Boys and Burlesque

by Ripley Proserpina

  Then I grabbed the car keys from the dish by the door and left, locking the door behind me.

  The rental car sat in the driveway. The boys managed the drive from here to New York, I could do the same. So what if they got to the city before me?

  If the NYPD wanted bait, then let them put the biggest worm on the hook.

  TMZ was happy to take my call. They were ecstatic to have me, on the record, talking about my stalker. I made the decision to call the media somewhere between Maryland and New Jersey.

  Enough time had passed that the boys’ flight would have landed. I pictured them walking down the street, waiting for Gordon to find them.

  I wanted Gordon’s attention directed elsewhere, namely, on me, and I wanted it on me fast. The media machine was an incredible thing. Nothing would get my name and my plan splashed across the internet and social media faster.

  “So you’re coming to New York?” the reporter, a man named Dave who spoke with an Australian accent, asked.

  “I am,” I replied. I took a breath and laid out my plan. “I’ll be checking in with my company and getting an update about my friend and manager. I’m asking for thoughts and prayers and the help of the entire city of New York. You have a picture of this man?” I asked.

  “We do, Betty. We’ll be posting the picture of Gordon Tavitts. Anyone who sees him is asked to call the NYPD.”

  “I'm offering a reward as well,” I said. “Thirty thousand dollars for anyone with info that leads to his arrest.” That seemed like a small sum to save my dancers’ lives. “Thank you for your time.”

  “And before you get off the line, can you confirm the rumors that you’ve rekindled your romance with your four high school boyfriends?

  You had to give a little to get a little. “I can,” I replied. “But I’m not with them now as I’m arriving in New York soon.”

  The boys were going to be so so angry with me, but I couldn’t let myself worry about that. My goal was their safety.

  “Great. Have a wonderful day, Betty, and please, let TMZ know if there’s anything else we can do to catch this guy.”

  “Thanks, Dave,” I said, honey sweet. “I’ll be sure to contact y’all.”

  I hung up, and immediately, my phone lit up with a number I recognized as Brant’s. Decline.

  It rang again. Josh.

  Decline.

  Landry.

  Decline.

  Westin.

  Decline.

  Mike.

  “Hello?”

  “Betty—Miss Belle—are you out of your goddamn mind?” I almost laughed, a sure sign that, yes, I was definitely skirting the age of insanity.

  “Whatever do you mean, Mike?” I asked.

  “Listen. You hired me as security and to keep you safe. I get that you don’t like the way I’m doing it, but I agreed with Landry. This is the best bet. Now it’s blown to hell, and I don’t even know where you are. And I can’t track you because you’re on a god damn burner phone.”

  There was a scuffle in the background. “Give me the phone, Mike.” I recognized that accent. “Mike! Give me the bloody phone!”

  Switching on the blinker, I pulled off the interstate. “Steven?”

  “What the bloody hell are you doing, Betty? You turn yourself around right this minute.”

  I couldn’t breathe. “You’re awake.” I gulped in great lungfuls of air. My vision blurred, and I wiped away tears. “Steven. You’re awake.”

  He sighed. “Betty. Please. Turn around.”

  I shook my head. “No one else can get hurt.”

  “Listen, love, your boys had a great plan. Now. Listen to your old friend, and turn your arse around and go back to Virginia.”

  “I have a plan, too,” I replied.

  “Bloody cheek of her,” he said to someone nearby. “Fuck your plan, Betty. Go home.”

  I wiped my face on my shoulder. “Mike?”

  His voice was tired as he answered, “Yes, Miss Belle?”

  “Steven’s going to be okay?” I asked.

  “He has a hard head.”

  “Mike…”

  “He has a concussion, a broken collar bone, and a dislocated shoulder. Scrapes and bruises. He’s going to be fine.”

  Thank God.

  Traffic whizzed by me so fast my car shook. I stared at the highway stretched out in front of me like a long gray line. Was it epically stupid to go to New York?

  Or was it just a little stupid? “I’m going to call the detectives. If Gordon is off his rocker the way they’ve hinted, he won’t be able to stop himself from coming after me.”

  “Miss Belle, I can’t recommend enough that you rethink this.”

  “Bless your heart, Mike, but I’ve got this.”

