by Liz Durano
“Wally-”
“Run, Miss,” he says one more time as I hear someone else groaning in front of the car. Brad.
I don’t wait. I do as I say, squeezing myself through the broken window and not caring as glass shards cut through my jacket and my arms.
It’s dark beyond the ravine where the Escalade finally ended its torturous roll down the hill. I smell gas, and somewhere there’s a spark. I stumble as I make my way in the darkness, wishing my legs would stop their shaking. If only I can get my bearings, I can make my way to the road, but in the darkness in front of me, away from the SUV, I can’t. I stop to get my bearings in the darkness when the blast from a gun startles me.
“Wally?” I whisper as I hear the sound of metal creaking, a door opening and closing and I see a man’s silhouette crossing the side of the car. I hear Wally’s command in my thoughts and scramble into the dark, away from the car. But I slip down the embankment, landing on the muddied ground before I find an outcropping of boulders to hide under.
From the road, I hear the screech of tires, and I pray that it’s a passing motorist. Maybe it’s the fire department though I see no flashing lights.
“Get down here, you idiot!” Brad shouts as I push myself deeper into the space between the rocks.
Before long, I hear someone making their way noisily down the slope, cursing about the mud getting into his Gucci shoes and ruining his Ferragamo coat.
Richard Pressman.
“Damn reception. Did you get him?”
“Him? He wasn’t in the car, you idiot! It’s just the girl, and she’s somewhere close by,” Brad replies and this time, they’re right above me, their voices too close for comfort.
“I thought he was walking her to her door,” Richard whines. “Who knew he was that damn romantic?”
“He changed his mind,” Brad snaps. “It’s just her, and when you showed up, I did what I was supposed to do, but the other guy got in the way.”
“Is he still alive?”
“He’s dead. But now we’ve got to find her before she makes it back on the road,” Brad says.
“Do we have to? She doesn’t know anything,” Richard whines.
“Since when did you start questioning orders? Your job was to take care of Ethan and his stupid bitch. But you failed-“
“Me? If Jackson and Charlene hadn’t messed up like they did, I sure as hell wouldn’t be here cleaning up their mess. How that bitch managed to fool Charlene in believing she was Blythe is beyond me, but she did. By the time Charlene realized it, it was too late. Shit, she couldn’t even fool me when she showed up at the damn tea party.”
“Shut the hell up and look for her. We can’t have any of them in that boardroom tomorrow—not alive,” Brad says. “Here. Use it if you have to. ”
“But I’ve never used one before.”
“Just aim and pull the trigger. You can do that, right?” Brad replies. “Now go before I have to get rid of you, too.”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
“You’re right. I wouldn’t,” Richard says. “Just count your lucky stars you’re one of the old man’s bastards.”
The sound of screeching tires above us announce the arrival of another car and as Brad and Richard move, they dislodge chunks of earth above me. With nothing to hold onto, I feel myself slipping from my hiding place and landing on top of another boulder below with a painful thump.
“Fuck! She was right there!”
Richard’s yell is interrupted by a burst of gunfire, and suddenly I don’t care who’s shooting who. I get up, willing my legs to move just as something knocks me from behind. Hands grab hold of my ankles, but I start kicking frantically till he yelps and lets go of me.
I run, half stumbling, half falling for I can't see anything in front of me. The sound of another gunshot cuts through the drone of the rain, but I keep going. I need to make it to the road, so I make sure to keep heading up the hill, not caring about the branches that sting against my skin or the rough bark that cut into the palms of my hands as I reach out to push them out of the way.
A beam of light illuminates the brush ahead of me, erratically moving through the trees. I should keep going, but I turn to look. It’s Richard, and he’s about twenty feet away from me, his face contorted with anger. In one hand, he’s got the flashlight, its beam dancing in the trees, and in another, a gun. He shoots, but misses.
Somewhere behind us, where the Escalade landed, an explosion knocks both of us off our feet, but I don’t stop to look this time. I get up and keep on running, praying the road will come into view.
