by Mimi Strong
Dylan clears his throat. “Fiancée. Jess is more than my girlfriend. She’s my fiancée.”
My heart skips, just like it did when he first asked me to marry him. Is he saying that just for their benefit, or does he mean it? Are we really still engaged? If everything had gone according to plan, we’d be getting married this weekend.
Dylan reaches over for my hand. I think he’s going to hold it, but he’s actually grabbing my left hand, to show off my engagement ring.
Clay and his wife’s eyes light up. She puts her hands to her cheeks. “Of course you’re still engaged. I should have known all those stories they run on the internet are lies.” She leans in to admire the ring, then looks up at me, her eyes twinkling. “You’re even more beautiful than the photos I’ve seen. You’re going to make a stunning bride. When is the date?”
I look at Dylan but he keeps looking straight ahead. I think I see his cheeks reddening.
Clay turns to his wife. “They’re here for business.”
“Of course, of course.” She starts lining up three small mugs and pouring us coffee. “I’ll give you folks some privacy.” She gives us another smile, then gets up and disappears through the door.
“Okay,” Clay says, “so something funny is going on, starting with your phones. Fill me in on what you know. We’ll go from there.”
Dylan gestures to me, then leans back on the couch. “Tell him what you found out, Jess.”
I tell Clay everything that Ryanna told me. There’s an edge to my words when I talk about her making out with Dylan, but I can’t help it. She said he kissed her back, and I can’t shake that idea. I can feel his eyes on me, watching me, but he doesn’t say anything.
When I finish talking, Clay nods thoughtfully. “Sounds like someone has it in for you. And it sounds personal.”
I reach for my coffee and take a sip. My hand is shaking, and the porcelain mug clatters against the saucer. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Dylan growls impatiently and reaches across my legs to grab my purse. He pulls out the two cell phones and tosses them onto the coffee table.
Clay pulls a pair of reading glasses from his pocket, puts them on, and picks up both phones. “And you think these two units have been compromised?”
“I have messages from Jess, that she says she didn’t send.” Dylan turns his head and shoots me a look, like he doesn’t completely believe me.
After all this, he’s still suspicious of me?
As I stare at him in disbelief, my eyes wide, I’m so glad I didn’t kiss him in the car.
Clay keeps pressing buttons on the phones, studying them. He is fascinated by the mystery, and not at all interested in our relationship issues. “I’ll have to plug these into my computer,” he says. “I need to download the data without tripping off a warning, then run some diagnostics.”
“How soon until you prove something?” Dylan asks.
I interrupt, “Until he proves what?” I stare right at Dylan, letting him know non-verbally how upset I am. “That I’m not lying to you? Why don’t you believe me? The phones were hacked. Clay should be focused on figuring out who did this to our phones.”
Dylan won’t look at me. “Sure.”
I cross my arms and shift away from him on the couch.
Clay gets up to grab something and returns a minute later with a scratched-up laptop and some cables. To my surprise, he starts doing the diagnostics stuff right in front of us.
As we wait, I think of something else that was weird about my phone. “Clay, could the hacker set up alerts for news stories on my phone?” I tell him about the alerts I was getting on my phone in Rome. That was how I first learned of the video with Dylan kissing Ryanna. I wouldn’t have seen it for days, if ever, if those alerts hadn’t come in. My friends know better than to send me that garbage.
Dylan stiffens when I mention the kissing video, but I keep talking. “And then Dylan was getting alerts about me.”
Clay looks up at me. His face is getting red, and he wipes the gray hair off his forehead with the back of his hand.
“Only one of the phones has been compromised,” he says. “The one in the purple case, not the one in the black case.”
His words wash over me. Only my phone was hacked, but Dylan was getting alerts about me kissing that creep in Italy. That means he was actively looking for information about me.
I turn and look at him, but he won’t meet my eyes. I just shake my head. It’s going to be a long drive back to Los Angeles.
I don’t want to be in this room anymore, hearing more about my fiancé spying on me. For all I know, Dylan’s the one who installed spyware on my phone. Maybe it was his doing, and the software just malfunctioned. Or maybe he never got messages from me, and is just claiming he did to excuse his behavior.
The room keeps getting hotter, with less oxygen.
Clay’s wife comes back to check on our coffee and see if we need anything else.
I jump up and walk toward her. She’s wiping her hands on an apron, and she reminds me so much of my grandmother right now, I want to throw myself into her arms.
“Mrs. Verity, you have such beautiful flowers out front,” I say.
“Call me Iris, dear.” She looks over at Dylan, who’s glowering on the couch, and Clay, who’s grumbling at his laptop screen. “Would you like a tour of the gardens?” she asks.
I practically drag her out the front door.
Chapter Three
We get out into the sunshine, and Iris says, “I’ve never trusted those mobile phones, but they are handy.”
I follow her through the garden. It’s nice being outside L.A., and not just because being surrounded by all the trees and nature reminds me of where I grew up. I can breathe out here. There aren’t any paparazzi waiting around the corner. Between them and whoever’s been tampering with my phone, it’s no wonder I keep looking over my shoulder.