  He barked a laugh. “You don’t.” A sound burst out of him, a little like a sob and a chuckle. “You really don’t.”

  “I’ll call you when I get to the city,” I said.

  “You sure as fuck will!” Steven yelled from nearby, and I hung up.

  My breaths were shallow and fast, and my hands shook. I waited until I could think clearly again before I pulled back onto the highway.

  The plan was naive and simple, but sometimes the simple things were the best things. As I got the car back up to speed, I kept my mind on the road. Each time it wanted to veer toward the boys and everything that could go wrong, I brought it back to driving.

  In New Jersey, I called Detectives O’Bryan and Santaw. They didn’t like my plan, but they weren’t as averse to it as the others. “We can’t stop you, a private citizen, from moving freely, but we can highly recommend you take advantage of police protection.”

  “I accept,” I replied. That—after all—was the whole reason I was doing this. I walk down the street. Gordon comes after me. Police arrest him. Done.

  I hung up, and drove. Hours passed, my butt fell asleep, my foot ached and throbbed, but I drove.

  Every so often, my phone would ring or alert with texts, but I didn’t answer. Not when I recognized the numbers. Josh, Lan, Wes, and Brant would all tell me the same thing. I didn’t need to hear it. I knew what they wanted, and I knew I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t turn around and go home and wait, twiddling my thumbs when the next person pushed into traffic could be Josh.

  The closer I got to New York, the worse the traffic became, and I really couldn’t think about anything else but the drive. It had been a long time since I’d driven in traffic like this, and pretty soon, people were honking at me and flipping me off.

  White-knuckled, I maneuvered through the traffic, following the voice on the GPS to the Twenty-Ninth Precinct where Detectives Santaw and O’Bryan would be waiting for me.

  My phone rang again, and I glanced at it. The number was unfamiliar, and my pulsed picked up. Eyes on the road, I put the call on speaker. “Hello?”

  “Betty.”

  I swallowed. “Gordon?”

  He laughed, sounding bitter and off-balance. “Who else? You’re really fucking everything up.”

  “I can see why you’d think that.”

  “Don’t patronize me!” I winced. “You ruined my whole life. You and Steven. I thought you were some angel when you put me in the company, but soon you were like every woman. Nagging. Bitching. Complaining. I was the most talented dancer you had, and you treated me like I was nothing.”

  What was I supposed to do? Argue? He wasn’t inviting discussion—he was monologuing.

  “What do you want?” I asked.

  “Fuck you,” he spat. “There’s nothing you can give me. Nothing you can do to make up for what you’ve done.” His voice broke, and I heard him take in a ragged breath, like he was crying. “I hate you.”

  “I know,” I replied.

  A laugh burst across the line. “You know everything, don’t you? Well, you don’t know that I’m staring at the back of Josh Derry’s head right now. And you don’t know that his buddy is staring right at me and has no fucking clue who I am. You don’t know what I’m going
to do the minute one of them stands up, and makes a move to pay the waitress at this shitty-ass diner across the street from the studio offices.”

  No. Please, God. Let him be lying. “Why are you telling me this?” I asked. He must know I was going to call the police. Call the boys.

  “How far out are you?” he asked.

  I glanced at the sign. “Hudson River Greenway.”

  “So close… do I wait for you? Or do I just—” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Boom. Listen to this. Excuse me. Sorry.”

  “No problem.” That was Brant’s voice.

  “Gordon!” I cried out. “Gordon. Don’t!”

  “Tight in here, isn’t it?” Breathless, Gordon spoke quieter. “See? They have no idea. I’ll give you a choice because I’m up in the air right now. I have nothing to lose, and I just can’t decide if I want you or not. I’m dead at the end of this, so who do I take out with me? Mr. Shaw?”

  I choked. “Don’t hurt them.”

  “Maybe the long-haired boy? Or the bad boy? Or the country boy with the backward cap? I don’t think I can’t get them all, but I can get one.”

  “Gordon.” I veered off the exit, cutting off cars in my haste to get to the studio. Red lights lit up in the distance. “Gordon. I’m on my way. Don’t hurt them. Please. Just wait for me.”

  “I’ll call you back,” he said, and hung up.

  I picked up my phone just as another set of brake lights, these right in front of me, came on. I jammed on the brakes and the phone flew from my hand onto the passenger’s side floor.