But Richard's just as fast, and he's right there behind me. He catches hold of my hair and yanks me back. I fall on the soggy ground, my feet slipping and sliding on the soaked earth. The impact knocks the wind out of me, but I roll onto my back and kick wildly at him—his face, his torso, his crotch—anything.
Somehow, I lost my shoes somewhere between the car and where I am now, but there’s no time to dwell on footwear—or my lack of one. I kick as hard as I can, the heel of my right foot connecting with Richard’s jaw. It sends him flying back, knocking the gun from his hand and into the darkness. I scramble to sit up but he recovers too fast, and he’s on top of me, his fingers wrapping around my neck.
I deliver a right hook into Richard's temple, the same right hook I gave Heath on the plane, and this time, I don’t miss. Blood sprays from Richard’s broken nose and I know I broke it because I heard it break. He curses out loud, letting go of my neck as he brings his hands to his face. I slide away from him before bringing my knee upward, giving it my all. I’m so angry that I don’t care if I serve his balls to him on a silver platter, but I will if I have to. My knee hits the bullseye, and Richard shrieks in pain. I want to hit him again, but I head up the slope towards the road. I can get my revenge later; first, I need to find help.
I don’t even feel the gravel along the side of the road cut through the skin of my feet. I just need to flag a car and get to safety.
In the distance, I see headlights approaching behind the trees, just before the bend. Behind me, Richard emerges from the woods; his Ferragamos are covered in mud and he’s missing one shoe. I almost laugh out loud, hysterical now as he limps towards me, red hair plastered against his scalp. He’s in a rage, and his fists are balled into fists. Blood spurts from his broken nose.
That I can tell those details in a dark highway is only because the approaching vehicle has turned the bend and its headlights illuminate every detail about him. It’s also heading straight at me, but I’m too shocked to care.
I wave my arms wildly, screaming for help. The car swerves slightly to the right, and then left as if the sight of me startled the driver, but it rights itself and continues straight to me. Behind Richard, another figure emerges from the woods just as the car screeches to a stop right in front of me. The door swings open and a familiar voice issues an order.
"Get in!"
I don’t even think twice, not when shots fill the air, the deafening thump! thump! thump! of bullets hitting the side of the SUV to my left. I jump into the car and slam the door shut just as another round of bullets hits the passenger window and I find myself staring at darkening circles stuck in the glass.
“Holy sh—!”
"No swearing," Fred growls as he spins the SUV around and we hightail it as far away from Brad and Richard as we can.
26
Play Dead
“Put your seatbelt on,” Fred says after a few seconds of silence when all I can do is stare at him. I know I look terrible, with twigs and mud in my rain-soaked hair, but he’s not looking that great, too. He’s drenched just as much as I am, though he’s more composed than I can ever be.
"Are you going to kill me?" I squeak before I buckle my seat belt with trembling fingers.
"If I wanted to kill you, Billie, it would have been a hit-and-run back there," he says, before reaching out to touch my arm for I suddenly burst out crying. “Ah, jeez, I’m sorry. That w
as insensitive of me to say. But what kind of question is that?"
"Because I got you fired, and I have no idea what you're doing here,” I sob. “Why are you even here?"
"Would you rather I take you back there?"
"No," I retort, my tears gone as quickly as they had come. Somehow, I believe Fred, especially when my options are limited.
As two fire trucks and an ambulance race towards us from the opposite side of the road, Fred eases off the gas and slows down. This time, we’re driving within the speed limit.
"Wally's still back there—"
“He's dead," Fred says, his jaw clenching as he grips the steering wheel and glances at the rear-view mirror.
“Oh, my God. I’m sorry.”
“He was one of my best men.”
“Was Brad one of yours, too?”
“Brad isn’t one of mine. He’s with Kheiron Industries, added to the team after I left Santa Barbara.”
“But I thought all of you work for Kheiron Industries.”
“No,” he says sternly. “My company works directly with Ettinger Holdings.”
“Wait!” I grip Fred’s forearm. My thoughts are going a mile a minute. “What about Blythe and Ethan? So who’s watching them? Your company or the other one?”