Iris shows me her prize flowers, some large roses that she cuts once a week and brings over to a friend, who’s a painter.
“I give my friend the flowers, and she gives them right back in paintings,” Iris says, laughing.
“Those must be the ones I was admiring in your living room. They’re all so beautiful.”
She smiles, the wrinkles on her face deepening with a lifetime of laugh lines. “Do you really like them? I have dozens more that aren’t even on the wall. I’ll send you home with one you pick out. My friend will be elated to know it’s hanging in the home of a rock star and his beautiful wife.”
I try to resist her generous offer, but she insists.
Her husband is still working on the data from my phone, so I spend the next few hours puttering around the house and garden with Iris.
Each time we pass through the living room, I can feel Dylan’s eyes on me. I refuse to look at him until he apologizes for calling me a liar. I can sense his frustration growing, and I’m glad. He’s putting himself through hell, but I hope something good comes from him feeling bad. I want him to learn from this, and never shut me out again.
Clay finally declares that he’s done all he can do today, and returns our phones.
I sit on the sofa again and finish my coffee, which is cold now but still sweet.
“There’s a spyware app that runs in the background,” Clay explains. “You won’t notice it, and even if you do, it says it’s for diagnostics so you’ll think nothing of it. These hackers are crafty. But as long as it’s on your phone, they have complete access and control. They could put anything on your phone and you’d never know. I hope you don’t do your banking on this thing.”
I shake my head. “No, I pay my bills using my laptop.”
“Good,” he says. “Not too much damage has been done.”
Hmm, not really. I look over at Dylan.
He asks Clay, “How did she get it on her phone?”
“Could have come in an email attachment or a text you got. Some junk thing that you opened by accident. Even if you deleted it, once
you opened it, the virus can do its thing. I told you. Crafty.”
“What now?”
Clay rubs his salt and pepper beard. “Keep it running for now. Best we not let on that we know about them. I’ve installed another level.” He grins and starts talking faster, excited about the technology. “Spyware that spies on the other spyware. Give me a few days and I’ll tell you who’s behind this.” He looks up, his face serious. “That is… if you really want to know.”
Dylan and I answer in unison, “We want to know.”
I smile at Dylan. It’s not much, but I’m relieved to finally agree with him about something.
“Thank you so much.” Dylan stands and pulls out his wallet.
Iris nods for me to come and pick out my painting, so I leave the guys to finalize the payment.
“This one,” Iris says, handing me an oil painting of roses. This painting is different from the others—it looks like a bride’s bouquet. “For the newlyweds,” she says.
I lean in and whisper, “I don’t even know if we’ll get married. Things are always up in the air with Dylan.”
Iris sighs, then grabs me in a big hug. I give in and hug her back as she gives me a good squeeze. In my ear she whispers, “All men are stubborn sometimes. But Dylan’s a good one. You can hear it in his music, and I can see it in his eyes when he looks at you.”
“He won’t even look at me today.”
“Well, not when you’re looking back at him, honey.”
I pull away, and she brings me over to the mantle to show me their wedding photo. The two of them look about the same age Dylan and I are right now.
“Almost forty years,” she says. “Honey, there are always going to be rough patches. Being stubborn and proud only makes those patches worse.”
I give her a skeptical look. “Am I supposed to be a doormat? Do I just forget everything and let it all go? To what end?”
“It’s not being a doormat to be… gracious sometimes.”
I can feel my eyebrows raising so high, they’re about to fly right off my face. Gracious? Who is she kidding?
I nod and thank her for the advice anyway.
Dylan finishes with Clay, thanks them both, and we go out to the car. He looks at the painting after I set it in the back seat, but doesn’t say a word.
We wave goodbye to the couple, who look adorable standing together in front of their cute yellow house, surrounded by roses.
If all this Ryanna and phone stuff hadn’t happened, Dylan and I would be getting married in a few days. So far, we’ve had one huge breakup per year. If we stay together as long as Iris and Clay, does that mean we have forty breakups ahead of us?
I can’t even imagine. I thought I saw a future for the two of us, but now everything is a blur.
This painting of roses that’s in our back seat might be the only bridal bouquet I ever get.
Chapter Four
Once we’re back on the road, it’s quiet time again. Dylan doesn’t turn the stereo back on. He drives and stares straight ahead for what feels like forever.
I pull out my phone and stare at it in my hand. There are messages from Riley, asking me what happened this afternoon. I still have the spyware on the phone, so I’m glad she didn’t mention Ryanna by name. I don’t know how much they know about what I’ve figured out so far.
I’m dying to tell Riley everything, but I can’t talk freely with Dylan sitting next to me.
Maybe I could send her something cryptic. I wish I could trust the privacy of my own phone, but Clay left the hacked stuff intact so he could trace the source. That means I can’t tell Riley the truth, or I’ll let on that we know about the spyware, and it might shut down before we track the guilty party.
While I’m holding the phone, another text comes in. This one’s from Amanda. It simply says: WTF.
I have to laugh. Amanda has the best timing.
Dylan’s still staring straight ahead. He could use a friend like Amanda. He’s so serious all the time. I suppose I’m his Amanda—I’m the one who lightens his mood. He’s been without me for twelve days, and by the scruffy beard and the circles under his eyes, he looks like he’s been in a prison cell the whole time.
