Unleash Me, Vol. 2 (Unleash Me, Annihilate Me Series)

by Ross, Christina

  Tank was right. Blackwell is used to being the focus. This isn’t going to go well.

  “I don’t know what that means, Barbara,” Iris said.

  “It’s well known that you editorial types like to be half in the bag on a daily basis, generally by mid-afternoon.”

  “Is that so?”

  “I can confirm that, by noon, your throat is likely battered with booze. You know, as if you drank a quart of pancake mix. It would be that thick and that coated. You’d be drunk.”

  “I can assure you that none of that is true here, Barbara. My dear, sweet, bombastic Barbara. I rarely imbibe, but since this is a party for Lisa, I can tell you right now that I will be imbibing. Heavily. All night. And who knows? You might have a mess on your hands if you’re not careful.”

  “Mon Dieu.”

  “But since you’ve brought up the issue of clichés, I think it’s fair to point out that you’ve fallen into a sinkhole of your own.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Really? Then allow me to take you back to class. When women of a certain age—”

  “A certain age?”

  “That’s right, a certain age. Since one can be painfully deluded when it comes to seeing what one’s become in the wreckage of one’s downhill slide toward the depths of death, let me just break the news gently to you—you, my dear, are of a certain age. When I see older women, such as yourself showing off too much décolleté, as you are now, I always smell a whiff of desperation. A cougar on the prowl. And I want to weep for the world.”

  “Save your tears, Iris. If you don’t, you’ll just salt your cocktails with them.”

  “Isn’t that clever? And news to me. Might I point out that’s information only a weeping drunk would know?”

  “I’m far from being a drunk, Iris.”

  “You’re also far from being twenty-five, so perhaps you should stop dressing as if you were.”

  “I’m wearing Chanel.”

  “Then the French hate you. And why shouldn’t they? With all of that horse hair on top of your head, not to mention all the whale bone and foam rubber you’re using to give yourself something that resembles a figure, I don’t know whether you’re a woman or a five-piece living room set at Frank’s Warehouse.”

  “This from a woman who typically dresses like a man,” Blackwell said. “Oh, how your words cut through my heart.”

  “And this from a woman who places her self-esteem in the cold clutches of couture. Oh, how I wish my words could even find your heart.”

  “You wouldn’t recognize couture if it bit you on the ass.”

  “Maybe not all the time, but as a sensitive person who can tap into the ethereal at a moment’s notice, I always can smell that faint scent of sorrow that enters the air when one’s youth has left them forever. And that scent? Oh, it’s all over you, Barbara. It’s practically fumigating this place.”

  Blackwell gave a light, easy laugh at that, waved a hand in front of her face, and glanced around at the rest of us. Did she see our mortified expressions? If she did, I don’t think she cared. And I was confused. I thought she liked Iris. What was their problem? Had something happened between them before we got here? I was about to say something—anything—to change the conversation when Blackwell stopped me with a warning look.

  “OK, everyone. Now, tell me the truth. Don’t worry—if you don’t agree with me, I can take it. You won’t hurt my feelings. So, I need to ask. Do I look a day over forty-five?”

  “Oh, please,” Iris said. “Really? Now you’re just looking for sympathy. And from your friends, no less. Here’s a tip. If you’re looking for sympathy, you can look it up in the dictionary—right along with ‘death,’ ‘shit’ and ‘suicide.’”

  Blackwell turned back to Iris and was about to say something when Iris lowered her gaze and bit her cheek.

  “That’s right,” Blackwell said. “Look away from me in shame like your mother did when she gave birth to you. And while you’re at it, put your dentures in backwards and bite your head off.”

  And with that, Iris’ head snapped up, she was about to say something to Blackwell, but then, inexplicably, the two women started to cackle with laughter.

  “What the hell was that?” Jennifer said.

  Blackwell took a sip of water while Iris dabbed at her eyes with her napkin. They were still laughing.

