Two-Step

by Stephanie Fournet

  Who am I kidding? I’m the one manipulating him. If I’m handed a gun and told to shoot someone, I’m the murderer.

  I’m the guilty one.

  I just have to tell him what she’s up to. I can’t let him think he’s doing me a favor—looking out for me—when I know Moira wants to twist this into some demented advantage.

  I can’t do this. I can’t.

  Moira: And post by noon Eastern time or I will. We don’t want to miss lunchtime viewers.

  “Fuck.” I already knew this would happen. She’s making it nearly impossible for me to refuse. Either I pull the trigger or she does.

  Jonathan is going to hate me. He’ll never want to work with me again. This’ll ruin my reputation.

  I’m huddled on my living room couch with an overnight bag at my feet in a full-on tailspin when Mica barks and runs for the front door.

  “Shit,” I mutter, wetly, dragging the heels of my hands across my eyes. I pass the foyer on the way to the bathroom and see headlights and rain. “Shit.”

  I whip out my phone and send Jonathan a quick text.

  Me: One sec.

  I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I look like trash day. It’s obvious I’ve been crying all morning and got almost no sleep last night. When I wasn’t torturing myself over what I’m about to do, I was agonizing over how to tell Moira no. How to convince her that we shouldn’t do this. Hearing her tell me how stupid I am. How worthless I’d be without her. How I can’t do anything by myself.

  But every now and then, my overworked mind would throw me a bone, and I’d think of Beau. In the middle of my prayers for answers, I found myself praying that he’d be safe during the storm. And then I’d imagine the feel of his strong hands on me. Remember our kisses and those brief, out of control moments on the picnic blanket.

  Envision again the picture he painted of me appearing on SNL. God, that made me feel like I could fly.

  As crazy as it sounds, I thought about calling him last night to tell him about all of this. Tell him about Moira and her insane plan and ask him what I should do.

  But what would he think of me? Would he think I’m a human wreck for even letting things get this far?

  I do.

  Would he think I’m weak for not being able to stand up to Moira?

  I do.

  I think I suck. And, call me selfish, but I like having Beau’s good opinion.

  If I go through with this, I won’t be able to look him in the face either.

  My reflection crumbles, and I start crying all over again.

  Fuck, Iris, pull yourself together.

  Stop crying. Wash your face. Get out there and tell Jonathan—

  Mica’s frantic barking breaks through my mental checklist. It’s different. Not his one-and-done someone’s here bark. I dash my knuckles under my eyes and head toward the hall. I hear Mica snarl and—

  “Whoa, boy!”

  I freeze. Someone’s in the house. That’s not my director’s voice. My heart thumps. It sounds like...

  “Beau?”

  I step into the hallway and find my wide-eyed dance instructor filling the open doorway. He’s dripping wet, taking me in as if he’s as surprised to find himself in my house as I am.

  And I’m stunned. Mouth hanging open. Eyes bugging. Staring at the man like I’ve summoned him with my thoughts.

  Then he holds up his hands and steps back behind the threshold. As soon as he moves, I notice the key sticking out of the door’s lock. “I’m so sorry. I should have knocked.”

  I sniffle, try to compose myself. “W-what are you doing here?”

  Beau’s gaze narrows on me. “I’m here to help,” he says quickly, sounding distracted. “Why are you crying?”

  My lungs empty on a wet exhale. I can’t speak. All I know is I’m so glad to see him. “I—” I try to say something. I’m in trouble. I’m trapped. I don’t know what to do. But I can only manage a sob.

  I watch Beau’s face harden. He closes the distance between us, and then I’m in his arms. I bury my face against his chest, the rain on his jacket mixes with my tears. He pulls me tight against him, and I feel him whisper into my hair.

  “It’s okay. I’m here. You’re safe.”

  He feels so good. He feels so good. I hug him tight, his presence overwhelming everything else for one peaceful moment.

  He holds me, running a hand down my back. “What’s wrong?”

  I let the comfort sink in, but then I breathe deep and exhale. As glad as I am to see him, Beau’s unexpected arrival doesn’t solve my problems.

