by Lois Greiman
I forced a laugh. “I’m glad you see the humor in the situation.”
He dropped his head a fraction of an inch, like a wolf preparing for the kill.
I refrained from fiddling with the piping on the couch…and hiding under it. “It could have been…Now that I’ve had sufficient time to consider the situation…I begin to believe that the weapon in question might actually have been a…screwdriver.”
Rivera stared at me in silence for five full seconds, then jerked to his feet and paced away. At the end of his self-imposed tether, he turned to stare at me again.
I gave him my most winning smile, followed by a barely controlled wince. “I might have mentioned the sticky-window problem to Shirley a few days ago.”
He narrowed his already narrowed eyes.
“She might have mentioned that fact to her nephew.”
“Shirley’s nephew is white?”
“And medium height,” I added.
His dark brows dipped.
“And blond.” I tensed, waiting for him to blast me. I had learned some time ago that cops don’t particularly like it when folks cry wolf. Go figure. “And, you know, mid-thirties.”
He inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly. As an exercise to maintain self-control, it was fairly effective. Still, I reminded myself to suggest a few other tools to defuse his temper in the future. He would probably find Dr. Dirkx’s chapter thirteen quite enlightening. In fact, he might find the entire book helpful if he were to—
“I need a favor.”
I blinked, thoughts tumbling to a halt. Since when did Lieutenant Jack Rivera ask for favors instead of delivering edicts, accusations, or threats?
“I want you to leave town,” he said.
Chapter 8
People will surprise you, Pork Chop. But mostly, they’ll just piss you off.
—Glen McMullen, delivering yet another life lesson to an impressionable Chrissy
I caught my breath. Leave town? Why would he want me to—
But the truth dawned on me: Rivera was mocking me, making light of my foolish phobias.
“Very funny,” I said, and rose to my feet. My knees hardly shook at all. Such is the resilience of Christina McMullen, PhD. “Well…I’m glad I’ve amused you, Lieutenant. But I want you to consider this…” I raised a haughty brow. “Perhaps I have reason for my paranoia. Perhaps if the LAPD had protected me in the past—”
“Michael’s moved out of your parents’ house, hasn’t he?”
I managed a confused expression.
“And Peter hasn’t moved back in?”
I narrowed my eyes, suspicions firing up like Dad’s bottle rockets.
“What do my moronic brothers’ whereabouts have to do with anything?”
“Your old bedroom is empty.”
“And that is significant because…”
“I’m sure you’d be welcome there.”
My jaw dropped. My eyes opened wide, and for a second I almost believed he was serious. But even Rivera couldn’t be deluded enough to think I would rather live with my family than be murdered by strangers. He had, after all, met them.
“If you wanted me out of your life all you had to do was ask,” I said, and headed for the door, but he caught my arm in a grip that was neither amusing nor gentle.
“And you call yourself a therapist.”
I stared at him.
“You think I’m trying to get rid of you, McMullen? Is that actually what you believe?” His voice was low and deadly earnest.
I waited, breath held, trying to figure out where this was heading. But the fire in his eyes made it difficult to think.
“Good God, look at you, you’re…” He breathed the words, then gritted his teeth, almost stepping toward me but not quite. He pulled air into his lungs, chest expanding. “Have you heard of the Black Flames?”
His tone was ultra-serious. Too serious. He was putting me on…having a little laugh at my expense. “I’m afraid I don’t have time to familiarize myself with all the boy bands that—”
“It’s an Asian gang. Daiki’s gang.”
We stared at each other. My heart had slowed to the speed of an Irish dirge. “Why are you telling me this?” I asked, but truth to tell, I didn’t really want to hear the answer.
“They’re relatively new to L.A.” He released my arm, scrubbed his face with his right hand. I hadn’t realized until then how exhausted he looked. “Not warm and fuzzy, like the Crips or the Bloods. No scruples at all. No—”
“Rivera!” I felt panic bubbling up again. “Why—”
“They’ll take out babies, children. Hell, they’ll take out a whole city block if they’re pissed enough.” He clenched his jaw. “Their L.A. cartel is gaining power.”