“Mine and they’re safe,” Fred says, glaring at me till I released his forearm, apologizing for the nail marks I left on his skin.
“And Heath?”
“He’s safe, and honestly, the only reason you ended up with Brad is because there’s no damn phone reception in this place, and I had no idea you didn’t go with Heath. Word back in Santa Barbara was that you were flying with him to New York.”
“Probably Blythe.”
“Yes. But with everything that’s been going on—Heath flying off to Saint Lucia without any notice, you joining him without being vetted, and then Ethan and Blythe and the madhouse he calls his team falling apart, there was no way I could confirm whether you were with Heath until his flight took off, and by then—” he pauses. “I only wish I could have gotten Wally’s signal sooner.”
“Wait! What do you mean about me being vetted? Is that why you’re here? To spy on me?”
“It’s my job to keep him safe, Miss Delphine, and honestly, your appearance bothered me.”
I glare at him. “My appearance, as in I look like my sister? What does that mean?”
“It means, your appearance just in time when shit hit the fan. Your timing couldn’t have been any worse! Ethan and Blythe’s alleged embezzlement and Rosalie’s stolen letters, and then you happen to waltz in and distract Heath like I've never seen anyone distract him before—ever!” Fred says, keeping his eyes on the road. “And the next thing I know, there’s a picture of you and him in Saint Lucia splattered all over the internet—without his security detail! Suddenly he’s too damn distracted to pay attention to protocol. He hasn’t done anything this stupid since leaving college!”
As I listen to Fred’s words, I don’t know whether to be disappointed with Heath for not sticking to protocol or be flattered that he didn’t.
“What did you mean by Heath not doing anything this stupid since after college? What happened? Did something similar happen?”
“Nothing like this,” Fred replies. “Heath simply struck out on his own after he graduated, and started working for a brokerage firm in Manhattan. He had no security detail whatsoever, took the cab and even the subway. Thank God his mother put an end to that nonsense. By then, Mr. Kheiron had let go of most of my security team to allow a new firm to come in. That’s when my company was tasked with keeping him safe. From that moment on, around the time Heath started Ettinger Holdings, my company has been right there from the beginning.”
“Why did his dad let your company go?”
“It wasn’t due to performance if that’s what you’re implying. We were simply old school back then, and they went with a lower bid, a new startup of whipper-snappers. People who were knowledgeable about social media before it was called social media, with their tumbles, tweets and whatever else they call them.,” he replies. “Of course, we’ve updated since then. And the change proved to be a blessing because we’ve only managed one family since then. Did you know anyone can track your kid's whereabouts with a simple tweet, tumble or gram—whatever, and there go all your safeguards?”
“It’s Tumblr and Instagram," I say, remembering Pam and the picture she took in Saint Lucia and posted for the world to see in less than a minute. “But all this doesn’t change the fact that you’re spying on me.”
“If you mean getting you vetted as Heath's girlfriend, then yes, it doesn’t change anything,” Fred replies. "You checked out anyway. Your employees, however, Mick and Norah are too much into their woo-woo shit.”
"They moonlight as yoga instructors so sometimes people see them as weird. But they’re cool.”
"And your neighbor, Kathryn Logan, told me all about you and Blythe playing tricks on her, pretending to be the other twin," he continues, a faint smile on his lips. "Nothing goes past that woman, I tell you. She even invited me to her birthday party in two weeks, but I need to go back to Rosalie after I get you all cleared for any concussion or broken bones. That's where I should have been all along."
"Heath's mother, you mean?" I say. "Mrs. Kheiron?"
"Mrs. Ettinger. She never took his name, not even with a hyphen,” Fred snaps, peering through the rain-soaked windshield at the lights in the distance. “Where is this damn hospital of yours?“
I stare at him, and for the first time, I look at his profile closely. Deep set eyes and a Roman nose, slightly broader now that he's older, but surely when he was much younger, he was one hell of a handsome guy, because he still is—if I'm into older men, but I'm not.