  I pull back enough to look up at him, but I don’t step out of his embrace. He’ll let me go soon enough. I make myself say it. “I’m a coward.”

  A notch forms between his brows. “You look frightened. That doesn’t make you a coward. It’s smart to be afraid of a hurri—”

  I shake my head. “It’s not that. I’m about to do something terrible because… because…” I can’t even make myself say it. I’m so ashamed.

  A gust of wind blows rain under the porch and through the open door. Without taking his eyes off me, Beau reaches back and throws the door closed behind him. It rattles its frame, muffling the sound of the storm outside.

  His arms settle around me again. One brow arches, and his dark eyes glint. “You’re about to do something terrible?”

  I inhale. “Yes.”

  His gaze narrows. “To someone else?”

  “Yes.” Shame weighs me down like a two-ton garbage truck.

  Beau shakes his head, the corners of his mouth turning up just a fraction. “I don’t believe you. I don’t think you’re capable of intentionally doing something terrible to someone else.”

  My breath shudders. For a moment relief thrums in my veins as if hearing him say this makes it true.

  But it doesn’t, and it isn’t. Because Jonathan is on his way over right now, and I don’t see a way out. My eyes fill again.

  Beau’s gaze softens. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  It’s a huge risk. He might look at me with disgust. He might hate me. He might tell a tabloid.

  Okay, knowing what I know of Beau, the last one seems pretty unlikely, but still.

  And even in the face of so much risk, I want to tell him.

  I take a fortifying breath. “I’m supposed to stay with Jonathan, my director, this weekend.”

  To my surprise, Beau nods. “Ramon told me.”

  My eyebrows bounce. “He told you? When?”

  “Yesterday.” He gives a little eye roll. “When he asked me to pick up the stuff in your yard.”

  “Wha—”

  “I’ll explain later.” Beau meets my eyes with his open gaze, without judgement. “Tell me about this terrible thing you’re doing.”

  So I tell him.

  And as I unload everything—all about Moira’s determination to see me with Jonathan and the actions she expects me to take—his jaw hardens and his nostrils flare, but I don’t find the disgust or disdain I expect in his eyes.

  “I can’t do this,” I say, my voice shaking. “But Moira is determined. She’ll get her way even if I don’t cooperate.”

  Beau frowns in confusion. “What do you mean? How could she get her way if you refuse?”

  I deflate in his arms. “She has a controlling hand in everything. My email, my social media accounts. Bank accounts. Everything. She always has.” I worry my bottom lip between my teeth. “She can post whatever she wants and make a lie look true.”

  His eyelids lower to a simmering glare. “She’d do that?”

  My bitterness comes out in a choked laugh. “She does it all the time. It’s what managers do. They manage things.”

  Beau’s nostrils flair. “But not against their clients’ wishes.”

  I know. I know this. But—

  “You don’t understand.” I try to step out of his embrace, but Beau holds me tighter.

  “Then explain it to me. Why do you let her do this to you?”
>
  I shake my head. “I can’t—” I want to tell him that I’d more easily explain the origins of the universe. That a cosmic explosion of absolutely everything—every atom ever—makes more sense to me than my relationship with my mother. But I don’t get the chance.

  Mica barks again.

  “Shit.”

  Beau turns to follow my gaze through the glass of the French door, releasing me. The headlights of Jonathan Reynolds’ Lexus illuminate the storm-darkened front porch.

  Beau looks back at me, and I can see he’s waiting. Waiting to see what I’ll do. I’m frozen. I should do something, say something, but I can’t.

  Outside, the Lexus’s driver’s side door opens, and a huge golf umbrella emerges ahead of my director. But the rain is blowing sideways, and even under the umbrella’s canopy. He’s getting soaked.

  This is my fault.

  I throw the door open as Jonathan jogs up the porch steps. Dripping and grinning, he halts at the front door when he sees us.

  Jonathan Reynolds is tall and spare with long limbs and expressive hands. He’s not unattractive. He has an interesting, angular face that makes him look aristocratic and authoritative, even though he’s barely in his thirties. But his smile is easy and friendly, which usually gives those of us who work under him a bit of confidence when we approach him.