I blinked. “If you’re trying to mess with my head, I think it might be working.”
He only stared at me.
I licked my lips. “So that’s what you’ve been working on? That’s why I haven’t seen you?”
“We arrested one of their key players last night. There will be repercussions.” He let the statement fade. I searched his face, certain he was toying with me, but his expression suggested otherwise.
“So you were…you were involved in the arrest?” I was trying to be brave, or at least to refrain from peeing in my pants.
A muscle jumped in his jaw. “They like to have leverage.”
The house was absolutely silent. I felt a little sick to my stomach. “Leverage?”
“Hostages.”
“Holy shit,” I breathed, and felt my bladder quiver.
“They keep them sedated…most of the time.”
“Sedated?”
“Opiates, mainly. They’re old-fashioned that way.”
“You’re making this up,” I said, but the accusation was weak.
“Sometimes parts of the victims are found. A tongue. A—”
“I get the picture,” I snapped, then desperately searched his face. It told me nothing I wanted to believe. I nodded once, backed away a step, then peeled off toward the bathroom. I reached the toilet an instant before my stomach rejected its contents.
By the time my legs were steady enough to carry me into the kitchen, Rivera was scrambling eggs. His fingers looked long and strangely elegant against the whisk’s stainless steel handle. Our gazes met. Neither of us spoke. He lowered his gaze and dumped the eggs into a frying pan filled with cooked rice.
“You should have told me,” I said.
“Why?” He didn’t look up as he mixed the concoction with a wooden spoon. “So that you could pry into my business? So that you could do some dumb-ass thing that puts your life at risk? Again?”
“Your life’s at—”
“I’m a cop!” The words were rife with frustration, hot with anger. “It’s my job! I’m trained to keep you safe. Paid to keep you—” He waved a hand at the world, then clenched his fist and lowered it slowly. It shook.
I went to him like an apparition in a bad movie, steps stilted, body all but unmoving.
“Hey.” My voice was soft.
His gaze met mine. Haunted. Tortured.
“I’m safe,” I said. “I’m okay.”
He closed his eyes. The spoon rattled to the stove. He shut off the burner like one in a trance.
“I’m all right,” I said again.
He bumped a nod. I took his hand and led him back to the couch.
“How long has it been since you’ve eaten?” I asked.
“You have to leave,” he said.
“Just…” I took a deep breath. “Just slow down a little.”
“There’s no time for slow.”
I returned to his kitchen. Some time ago, he’d installed a granite-topped center island. Gleaming copper kettles hung from a metal grid attached to the ceiling. The room looked like Better Homes and Gardens porn. If I had a clean cup in my entire house it was a red-letter day.
After emptying the fried rice onto a plate I’d taken from his cupboard, I fished a fork out of a
nearby drawer and took it to him.
“Eat,” I said, setting the meal on the armrest.
He gazed at me, then pulled me down beside him and captured my hands.
“Promise you’ll go.”
I forced a laugh. “I can’t go running back to my parents.”
For a second, I thought he’d argue, but he jerked to his feet and paced away. “You’re right. Somewhere else. Somewhere even I can’t find you. Can’t give you away no matter what happens.”
“What do you mean, no matter what happens? What might happen? What—”
He pivoted toward me. “Do you know anyone in Switzerland?”
“Switzer—” I laughed. Sure, absolutely positive, that he was joking. “Very funny. Ho ho ho. But you’ve had your fun now. I’m sorry I panicked, okay? I’m sorry I—”
“Tell me you’ll go.” His eyes were mesmerizing, haunting. “Tell me you’ll go, keep your head down, stay off the radar.”
“I have clients.”
A muscle jumped in his lean jaw. “Last I heard, psychologists weren’t very effective without their tongues.”
The air left my lungs in a hard rush. Blood evacuated my extremities.
“Harlequin,” I said softly.
