“You bitch,” she says, shooting again, but I’ve got my arms around her. The shot makes a pinging noise as it hits a wine bottle or two. There’s a sharp bite in my side, but I ignore it because I’ve pressed the
on
button for her psychosis and it’s either her or me now. And it’s going to be me. I have way too much to live for. The love I have for Ian is supercharging me. I know he’s coming to save me, and I’m going to be alive when he gets here.
Cecilia is strong and a few inches taller than me, but she’s gym strong. She works out to look good. I’ve been doing the biking equivalent of manual labor for six years. The knock on my head and the bruise on my cheek only fuel me to fight her harder.
We tumble to the ground, and the ache in my side intensifies. There’s liquid and glass on the floor from broken wine bottles. I roll so that Cecilia is on the bottom, and from her yelps of surprised pain, I know her back is being stuck with jagged shards. The pain makes her loosen her grip, and I wrest the gun from her. Scrambling back into the corner so I can see the door, I point the gun at her.
“I’m not much of a shot, but I bet I don’t miss from here,” I pant. “Sit over there.” I gesture toward the opposite wall. I want her as far away from me as possible, but I need to be able to see the door in case Travis comes in. I want to look for a phone, to be able to call Ian, but I’m afraid to take my eyes off her.
“You have so much,” Cecilia cries. “You could spare a few million, and Richard and I will be out of your hair. We’ll go to Monaco, and you’ll never see us again.”
“Don’t beg.” I rest my back against the wall-to-wall shelves that hold probably a hundred bottles of wine and pull my knees up. I’m shaking from adrenaline, from pain, and from fear, so I use my knees to steady my arm, never taking my eyes off her, never moving my aim. I can’t shoot her, though. Not like this. And maybe not ever. I try not to let that show in my face, but holy Christ, I’ve never held a gun before and I’ve never shot someone. I don’t even want to. What I
do
want is to know why, and so I ask, “Is it just about the money? Ian says that in your circle, it’s either money or status. Don’t you have status from your family?”
“Is this where you think I’m going to spill my guts to you like some bad movie villain?”
I shrug. “Fine, don’t talk. I guess I don’t give two shits why. You’re going to go to prison. Imagine how your nails are going to look in there.”
“You know that Ian called Richard and threatened him,” she snarls at me. “Was I supposed to just sit and take it? After all I’ve done to maintain our lifestyle? After all the years I’ve spent cleaning up after Richard, did you think I’d allow you and Ian Kerr to ruin us? Besides, Richard out on his own would have squealed like a pig. I love that man, but he’s weak and useless.”
“It was you behind the notes, the assault on Ian? All of it?”
“All of it,” she sneers.
“You’re a horrible person. You are so horrible that I’m glad you’re going to go to prison and that you won’t ever be able to hurt Ian again.”
“You are so uncouth.” Her lip curls. “Ian is as well, if all he’s interested in are your sexual abilities. Like mother like son. He probably sold himself. That’s where his money came from.”
“Uncouth but loaded.” I can’t help but mocking her. “Besides, his mother wasn’t a prostitute. She was desperate, and your husband took advantage of her. I don’t get why you stayed with him. Is he a good lay? Because he’s not a good provider. You’re a pretty woman with a good background. I think you could’ve done a lot better.”
“You have no idea.” She sneers. “Men over fifty look at women like me as if we are some kind of relic. We only have one role to men with money and that is to care for their children. Otherwise, there is no second chance for us. They want—and are able to—fuck teenagers and college students. Anyone over the age of twenty-five must have some kind of spectacular attribute. Big tits. Long legs. Both, preferably and those only last until they’re thirty, and by thirty-five you are simply too old to be considered of any use. Richard might eat at different restaurants, but he always returns home to me. Always.”
“Because you have money. Or
had
money, but once that goes, so will he,” I say.
She turns away, trying to hide, but not before I see the anguish flash in her eyes.
I’d feel sorrier for her if she hadn’t kidnapped me and tried to kill me. I try to calm my racing heart by taking a deep breath, but the pain in my side intensifies. I drop my hand to press against the ache, and it’s red when I pull it away. Blood-red.
“You shot me,” I say in a stunned voice. “I can’t believe you fucking shot me.”
“Did you think the gun was for show?” She rolls her eyes like I’m some stupid child.
“You’re a psychopath.”