  “The shame on my mother’s face when she gave birth to me!” Iris said to Blackwell. “Oh, that was priceless.”

  “The French hate me! A five-piece living room set!”

  “Salting my cocktails with my tears—that has to be your best line ever. And so off the cuff. I almost lost it when you said it. It was perfect!”

  “Is this a joke?” I said.

  “Of course it is,” Blackwell said. “Iris is one of the few people who loves bitchy word play as much as I do. We’ve been doing this routine for years, only in private. Tonight was a show just for you, my dear. A fine way to energize the party. Because of us, you won’t soon forget this evening—and that is the point. Now, Jennifer, close your mouth and stop looking like a goddamned guppy. Alex, you sly fox—you already knew what we were doing, so bravo to you for keeping mum. Lisa, stop looking so horrified or mystified or whatever the hell it is I’m seeing on your face. Be more like Tank here—I think he rather enjoyed the show, but I also think he was on to us. Were you, Tank?”

  “I might have had an idea.”

  “I thought so—you can’t get much past a former SEAL.” She raised a hand to catch our waiter’s attention. When he came over, Blackwell said to the table, “Showtime’s over. Let’s order drinks so we can toast our guest of honor—Lisa Ward.”

  * * *

  When dinner was over and the plates had been cleared, I felt happy and spent. What an evening it had been with my closest friends—and with my new friend Iris Masterson—not to mention with my fantastic boyfriend, who had held my hand beneath the table during those moments when we weren’t eating.

  Marco Boss and Kevin were never mentioned, so the mood was kept high and light, especially after Blackwell and Iris’ unexpected hijinks. I was finally able to catch up with Jennifer—we talked of her time in Singapore, the movie deal, what it was like to work with Iris, how she couldn’t wait to read the newly edited book, and how much she and Alex were looking forward to joining us at the Wenn Publishing party.

  “We’ll all go together,” she said.

  “Done,” I said. “And potentially fun.”

  “I’ll be staying with Alex again tonight. Send me the manuscript tonight via email. I’ll read it straight away.”

  “You’re practically living together at this point.”

  “I thought you needed to be alone so you could finish your book. You didn’t need me lurking around to distract you. After tonight, if you want, I plan on spending the rest of the week at the apartment with you.” Her eyes met mine. “After all, we do have a lot to catch up on….”

  That was code for “We totally need to talk about Alex and me, you and Tank, and everything in between.”

  “Agreed,” I said. “I’ve missed you.”

  “So, tonight, I’ll be with Alex. And, you know, you might be with someone else.”

  “I think we’re being set up, Tank,” Alex said.

  “I can deal with being set up like that,” he said.

  Alex nodded at him. “Same here.” He turned to Jennifer and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek just as our waiter approached the table with a martini on a round tray.

  “Final cocktail for the lady?” he said to me.

  I hadn’t ordered it, but I wouldn’t have put it past Jennifer to order one for me. I looked around the table. “Are one of you trying to get me drunk?” I said. “I’m only drinking it if the rest of you have another one with me. Otherwise, no way.”

  The waiter smiled at me. “It’s actually from an admirer, Ms. Ward. He purchased the martini and asked me to bring it and this envelope to you at the end of the evening.”


  Blackwell rubbed her hands together. “My plan is working. People are starting to recognize her.”

  “Where is he?” I asked.

  The waiter placed the martini down in front of me and handed me the envelope, which wasn’t sealed. Inside was a piece of paper. “Actually, he left some time ago.”

  Tank held out his hand for the envelope. I gave it to him, and then he moved the martini out of my reach. “Where was this gentleman sitting?” he asked the waiter.

  “He didn’t dine here tonight,” the waiter said. “Not long after you and Ms. Ward entered the restaurant and were seated, he came in. He paid for the drink, and asked me to wait until you were about to leave before I delivered it and the envelope to Ms. Ward. Now seemed the appropriate time.”