Rivera’s face was hard now, his eyes flat. “He’ll be happy with Eddie. And when things calm down, I’ll pick him up.”
“What about—”
“Shirley can take care of herself.”
“If she can, so can I,” I said, but he didn’t even bother to argue.
“You’ve got to go. Pack light. Just the necessities,” he said, tugging me toward the door. I dragged him to a halt.
“Quit it! Will you…” He turned toward me. I huffed a laugh. “This is insane. I can’t just drop everything.”
“If there was a better option I’d suggest that.” His gaze burned into mine.
I swallowed. “When would I have to leave?”
“Tonight. Tomorrow at the latest. And you have to stay gone. A month. Maybe more. I’ll let you know when you can come back.”
“A month! Let me know…How?” The question was little more than a hiss of air. “You said you don’t want to know where I am.”
“When it’s safe, I’ll find you.”
It sounded so Last of the Mohicans that I almost laughed.
“That’s crazy. Don’t you—”
“Please.” The single word was soft but intense. “Please do this for me. So I can think. So I can keep my head, knowing you’re safe.” Then he kissed me.
“This is ridiculous.” I was breathless now, from the fear, from the soul-searing kiss. “What about the other cops? They have girlfriends. They have families.”
“I don’t love them,” he said.
I stared wordlessly for a second, and then I jumped him, kissing him with a Fifty Shades kind of frenzy.
He kissed me back.
I ripped at his shirt. He grabbed my ass. The world receded in a clash of smoldering passion, but suddenly he jerked his lips from mine.
“No!” I’m not proud of the fact that I whimpered the word.
Rivera didn’t even glance toward me. Instead, his attention was riveted on the kitchen door. On the opposite side of that room was a small porch that led outside.
I froze, breath held. He unwound my legs from around his waist. I dropped my feet to the floor. His eyes were as hard as agates as he pushed me behind him. A gun appeared in his hand, possibly retrieved from an orifice only possessed by cops and Hollywood cowboys.
“Call nine-one-one.” His voice was low and deadly.
I searched frantically for my purse, but I hadn’t brought it in. The sound of breaking glass shattered me.
I gasped. Rivera pushed me down beside the couch.
Something scraped against a wall.
I stifled a scream. Rivera dropped down beside me, slipped his fingers behind my neck, and kissed me. His hand was steady now, his voice dead level, his eyes the same. “Leave,” he ordered.
“I—”
“Now.” His voice never wavered. “The garage is secure. When I stand up, I want you to get there as fast as you can. My keys are—”
“No!” I shook my head, but he caught my jaw, forced me to meet his gaze.
“My keys are on the hook next to the steps.”
“I can’t—”
He tightened his grip on my chin. “Get in my car.”
Something banged against the wall of the porch. I flinched, heart pounding, but he didn’t move. “Get in my car,” he repeated, “lock the doors, and start the engine.”
I was breathing hard and fast now.
“Do you hear me?” he asked. “Start the engine and hit the gas.”
“What if they get in before—”
“Don’t wait for the door to open. Don’t look back. Just go.”
I heard a whisper outside the kitchen window and gasped an expletive.
“Chrissy. Listen to me. You can do this.”
My heart was beating a hole in my chest. “Where?” I whispered. “Where do I go?”
“Where no one can find you. Where I can’t find you.”
“But…My phone. My—”
“Leave it! Leave everything.”
Footsteps! I could hear them creeping around the outside of the house, surrounding us.
“Do you understand me, McMullen?” He drew me back to him. “You have to disappear.”
“I can’t—”
“You can. For me.” He smiled grimly, the slightest curve of irresistible lips. “You can do anything.”
“I—” I began, but a noise boomed from the porch.
I shrieked. Rivera yanked me to my feet and shoved me toward the garage. I tripped, almost fell, and lunged forward. I grabbed the door handle. It was locked, but I managed to tear it open and then I was through. My fingers, numb as cucumbers, dropped the keys.