Eyes blazing, she retorts, “I protect what is mine. Just like your precious Ian.”
“Ian held off any action against your husband for years because he didn’t want to hurt you. You and him are nothing alike. You used people and hurt them—like Lauren and her brother. Buying cops? Shooting at people? Ian would never do that. He’s better than you and always has been.”
“You’re weak,” she says. “You’ll never be able to shoot me.”
I fear she’s right. I’ve never fired a gun before, but I want to live more than anything. I want to hold Ian again. I want to kiss him, fuck him, live with him until I’m old and gray and can’t do anything more than sit on our little beach and hold hands. Biting my lip, I squeeze the trigger.
IAN
F
EAR
AND
RAGE
ARE
FIGHTING
for dominance. The only sound I can hear is my harsh, ragged breath. My throat is coated with bile. I clench my teeth hard to stop the shaking. I bargain with God, with Buddha, with every single higher entity.
Please. Don’t let her be harmed. Let them just be talking.
Deep breaths, I counsel myself. I need to be calm to help Tiny. Serenity is too far out of reach, though.
I open my mouth to offer the driver more money. At this point, I’m ready to buy him a fucking transportation company, but before I can get a word out, I’m thrown backward as he presses the gas down hard.
“Don’t need to offer me more cash,” he calls back. “I heard. I’m getting you there, stat.”
We speed down the 65th Street transverse and catch air as we pop out of Central Park and head toward Lex. “Turn down Lex,” I order.
“I know where to fucking go,” the driver growls back. Barely braking, he takes a hard left on Lex and then a right onto 64
th
but he’s not driving fast enough. There are too many fucking cars on the goddamn road. I want to howl with rage. “What side?”
“Right!” The front door looks formidable. I’m not going to be able to kick it down, and shooting the lock off in broad daylight seems risky. “Go down to the corner.”
At the corner is a store that sells lotions and shit. It’s blindingly white and probably smells like a florist’s shop. He brakes hard, and I’m running before the car stops. Behind me I hear a door slam, but I don’t take the time to look back. Throwing open the door to the soap shop, I barrel through, dodging a saleswoman and the center display aisle.
“Back door?” I ask.
One women points behind her while another shouts, “Wait, you can’t go there!”
“Don’t stop him,” I hear behind me. It’s the driver. “His woman is in danger.”
The back room is filled with boxes, and I feel like I’m running a steeplechase as I hurdle over a couple and land a few yards from the rear entrance. I don’t stop running.
Outside, the alley is tiny, and as I count the houses, I encounter a tall wall, at least fourteen feet high. “Goddammit!” I look around for something, anything I can climb on top of. There’s a dumpster down the way. I’ll pull that over. But before I can run down, the driver puts a hand on my arm.
“I’ll boost you, man.”
I look at him for the first time. He’s slightly shorter than me, but built like a tank. He’ll do. “Thanks.”
He hoists me, and I’m able to grab the top and haul myself over. It’s a drop to the ground, and my knees are weak with the impact, but I don’t feel it. Running forward, I grab a chair and throw it through the glass patio doors of the Howe’s sunroom. The glass shatters, and I push through it, uncaring of the cuts the jagged glass is making on my arms and torso.
The interior doors on either side of the sunroom are open, and I race through them past the kitchen, looking frantically for a staircase.
In the gallery beyond the kitchen, there’s a metal railing and carpeted stairs leading down to the cellar. I fling myself down the stairs. There’s an open area with wooden shelves lining the walls, full of random figurines.
I pull the gun out and disengage the safety.
These city townhomes are long and narrow. Cecilia could be holding Tiny on either end of the basement. There’s no blood on the floor. That could mean that either Tiny was bleeding out at the end of the room or that she’d escaped without harm.
As quietly as possible, I creep toward the door to my right. The thick pile carpet muffles any sound, although the crash of the glass and the pounding of my steps probably alerted everyone to my presence. So fuck the attempt to be silent.
“Tiny!” I yell.
There’s a muffled yelp and then nothing. I lock the safety back on the gun so I don’t accidentally shoot myself. Bracing my back foot, I deliver a swift kick to the side of the lock mount, the weakest part of the door. The wood splinters, and I hear a scream on the other side. Tiny.
“Cecilia, if you touch her again, I swear I will kill you.”