  Tank took the envelope and held it up to the light above him. I watched him squint his eyes, and saw the frustration that crossed his face. He then pressed the envelope together, likely to get a better view of what was inside. Tank was a master at concealing emotion, and he revealed nothing to anyone now.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Don’t touch that martini,” he said to me. He looked at the waiter. “You took the order?”

  “I did.”

  “Then we need to talk. Front desk?”

  “Of course.”

  “Tank,” I said.

  But he ignored me. He got up from his seat with the envelope clutched in his hand, and left the rear dining area. He parted the curtains that separated the two dining rooms, and cut through them, disappearing from sight.

  “What’s going on?” Blackwell said.

  “I don’t know, but I’m going to find out. Excuse me.”

  I got up from my seat, and stepped past Jennifer, who squeezed my hand as I passed her. I followed Tank through the curtains into the first dining room, and then stepped into the small reception area, where Tank already was questioning the waiter.

  “What’s the problem?” I asked.

  When Tank saw me, he looked irritated. “I’d like a moment alone with our waiter. Would you mind giving us that moment?”

  “I would. If this involves me, I want to know what’s going on.”

  “Please?” he said.

  “Sorry, but no. Something’s wrong. It obviously involves me. I have a right to know what it is. What’s inside that envelope?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said.

  By the guarded look on his face, I knew he was trying to protect me from something. But if he knew me at all at this point in our relationship, then he knew I wasn’t one to walk away from any sort of situation. “You need to respect me now,” I said. “I’m no fool. Neither are any of our friends. Something isn’t right. What’s the issue?”

  We respected each other enough that he knew that he needed to give in and come clean with me. And so he did.

  “You’ve received a threat,” he said.

  Given the way he was acting, I sensed that was the case. But who sent it? “What kind of threat? What’s in the envelope? Let me see it.”

  With reluctance, he handed it over to me. I removed the piece of paper that was inside, and unfolded it. For a moment, I just stared at the words. Spelled out in the middle of the paper in letters clipped from magazines and newspapers, someone had glued the words ‘Enjoy your final drink, bitch, because it’s your last.’

  Shaken, I handed it back to Tank, who tried to console me by placing his hand on my arm. But there was no consoling me. “Who did this?” I asked the waiter. “Who bought me that drink and gave this envelope to you?”

  The man look flustered. “I don’t know, Ms. Ward.”

  “How can’t you know? How did he pay?”

  “In cash.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Solid build. Brown hair.”

  Immediately, I thought of Kevin, who had brown hair. Had he followed us tonight? Someone had. “Did he have a beard?”

  “He didn’t.”

  That caught me off guard—Kevin had a beard. Or at least he did the last time I saw him. Could he have cut it off? Of course he could have. “Describe him to me,” I said. “What was he wearing? What did he look like?” I looked around the space. “Do you have security cameras in here? If you do, that would be helpful.”

  “They don’t,” Tank said. “This isn’t a destination spot for tourists. Their main clientele are locals, most of whom they know on a first-name basis. There are no cameras—just a security code to gain entrance to the restaurant.”

  I looked at the waiter. “Describe him to me.”

  “It was busy. He just came in, and said that he recognized you and wanted to buy you a drink, and then asked me to pass along a note from a fan. It’s a Saturday night. We had a full house. It’s been crazy. I just took the money from him, took the envelope, and asked when he wanted me to deliver the drink and the envelope to you. He told me when. I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, Ms. Ward.”

  “You were just doing your job,” I said. “This isn’t on you—I apologize if I’m coming off hot. I don’t mean to—I’m just worried. And a little angry. Was this man of average height, or was he tall?”

  “You’re thinking of Boss?” Tank said.

  “Of course I am. I’m thinking of Kevin and Boss. Both have it in for me.”

  “I’d say he was about six feet tall,” the waiter said.

  “Are you sure of that?”

  “Not completely. But I’m six feet tall, and we were eye-to-eye. I do remember that.”