I want to say something to him, but I don’t know what. I’m still angry that he had alerts set up on his phone to watch for gossip about me in Italy. If he wanted to know what I was doing, he should have found his way to a working phone.
He keeps staring ahead, unaware of the dirty look I’m giving him. Typical. He’s probably composing song lyrics about how he’s the only one who suffers when things go wrong.
I look down at my phone and compose a quick message to the girls: Let’s order Italian food tonight. My treat! Riley, I went back to the office after we talked. I’m such a total doofus. I’ve got this jet lag and I crashed out in a puddle of drool on my desk. I’ll be home soon for dinner.
As I tuck my phone away in my new Italian purse, Dylan glances over. He looks curious, but doesn’t ask me what’s going on. Typical.
I cross my arms and settle down into the seat. Warm sunshine is coming in through the window, but I’m not too hot, thanks to the air conditioning.
The fake glasses slide down my nose, reminding me I’m still wearing them. I take the glasses off and put them in my purse, then rub the bridge of my nose.
I sink down deeper into the seat, taking the comfort of its embrace. I close my eyes, as relaxed as a barn cat with a belly full of mice, curled up in a patch of sunshine.
Chapter Five
Someone’s gently shaking my shoulder.
For a moment, I’m back in Italy. I’m in my hotel room, napping during the day because I’m too heartbroken to go outside. The housekeeper ignored the sign on the door, and has come in to change the sheets. She wants me to wake up, but I don’t want to wake up. I want to keep dreaming.
The shaking on my shoulder gets more insistent.
“Dylan,” I cry out in my sleep.
“I’m right here,” he says.
I open my eyes. It’s not sunny anymore. Everything is dark. I’m so confused. Are we in Italy? Did he come back?
“Hey, it’s okay,” he says soothingly. “I’m right here, Jess.”
The tears I’ve been holding back for so long start to flow.
“You left me,” I sob. “You left me all alone in Italy. I couldn’t even leave the hotel room. How could you do that?”
He reaches down to unbuckle my seat belt. I don’t want him to touch me, though. I hate him. I slap at his hands and yell at him incoherently.
“You had a nightmare,” he says. “You fell asleep in the car, but I’m here now.”
He keeps trying to pull me toward him, to comfort me. The car interior is dark and cramped. I don’t know where we are.
I scream at him to leave me alone. I get my seat belt unbuckled, push open the door, and jump out.
We’re inside a garage, but I don’t recognize it. It’s completely empty, like a house nobody lives in.
There’s a door, and I run toward it. I need to get out of this garage and away from Dylan. My breath is coming in raspy sobs, and part of my mind still thinks I’m in Italy, holed up in that room. I don’t want him to see me like this.
The door is locked. I’m trapped. I start banging on the door and kicking it.
Dylan is out of the car and comes toward me, his arms outstretched. “Shh, I’m here now, Jess. I’m here for you.”
“No, you aren’t. You only think about yourself.”
“You’re right,” he says.
The rest of my words catch in my throat. He’s agreeing with me?
He reaches me at the door and takes me in his arms. He squeezes me so tight. I stop breathing and hold still. I can feel his chest moving against mine. He loosens his grip and rubs his palms up and down my back.
“You’re right,” he whispers into the top of my head. “I’ve been selfish, and I need to do better by you.”
On his next breath in, I let my lungs op
en and inhale in rhythm with him. The breath is ragged, but feels good. His shoulder feels good against my cheek, and so do his arms around me.
“Jess?”
“Don’t ever let me go.”
“I’m trying.” He keeps rubbing my back, and kissing the top of my head.
“You did let me go,” I murmur. “You can’t do that, or one of these days I’ll be gone.”
“I’m trying,” he repeats.
I circle his waist with my arms and melt into him. “Try harder.”
“Jess, I’m sorry.”
I close my eyes and press my face into his shoulder. He’s saying these words now, but does he mean them? Will he still remember this feeling when his temper flares up again?
Now I’m crying even harder, because I don’t think he will hold onto this moment. This is how it will be with us, always, because of how he is.
“I’m sorry too,” I say, but I don’t mean it.
“Don’t be sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s all my fault.”
These aren’t the words I was expecting to hear. I pull back and look up at his face. He lets go of me and turns away quickly.
Gruffly, he says, “Entirely my fault.” When he turns back, he’s got a soft expression on his face.
We stare into each other’s eyes in the dim garage.
“Where are we?” I ask. “Did you buy another house?”
“Don’t change the subject. I was apologizing to you.”
I turn my head and look down at the concrete floor. “Oh, right. Apology accepted.”
He chuckles. “Fair enough. I shouldn’t expect you to forgive me right away. I know we have a lot of work to do.”
“Work?” I turn back and look into his dark eyes. Work to do? That doesn’t sound like the Dylan Wolf I know. His method of dealing with things is to disappear to a cabin in the woods, or buy a faster car.
“I’ve been seeing someone,” he says.
My heart drops, and my legs start to buckle. I gasp and reach for the door handle to steady myself.
“Jess?”
