isn’t an option to me, let alone relaxing with a man I barely know to the
extent I sleep through the opening and shutting of doors. Liam was good
for one night, a bridge to the next day in the face of a crisis. I’m on the
other side. I hope.
***
Thirty minutes later, I’ve showered, and I’m looking ridiculous in my
new t-shirt and a skirt, with high heels I intend to replace quickly, but the
t-shirt seems better than a gaping blouse.
To add to my disorderly appearance, I stare at the light blonde
poofball that is my hair in the absence of a styling product and a flat iron,
and decide I look like I just stuck my finger in a light socket. I am what my
mother would have called a “hot mess”, and I try to hear her voice in my
head and fail, which is why I normally don’t try. Failing hurts.
Giving up on my appearance, I snatch my small purse and head to the
kitchen table, and put all my new cards and ID in my wallet. Gathering my
lease and the cell phone I intend to return to Liam, I decide I need to take
my now empty carry-on with me. I load it up with my purse, paperwork,
and the phone. I’ll be dropping it by Liam’s hotel sooner than later to avoid
any chance of running into him. And thanks to the to-do list I wrote and
rewrote about five times before I dried my hair, I head to the door feeling a
tad more in control than when I woke up. Lists do that for me. I write things
out when I need structure. I rewrite them when I still don’t feel I have it all
pulled together. Or I clean and organize. Or I write lists in between cleaning
and organizing. Maybe that should be my cover. I’ll be a maid. No one
would expect to find my father’s daughter cleaning up after other people,
and it would control my stress. It isn’t my dream career, or what I went to
school for, but I have to find a way to get back to where I was before the
museum, where surviving was more important than dreaming.
I step into the hallway outside the apartment (I’m not ready to call it
“my apartment”) and I’m locking up when I hear the door directly behind
me open and shut. I turn and jolt to find myself locked in the penetrating
stare of a man as tall and devastatingly male as Liam, but that is about
where the comparison stops. While Liam has a worldly, refined, and
somehow edgy air about him, this man is a rugged bad boy from his torn,
faded jeans to his long, light brown hair tied at his nape.
“New to the neighborhood?” he asks, shifting a leather backpack to
one of his
impressively broad shoulders, and my gaze falls and finds his Dallas
Cowboys t-shirt, and the link it represents to what was once my home
momentarily knocks my breath away.
“You okay?” he asks, and my gaze jerks to his. Was I obviously
rattled? I’m never obviously rattled. “You look like you saw a ghost.”
“Yes,” I say quickly, silently warning myself this could be a trap, a way
to lure me into admitting some connection to a past I cannot claim. “I’m
new to the neighborhood. I just moved in last night.”
His gaze flickers over my clothing and lingers on my t-shirt, the way
my gaze had on his.
“Just a hunch,” he comments, “but moving here from New York?”
“Yes,” I confirm, hugging myself, embarrassed by the reminder that I
am a frizzy, mismatched mess, “and unfortunately, my clothes didn’t make
it from the airport.” I sound nervous. I am nervous, and I only wish I had the
luxury to let it be about his good looks, not his intentions. But I do not. “My
outfit is certainly a way to make an impression.”
“I’ve lost a few bags in my time,” he says, and his words are as warm
as the interest I see his eyes. He’s warm and oddly familiar in some way
that I cannot identify, but it doesn’t make me uneasy. In fact, it’s
comfortable. “And,” he adds, his voice a little softer, “I don’t think you need
a t-shirt to make an impression.” He motions to the elevators. “I’ll ride
down with you.” He starts walking.
I stare after him, trying to dissect what he meant. I don’t need a
t-shirt to make an impression? Is that good or bad? Bad. It’s bad. No matter
the reason, I don’t need to be leaving impressions of any sort on anyone.
Double-stepping, I hurry behind him to catch up and again remind myself of
what time has taught me. Bad hair and funny clothes bring attention just
like being overtly sexy does. I have to fade into the background, play mousy
librarian like I have in the past. Or clean houses, or whatever it might be.
I’ve lost the library as a cover. Anything I once did I can no longer do.
We stop at the elevator and he punches the button. “I’m Jared
Ryan.”
“Amy,” I provide, and force myself to say more and embrace this new
identity in a believable way. “Amy Bensen. Nice to meet you. You live in the
apartment across from me?”
“For a month or so,” he says, but doesn’t offer more. I want him to
offer more. “What brings you to Denver?”
I have no idea why, but I feel like a deer in headlights. The doors to
the elevator open and I rush inside, tired of spinning tales. “I hear there’s a
great mall right up the road,” I reply as he joins me inside. “That’s all a girl
needs.”
He steps into the car, tilting his head and studying me. I punch the
button to the elevator and the doors shut instantly. He keys in the floor.