  I wish I had some of that confidence now.

  Jonathan’s grin holds, but his blue eyes are full of questions when he looks from me to Beau. I can see he’s trying to work out who Beau is and what he’s doing here.

  “Hey, I’m Jonathan,” he says, offering his hand. Slate-faced, Beau shakes it.

  “Beau,” he says, coolly, offering no more than that.

  Jonathan’s eyes linger on him a moment before returning to me. “Are you ready? We’re cutting it close.” He gestures over his shoulder at the angry weather. Even under the porch, spray hits us with each gust of wind.

  I open my mouth to speak, but the words just aren’t there. The easy way out would be to nod, grab my bag, and never look Beau in the eyes again. But instead, I look at him now.

  His eyes are on me with unblinking focus. Like he’s waiting for me to show who I really am.

  Well, who the hell am I?

  “I’m s-sorry, Jonathan.” I say, my voice shaking. “There’s been a change of plan. I’m staying here.”

  My director blinks hard. “You sure? Because Moira made it sound like—”

  “I know how she made it sound,” I say quickly. “Sh-she overreacts sometimes. I’m staying.” My whole body is shaking now. I’ve never done anything like this. I’ve never defied her this way, and it feels like the earth is going to open up and swallow me whole at any second.

  Jonathan frowns in concern. He eyes Beau warily and steps closer to me. “Are you sure? Will you be safe?”

  “She’ll be safe,” Beau says, closing the distance between us. “I’ll make certain of it.”

  Jonathan eyes Beau like he’s a criminal but doesn’t respond to him. He looks at me, cocking his head in Beau’s direction. “You’re okay with this guy?”

  A smile—a real one—comes out of nowhere. “Yeah. Yeah, Jonathan. I’m okay with him.” Nothing could be more true. For the first time all morning, I feel like I can take a full breath. “I’m really sorry for the trouble.”

  I watch his shoulders ease, and my smile grows. Jonathan’s a good guy. He’s really looking out for my welfare.

  I’m so glad I’m not going to take advantage of him.

  He nods. “Okay. Call if you need something. Stay safe,” he says and then turns to Beau. “You make sure of it, Beau…” Jonathan draws out Beau’s name, begging the question.

  “Landry,” Beau supplies, more warmth in his tone now than when he shook Jonathan’s hand a moment ago. “And I’ll make sure of it. I promise.”

  Jonathan nods again and cuts his gaze back to me. “I’ll be in touch. Hope to see you Monday.” And then he’s deploying his umbrella and bracing his lanky frame against the buffeting rain.

  Beau and I stand on the porch and watch the Lexus back onto Cherry Street. I feel Beau’s presence like a roaring fireplace beside me, but we don’t touch. It’s only after Jonathan pulls away that I find the courage to look up at him.

  “You don’t have to stay, you know,” I say, my voice barely audible above the storm.

  Beau’s glower is as thunderous as the hurricane. “I’m not going anywhere,” he growls.

  I swallow. Nod. “O-Okay. Yeah,” I squeak. “Good. Let’s… go inside.” Because I’m not awkward at all. Not when the guy I like just pledged to protect me during a natural disaster. I’m smooth like Metamucil.

  Beau shakes his head. “You go in. I have to secure anything out here the wind could pick up.”

  I scan the front porch. The wicker furniture. The plant stands and macrame hanging baskets. The bird feeders and wind chimes and sun catchers. I gape at Beau. “How much of it could the wind pick up?”

  He shrugs. “If it’s bad? All of it.” He takes off into the rain. I chase after him.

  “I’m helping you!” I shout as raindrops—more like needles—pelt me sideways. “Shit!” The stinging assault steals my breath.

  Beau wheels around, scowling. “Go back inside. You’ll get soaked,” he shouts over the rain.

  “I’m already soaked.” It’s true. I’m in shorts, sandals, and a T-shirt, and now the cotton clings to me like plastic wrap. I run for the bird feeder that hangs from a low crepe myrtle branch. Rain runs down my arms as I reach up to unhook the feeder. It splashes in my ears and nose. I’m gasping and my heart races with the knowledge that this is just the beginning.