Another blow to the door has it completely giving way. Inside, I see Tiny hunkered down on the other side of the room against a wall of wine racks. The air reeks of spilled wine, and there are darks stains in the carpet along with shards of glass that glitter like diamonds under the low cellar light. My heart stops when I see Tiny’s right hand clutched to her side. There’s a viscous red liquid seeping through her fingers that is definitely not wine. Her other hand is braced on her knee, holding a gun on Cecilia Howe.
“You know how you said we shouldn’t ever be apart?” Her voice is strained, but the hand on her knee is steady and she doesn’t take her eyes off Cecilia once. “I’m rethinking my need for independence right about now.”
“Oh, bunny.” My knees are weak. Part of me wants to ask Cecilia why, but there are more pressing things to handle. While part of me cringes at having to hurt a woman, Cecilia is an obvious danger, and I’d be foolish not to take her out. I strike the butt of my gun against the back of Cecilia’s head to knock her out. She slumps inelegantly against the side of the wall.
“Did you have to do that?” Tiny asks in a shocked voice.
“Yes, I did.” Gently taking the gun from her hand, I engage the safety and then carefully lift her into my arms. “I need to get you out of here, and I can’t do that if I have to watch my back because some crazed socialite is going to rise out of the cellar with a knife or something.”
“Right. You’re right. It just took me off guard,” she pants. “God, my side aches. I always wondered what it felt like to get shot.”
“You need to start having better fantasies. I’m clearly not doing my job right.” Cradling her against my chest, I give her both guns to hold and then start the process of walking up the stairs without jarring her.
“No, you’re doing a great job. This was just a weird thought I had before I met you. Back when my life was boring and all.”
“I’m sorry for bringing this into your life.” Christ, she should hate me.
“Nah, I mean, who doesn’t need a little excitement in their life from time to time? I shot this gun. First time.”
“To hurt Cecilia?” I ask astonished.
“No, just to scare her. It did the trick. She was yammering about how I didn’t have the guts to shoot her. I didn’t know if I did, but I wanted to live. I love you. Your love made me strong.” Her smile blinds me.
Your love made me strong.
Had I once thought love weakened me? I’d gotten it all wrong. Love made me a better person, and with Tiny, I had all the
more
in my life than one person could ever acquire. She’s right. Love does make you strong.
“I’m pretty much done with excitement,” I manage to joke. “I’m even rethinking the house in Connecticut. Maybe the Long Island Sound isn’t far enough away from the crazy in the city.”
At the top of the stairs, I see Steve and Jake. “How’d you guys get in here without me hearing?” I ask, disgruntled. There’s no question I sounded like an inept burglar when I broke in.
“Ninja skills, mate,” Steve responds. Jake is on his phone.
“I hope you’re calling emergency services,” I say. When we reach the top, Jake gestures me toward the kitchen. Steve hurries in front of us and clears the table with one swift motion of his arm. Flowers, candles, and place settings all tumble to the ground.
“I hope that was some priceless, irreplaceable shit I just broke,” Steve remarks, gesturing for me to lay Tiny down.
“No need to give speeches,” Tiny jokes. “I’m not dying yet.”
“Speeches?” Steve asks. He glances toward me, but I’m more interested in what Jake is doing. He’s on his knees looking at Tiny’s wound.
“Yeah, usually you give me only one or two word responses. This time you used several words. Like, I don’t know, seven or eight.”
“Eleven,” I murmur.
“Ouch,” she says. “Do you have to poke me there? I’m wounded.”
“Just a graze,” Jake says and stands up. He washes his hands and finds a cloth he dips in water. Offering me the damp towel, he asks, “Do you want to do the honors?”
“Just a graze?” I ask, dizzy with relief. I brace myself on the table so I don’t collapse.
“Just a graze?” Tiny asks, completely affronted. “I got shot, dude. She shot me. Or actually, I kind of shot myself. But still, it hurts like a motherfucker.”
“You shot yourself?” All three of us yell.
“I was struggling with Cecilia for the gun, and it went off, and it ricocheted off a bottle and hit me.”
“You lucky girl.” Jake begins to laugh. “I think you may have been grazed by a piece of glass from the bottle. I wondered why the cut was so jagged. Didn’t look like any bullet hole I’ve ever seen. Don’t wrestle any crazy women with guns in the future, and you’ll be fine.”