I fell to my knees, searching wildly. There! Under the folding chair. A gunshot echoed in the house behind me. I snatched up the keys and stumbled toward Rivera’s car. The engine roared to life. I jabbed at the garage-door opener on the visor, slammed the Jeep into drive, and screamed away, taking half the door with me. Someone jumped out of the way and somersaulted to one side. Shots were fired. I careened onto the street and tore away, but I could see someone already lurching into a white sedan behind me.
I took the next turn on two wheels and sped into the night.
Chapter 9
I’m not lost. I just don’t know where the hell I am.
—James McMullen, in an atypically honest but typically stupid moment
I sat up, groggy and disoriented. Outside, stunted trees and scrubby cactus surrounded me. It took me several seconds to realize the nightmare of just a few hours before had been real. I remained absolutely still, enveloped by rancid terror, but the morning was silent.
A car cruised past me on the right, half hidden by the scruffy underbrush, thick as L.A. narcissists, between me and the road. I held my breath, but the car didn’t stop. And a good thing. The Jeep had virtually no fuel. I had lost the white sedan in less than a mile but hadn’t slowed down for hours.
I’d been running on hope and fumes for what seemed like an eternity. Still dressed in spandex shorts, tank top, and tattered hoodie, I was cold and exhausted and stiff. I’d had no way to refill the Jeep’s tank. No cash, no credit cards, nothing to barter. My only real skill was as a therapist, and I rather doubted someone in Where-the-Hell-Am-I was going to fill up my tank in exchange for being asked about his relationship with his mother.
I wanted nothing more than to remain in hiding…unless it was to learn that the whole ordeal had been some horrible mistake I would later laugh at over cinnamon-swirl French toast and thick-ass bacon. But my bladder reminded me in no uncertain terms that other needs were even more essential than breakfast.
Peering around me, I unlocked the driver’s door and stepped cautiously outside, but all remained quiet. I took a step forward.
&nb
sp; Something sprang for me from the trees. I yanked back with a shriek of terror. But my attacker morphed into a blue jay and flew away with a startled caw slightly more dulcet than my own.
Steadying my hands, I thanked the organ gods for a strong bladder and hurried into the woods. In a moment, I was relieving myself behind a bad-tempered succulent.
“Don’t move.”
I gasped. My much-lauded bladder trembled. The voice was guttural and came from close behind me. My hands remained where they were, clasping my shorts. How had the Black Flames found me? I’d driven all night, checked my mirrors a million times. Had they put some kind of tracking device on Rivera’s Jeep? My mind spun with questions, but the answers hardly mattered. They had me dead to rights. But I wouldn’t go down without a fight. I skimmed the woods, desperate for some kind of weapon…Nothing but prickly plants and the occasional nerve-racking blue jay.
“Think you’re pretty smart, don’t ya?”
I straightened, but I was too scared to turn around. “Who are you? How’d you find me? Why…why are you doing this?” My voice shook. I’d like to believe I was just acting, planning to keep him talking until I could devise some ingenious plan of escape. Hollywood has made a cool gazillion by banking on that very idea. But I’m afraid the truth is a little more embarrassing; I was scared out of my mind and blabbering like a lunatic. My hands shook, but I managed to pull up my shorts. I would not die with my bum hanging out. It seemed little enough to ask of my last moments of life, but my knuckles brushed the inside of my sweatshirt’s pocket. It hung low, bulging.
“Why?” he asked, and snorted. The sound was low and evil. “I think ya know the answer to that.”
I could hear his footsteps in the brush behind me and swallowed. Time was running out and there was no weapon in sight. Nothing within reach, unless…What did I have in my pocket? Memory burst in my brain. Yogurt. I had purchased it at the gym. My workout twelve hours before seemed like a lifetime ago, the relative safety of the parking lot, a sanctuary.
“Turn around,” he said. “So I can see your face.”
I gritted my teeth, calling on any latent modicum of courage I might have overlooked. It was now or never. Snatching the yogurt from my pocket, I twisted and threw with all my might.