  “Go in and open the garage door,” Beau shouts across the yard, his arms already laden with outdoor items.

  Flinging birdseed and rain, I dash back to the house. Mica greets me in the doorway with an excited bark. Unlike us, he’s smart enough to watch from a safe distance. Leaving puddles in my wake, I traipse inside and through the kitchen. When I open the garage door, Beau is on the other side, a wicker rocker in his arms.

  It takes a few minutes, but we manage to clear the yard and the porch, and Beau pulls his truck into the now crowded garage before we close the automatic door. I fetch two towels from the laundry room and hand one to Beau just inside the kitchen. I swear, I think I’ve been drier in a swimming pool.

  Dripping and out of breath, I concentrate on employing the towel and figuring out what to say to him. I begin with the simplest words.

  “Thank you.”

  He nods, toweling off his hair. “Anyone would have done it.” He’s talking about helping with the furniture. I’m not.

  “I don’t think so.”

  He grins. “It’s true. Hurricanes bring people together.” Beau unzips and peels off his rain jacket, but despite the protection, the top of his shirt is still soaked. “You’ll see. You’ll know your neighbors by the end of the week. Sooner if it’s bad.”

  I glance out the kitchen window at the hammering rain. “Looks like it’s gonna be pretty bad.”

  Beau shakes his head. “This is just an outer band. Not even hurricane strength yet,” he says, hooking the towel around his neck. “It could even let up soon. For a little while, anyway.”

  The prospect of weather worse than this is terrifying. “So when will it reach your definition of—” I use my hands to make air quotes, “bad?”

  Beau grimaces. “Tonight. Unfortunately, just after the sun goes down.”

  I bite my bottom lip.

  Beau steps closer, brushing wet hair out of his eyes. We’re both soaked to the skin, and it feels like it strips us of something important. Like boundaries.

  His focus on me is so intense I stop breathing.

  “What do we need to do before then to protect you?”

  I swallow, his closeness addling my brain. “I-I think the house is safe enough.”

  One corner of his mouth quirks. “No, I meant from Moira.”

 
Oh. Right. That hurricane.

  I glance at the clock over the microwave: 10:48. Shit. “I basically have twelve minutes before Moira hijacks my Insta account.”

  Beau gives a tight nod. “Okay. We’ll have to block her before then.”

  My stomach tries to fall out of my butt.

  “Oh shit. I’m really doing this,” I blurt. “She’s going to come fucking unglued.” I clap my hand over my mouth, my own curse words startling me. “Pardon my French,” I murmur into my palm.

  Beau arches a brow. “French? Really?”

  I suck in a gasp and drop my hand. “I forgot for a minute you teach French.”

  His eyes narrow in a way that I know is teasing, but it still makes my pulse race. “We’ll talk about your Francophobia after we block Moira.”

  This time when he says it, my stomach stays where it’s supposed to, but my heart climbs two inches because he keeps using the word we.

  We.

  My phone is in my purse with the rest of my stuff in the living room. I squelch over to it in my soggy sandals, grab my phone with shaking hands, and open the app.

  Panic descends.

  “If I change the password on my Instagram account, will it send an email? She has access to my email too. And my Twitter and Facebook.” I swallow because talking about this—really, truly defying her—feels about as safe as poking a White Walker in the eye.

  Beau’s chest rises as his lungs fill, and he nods. “Do you have a laptop?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll get mine, too. We’ll have to do it all at once.”

  “Holyfuckingshitballs.”

  Beau nods again, the picture of composure. “Yeah.”

  While I dig my laptop out of the overnight bag I packed to stay at Jonathan’s, Beau goes to his truck in the garage. I set the MacBook Air on the cushioned ottoman that doubles as a coffee table and sit on the loveseat. Beau drops beside me a moment later.

  My hands are practically convulsing as I try to type in my computer passcode. I have to hit the delete key three times. Nerves aren’t the only source of the shakes. I’m still drenched, my shirt and shorts darkened with rainwater, and my hair drips water down my back. The blast from the air conditioner sends goosebumps down my arms and legs.