“You moved here for a mall you’ve never checked out?”
So much for familiar being comfortable. “It’s been a long time.” It’s
not a lie. Never is a long time. A very long time. “How far away is it?”
“Cross at the stoplight and you’ll be at the mall.”
I don’t like how keenly he is looking at me. Like Liam, he sees too
much and I think his one-month stay is probably a good thing. The doors
slide open and I don’t waste any time escaping to the walkway outside, a
high wind lifting my hair around my shoulders.
Jared joins me and motions down the sidewalk. “Just walk straight
and you will run right into the mall.”
“Thanks. Nice to meet you. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again.”
He steps a bit closer. Really close, actually, and I can smell his
cologne. It’s warm like the man, and it reminds me of Texas cedar on a
spring day. He glances downward, his gaze landing on my feet, and he
inspects my open-toed shoes and my pink painted toes for so long, blood
rushes to my cheeks. Over my feet. That’s a new one.
His attention lifts, eyes narrowing almost suspiciously. “Are you
walking in those shoes?”
“It’s close. I’ll be fine.”
“You want a ride?”
Yes. No. Yes. No. No. No. Not only does Jared see too much, he has
this easiness about him that would make running my mouth far too easy. “I
appreciate the offer, but I’d like to go explore my new neighborhood.”
He considers my reply for a moment, his lashes lowering, and then
lifting. “I’d offer to show you around, but I have a meeting.”
It could be a polite comment without meaning, but there is
/>
something in his eyes that tell me it’s not. I believe he would take me and
show me around and I would gobble up the opportunity to talk about my
old home state, or really, to just talk about anything. If things were
different. If I were really Amy Bensen.
“We’re neighbors.” Dang it, I sound hoarse, almost emotional, not
casual and friendly.
What is wrong with me? “I’m sure we’ll see each other.”
“I’m sure we will,” he agrees, and there is a rasp to his voice that
carries a hidden meaning beyond the obvious. I search his eyes and I
think…I think he feels this familiar comfortable thing I feel, too.
I lift my hand in a parting gesture. “See you soon,” I reply, and
somehow I make myself turn and start walking, but my steps are heavy and
slow, my body like lead, weariness seeping into my bones. I can feel Jared’s
stare, and I can feel him willing me to turn back around. And I want to. I
want to with a desperateness I can barely contain. The museum has given
me a taste of what “normal” feels like, what friendship feels like, and I miss
Chloe already. And I miss the tiny window of time when I walked around
corners without fearing what was on the other side.
I pass two stores and I swear I can still feel Jared watching me. Why
would he still be watching me? The hair on my nape prickles and I start to
think about Jared’s “Texas” shirt and the way he’d questioned me about
not knowing the area. He’s familiar. Why is he familiar? I don’t know. I am
suddenly glad I didn’t cave and ask about the shirt, and that I didn’t answer
his questions with any more detail.
At the corner, I stop by a bank, and I rotate to face the door, pausing
before entering the building to look for Jared, but he is nowhere obvious. A
funny, knotted sensation tightens in my belly and it’s not comfortable at all.
In fact, it’s downright uncomfortable, which is crazy. I have every reason to
be relieved that he is gone, and as I enter the building, the cash machine
appearing to my left, I have every reason to focus on what’s important. Like
answering the question of how much cash I have to survive.
I pull my wallet from my purse and pull out the card I’d used during
my life in New York and stare down at it. The desire to claim my cash from
the bank and know I have it is powerful, but out of the blue, an image of
Liam comes to my mind. He’s a billionaire, a man who has the money to
find out anything he wants to know about just about anyone, including me.
How do I know that whoever is chasing me doesn’t have just as much
money? What if my cards are all flagged or tracked in some way? I sigh with
painful resignation and slip my card back into my wallet. If I touch that
money it has to be on my way out of town, or maybe the country. My gut
says I should keep my cash card and my old identification that lets me
withdraw larger amounts in my purse, just in case.
Removing the new card my handler has given me, I slide it into the
machine and punch in the code I’ve been given, searching for my balance.
My name comes up on the account and I wonder how my handler managed
to set up the account without my signature. My balance is $5000. My new
rent is $2200, but it’s paid for this month already. I have no idea if I really
will get more money as promised, and I’m too cautious to assume I will.
That means I have to hold onto two months’ rent to feel secure until I see
another cash deposit in this account. That leaves me with $800 to buy
clothes and food. I’ll need more money to survive. Please let there be more
money.
My head begins to spin and I remind myself my handler said he’d
deposit weekly installments into this account, but when? On what day? Do I
have utility bills to consider? I remove the card and head into the lobby.
There is no way I’m letting anyone, not even my handler, track me by my
card number. I’m withdrawing all the money now.