  Marco Boss was a giant. Kevin was about five-foot-ten, but who knew how tall he was in whatever shoes he was wearing. “Did this man seem homeless to you?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Did he seem high or drunk to you?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “What was he wearing?”

  “A brown overcoat—I remember that. And I think a sweater. I don’t know what he was wearing for pants. I didn’t notice that.”

  I took a breath in an effort to settle down. “The reason we’re being so clinical about this is that there’s been a prior threat. I’m just frustrated, that’s all. Please accept my apologies if I’ve come on too strong.”

  “None are needed.”

  I looked at Tank. “What do you make of this?”

  “That it’s time to show him the composite.”

  “You have it with you?”

  “You’ve been threatened. Anything can happen at any moment. Tonight confirms that. So, of course I do.” He looked at the waiter. “I’ll just need my overcoat.” When the man brought it to Tank, he fished out the composite from an inside pocket and showed it to the waiter. “Was this him?”

  “No—he didn’t have a beard. And his hair was much shorter.”

  “Then look beyond the beard. Imagine him with shorter hair? Use your imagination. Could this be him if he were cleaned up?”

  The waiter studied the photograph. “It’s tough to say,” he said. “Maybe. I’m not sure. The man who bought the drink looked younger than this guy, but a shave and a haircut would make him look younger, so I don’t know.” He looked at us. “I wish I could be of help, but I don’t want to mislead you.”

  “It’s fine,” Tank said, handing him back his coat. “Thank you for your time.”

  When the waiter left, I said, “What do we do now?”

  “We need to get you and everyone else home safely, so let me call my team. They’ll have cars waiting for all of us, and they’ll make certain the street is clear when we leave.”

  He stepped aside, removed his cell from his jacket pocket, and made one phone call, which is all it took. When he was finished, he said, “They’ll be here in fifteen minutes. We don’t leave the restaurant until they tell us to. Our friends are obviously concerned about you right now. Let’s go back to the dining room and tell them what’s happened and that we’re dealing with it.”

  When we did and Tank explained the situation we were in, Jennifer reached for my hand and grasped it
in her own. “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Not really.”

  “This is either your ex or it’s Marco Boss,” Blackwell said. “I’m betting it’s Boss. From what you told me about Kevin, he couldn’t afford a cocktail, new clothes, or a barber to cut his hair and shave off his beard.”

  “Actually, I disagree,” Tank said. “If Kevin can afford his meth and alcohol addictions, which cost plenty to fuel on a daily basis, then he can come up with the minimal amount of money he’d need to do just that. Clothes cost next to nothing at places such as the Salvation Army. In fact, if you’re truly in need, somebody there likely would have just given him a fresh set of clothes for free. A trip to a cheap barber for a haircut and shave is thirty dollars—max. A shower at a hostel might cost him fifteen dollars. Tonight? The drink was sixteen dollars. So we’re looking at a minimal investment on his part. If he plans to mess with Lisa, he can afford it. Who knows what his life is like? Is he selling meth? If he is, he has an income stream. Does he have a part-time job? We don’t know, but if he does? Income. What we need to consider is this—since he knows where she lives, he’s in the running for this. He could have been lurking down the block, and followed us here tonight by cab. That would have cost him eight bucks. For Kevin, regardless of the fact that he’s homeless, all of this is possible.”

  “Let me just throw something out here,” Alex said. “Boss is no fool. He’s too smart to directly implicate himself. If he is behind this—and I do think that he’s capable of something like this—he’d hire someone to follow Lisa and do everything that happened tonight.”

  “He could have,” Tank said. “But proving it? That’s the difficult part.”

  “I’m so sorry, Lisa,” Iris said.

  “It’ll be fine, Iris. But thank you. I have Tank—he’s my rock. He has my back, as I think you’re witnessing now.”

  Blackwell looked at Tank. “Her photo has been everywhere lately. The billboard in Times Square and the ad that ran in the Times was sexual and provocative. That’s my fault, and I accept it. So I have to ask. Could some deranged fan—if you even want to call him that—be behind this?”