Lean and muscled, with long fingers that wrap around the steering wheel, he turns the SUV into the brightly-lit carport of the Emergency Room. And as the lights of the lobby illuminate the inside of the SUV, I see his eyes—and I gasp. They're dark blue, like the Atlantic Ocean—with specks of gray.
“Oh. My. God.”
Fred turns to look at me, concern written on his face. “What’s wrong?”
"The letters," I stammer, as the realization hits me, the memory of Fred had turned pale when he saw the letters the day before. "They were from you."
"Why don't we have you looked at, Miss Delphine?" Fred says abruptly, ignoring my protests as he releases his seat belt before unclipping mine. "With all the stuff you just went through tonight, you just might have suffered a concussion after all."
The ER doctor must have given me something to relax because the next thing I know, it's morning, and someone is holding my hand. Actually, someone is wiping flecks of mud from the back of my hand with a soaked cotton ball. It's Heath and for the next few minutes, he isn't aware that I'm awake as he continues rubbing something from the back of my hand.
It's such a simple act, wiping traces of mud from someone's skin, but there's something about the simplicity of it that makes the act so powerful—so private—yet revealing a part of him that's so vulnerable.
He's wearing jeans and a white henley long-sleeved shirt that does nothing to hide the lean and muscled torso it covers. His stubble is now officially a beard, and it’s need of a good trim, but he still looks gorgeous. But what is he doing here when he should be in New York?
Somehow he's managed to persuade someone to give him a canister of cotton balls along with the brown bottle marked ALCOHOL, on which he's busy pressing the cotton balls against its slotted tip, soaking it before rubbing it gently across my skin. Just like with everything Heath puts his mind into—he goes all in.
“As far as I know, not even alcohol can remove a freckle,” I croak, and Heath looks up, startled.
Before I can say anything else, he gets up from his chair, the chair legs sliding noisily on the floor and wraps me in his arms. I can feel him trembling as he buries his face in my hair that still clumped in places with mud.
“Fred to
ld me what happened,” he whispers hoarsely.
“I'm okay. But what about Blythe? And Ethan? I know Fred told me they were safe but-“
“They are,” Heath says, taking his phone from his pocket and dialing a number. “I know we’re on radio silence, but she’s asked me to call her as soon as you wake up. If I don’t, she’s threatened to sneak out.”
The moment I hear Blythe’s voice on the phone, the tears start falling, though there are no hysterics, at least on my end. With Heath holding my hand, I manage to remain calm even as Blythe is screaming on the other end of the line, telling me how she’d almost snuck out of the hotel again to make her way to me.
“I'm all right, Blythe. Just a few scratches, that’s all.”
“They said Richard went after you, and one of the security people. When you didn’t respond to my text message, I thought you’d just lost reception.”
“I’m okay, Blythe. You take care over there, okay? Don’t let anyone get you.”
“Bee,” she whimpers, “What a fucking mess I got you into. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Heath is with me.”
Heath squeezes my hand, a reminder that I need to hang up soon.
“When all this is over, Bee, I’m not leaving you alone anymore, you hear me?” Blythe says. “I don’t care if you have to move to New York, but maybe it’s for the best until after all this craziness is over. I’ll never look at another Gucci again.”
I chuckle. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Blythe. Besides, I am okay. How’s Ethan?”
“He’s freaking out,” she says. “He’s mad as hell that his whole office betrayed him. I mean, they would have killed him if they had the chance, and they had so many chances! It’s scary, Bee. Richard was his friend. And Jackson—don't even get me started! They were all friends for years!” She sighs. “I don’t know what the hell is going on anymore.”
“Hang tight, and no sneaking out like that last time,” I reassure her. “I’ll see you in a few days. I promise.”
It takes a few more minutes of calming Blythe down before I finally hang up and return the phone back to Heath. I suspect I’m still in shock because my brain seems a bit slow in taking everything in. I wonder if this is how it feels like when the adrenaline wears off—exhaustion, confusion, and an overall feeling of everything being in slow motion.