***
Fifteen minutes later, I’m in a dressing room in a store by the mall,
wearing a pair of black shorts and a pink tank top, with a cheap, but cute,
pair of black Colosseum-style sandals on my feet. And what a relief they
are. In only a few blocks my feet are blistered—or, as my father used to say,
my dogs are barking. I’m going to take the tags to the cash register and
wear my clothes out of the store.
I’m just gathering together several other small items, enough to
make three cost-effective outfits that I can wash and rotate, when the
phone in my bag starts ringing. I sit down on the wooden bench against the
wall and listen to it, fighting the urge to pull it from the bag. I should have
taken the phone by the hotel first, but the idea of walking into that fancy
place with my t-shirt and skirt on was too much. And now it’s ringing and it
can be only one person. Liam. Liam is calling me and I want to answer.
Without a conscious decision to do so, I reach in my bag and pull out
the box holding the phone. It stops ringing and starts back up almost
instantly. I set the box down on the seat and stare at it like it’s some kind of
alien. It stops ringing again and my stomach twists and turns like rope in a
tangled mess. I’m a tangled mess. A beeping sound comes next. A message.
Liam has left a message and I don’t even think. As if I want to prove I am
indeed a mess, I snatch up the box and open it, punching the message line
and listening.
I haven’t heard from you and we both know you’re in some kind of
trouble. Call me, Amy.
Don’t text. I need to know you are okay. If I don’t hear from you in the
next fifteen minutes I’m leaving my meeting and heading to your
apartment.
A thunderstorm of emotions rushes through me, and I let the phone
drop to my lap. Liam is worried about me? He’s going to leave a meeting to
check on me? He barely knows me. Why would he do that? We both know
you’re in some kind of trouble. I squeeze my eyes shut, conflicted clear to
my soul. No one worries about me. No one should know enough to know to
worry about me. But Liam does. He does and I want him to. I want him. The
phone starts to ring again and I can barely catch my breath. I have to talk to
him, and I tell myself it’s not because some deep part of me craves the
sound of his voice. I have to turn him away and be convincing.
For him. For his safety. Money can buy things, and even people, but
it can’t keep him alive. Not from a threat I don’t understand enough to
explain.
I draw a breath and answer the call. “Hello.”
“Amy,” Liam says, and somehow my name is both a command and a
caress.
“Liam,” I reply and I like how my name sounds on his lips. I also like
how his name feels on my tongue. Even more so. I like how his tongue feels
against mine, how he feels when I am with him.
“You didn’t text me like I told you to.”
Normally I would bristle at the command, but it takes effort to
muster objection. “I’m not good at taking orders, Liam.”
“Is that why you didn’t text
me?” His voice is softer now, his tone too
intimate and yet still not intimate enough to satisfy the craving his voice
creates in me. I will myself to say more, to say goodbye, but I can’t get the
words out. I settle on, “I’m going to drop the phone by your hotel. I can’t
accept it.”
“It’s a gift.”
“I pay my own way.”
“The money is nothing to me and everything to you.”
This time I do bristle. Money is nothing to me beyond basic survival.
“Your money is nothing to me, Liam.”
“And while that makes me immensely happy in some way, Amy, it
does not now, when we are talking about the phone. Money is just money.
You are right. But your safety is another story. You need the phone.”
I think of the phone my handler gave me, and it bothers me he can
track me. He can perhaps see my phone records. But won’t Liam be able to
do the same? “I’ll get my own phone.”
“Use this one until you do.”
I open my mouth to object and he seems to read my thoughts.
“Compromise, Amy.”
Compromise. And while I feel that is all I have done my entire life, it
is strangely appealing with Liam, maybe because it implies there is a
relationship between us that there isn’t.
Is there? “I can’t keep the phone.”
“At least keep it and use it until we can talk about it tonight.”
Tonight? “No. No there isn’t a tonight. I can’t see you anymore.”
Silence. One beat. Two. “There is that word again,” he observes, and
then repeats, “We’ll talk tonight, Amy.”
“No, Liam. No.”
“You think you’re alone but you aren’t.”
“Because I have you now?”
“Yes. I know you don’t believe that, but you will. Soon, baby, you
will.”
The idea of having him is bittersweet in so many ways I can’t tick
them off in a year.
“You don’t know what I think or what is important to me.”
“I know enough. The rest I want to find out.”
“No.” But it sounds like yes. “I won’t be here tonight. I have plans.”
Like locking myself in that cage of an apartment and going nowhere.
“I’m not going away, Amy. You do know that, don’t you?”
His voice is possessive, a rasp of sandpaper over my nerve endings
followed by pure silk, and it does funny things to my stomach. “I don’t need