as they realize it’s me. The cameras click like automatic machine guns, capturing so many pictures I wonder what anyone could possibly do with them. As much as I try to resist, I reach down and tug at the fabric of the dress, trying to pull it over my breasts a little more.
I’m stopped several times, asked to twirl, strike a pose, or tell someone “who I’m wearing”. It’s all part of the job, but it was never the part of the job I craved. I live for the moments when I’m completely absorbed by the character I’m playing, when Makayla Pierson fades into some distant place and I become someone else.
Single Dad Next Door: A Fake Marriage Romance Page 27