  “Shit!” I reached for it, stretching as far as I could. Behind me someone honked, but fuck them. With my eyes on the road, and my hand outstretched, I let up off the brakes. A gap opened up on the right, in the direction the GPS was droning for me to go.

  Yanking the steering wheel, I slid into the space and then into the breakdown lane, passing cars on the right until I came to a stoplight. I braked long enough to see the way was clear and took off again. Every so often, the phone slid closer, and I reached for it, but I couldn’t slow down.

  I had to get to the boys.

  Eighty

  Josh

  “No answer?” I asked. Wes and I were seated at the counter, eating the last of our fries. Landry had picked up a booth, and Brant was near the door.

  Our placement was strategic. Landry could see whoever came in. Wes and I watched both sides of the street, and Brant watched the diner.

  An icy breeze hit the back of my neck and my phone buzzed. Brant. “He’s here.”

  Hours had passed since Betsy’s story had been released. Mike had spoken to her, and he hadn’t been able to talk her into turning around. Not even Steven, who assured us he’d laid down a guilt trip for the ages, had been able to convince her.

  Detectives Santaw and O’Bryan refused to take our calls, telling us our help was no longer necessary. No shit. They had Betsy as bait. They didn’t need us.

  And they didn’t want our help.

  The only thing we were certain of was that Betsy would come here at some point—to her studio and the office where Steven worked.

  So here we sat.

  And here was Gordon, hood over his head, wearing dark sunglasses on a gray, rainy day. He slid into the booth, smiling at the waitress who took his order.

  Guy didn’t look like a crazy stalker. He was a little on the short side but fit. He had a clean-cut face, but not one that stood out. He looked like any other mid-twenties white guy.

  I faced front, hating that the guy was to my back. I had to trust that Landry and Brant were on it, and would let me know when it was time to move.

  My phone vibrated. Landry. “Gun.”

  Fuck.

  There was a mirror over the counter, and I caught Brant moving toward Gordon just as he stood.

  “Wes,” I hissed.

  Brant’s hand sliced the air, a clear “hold.” The guy was on the phone, smiling like he didn’t have a care in the world. They bumped into each other, apologized, and went on their way. Brant slid into his seat, and Gordon back to his after grabbing a few creamers from the counter.

  The breath whooshed out of my lungs, and I picked up my phone. “What do we do?”

  Landry’s response was instant. “Wait until he leaves. Then we take him down.”

  Eighty-One

  Betsy

  It takes a special kind of asshole to double part on a one-way street, and today, I was that asshole. A block from the studio, I threw the car into park and snatched up my phone.

  It was raining, and the second I stepped out of the car, I was soaked, but I barely felt it. The streetlights were on. Everything was wavy, blurred.

  I dialed Landry’s number, my fingers fumbling at the buttons. “Where the hell are you?”

  “Gordon’s in the diner,” I replied. “I’m on my way. Get out of there.”

  “What?” his voice went up an octave. “No. No. Stay where you are.”

  I hung up, dialing the number Gordon had called me from. “I’m here.” It was hard to catch my breath. Up ahead, the diner looked warm and inviting. I’d gone there after late rehearsals, ordered fried chicken and mashed potatoes, and devoured it without feeling an ounce of guilt.

  “Meet you outside.”

  Far away, sirens screamed, but my entire focus was on that diner. I ran, splashing through puddles and dodging pedestrians. The door to the diner opened, one person came out, then a couple who opened their umbrella and ambled away. And finally, a solitary figure, small but compact, walked into the light. I caught a flash of dark hair and angry eyes before he sidestepped into the darkness.

  “I’m here!” I called out. Come after me! Don’t hurt them. Please, God, don’t let him hurt them. All of these thoughts raced through my mind as the figure sprinted toward me. I hurried to meet them, aware that I was racing toward death, but I didn’t care.

  Someone hit me from behind, and I screamed. I put my hands out to brace myself, but the person rolled, taking the brunt of the landing.

  One tattooed hand pushed off the ground while the other wrapped me up tight.

  Westin.

  There was a gunshot, and my entire body jolted at the sound. “You have to let me up!”

  Someone was yelling. I recognized Landry’s voice, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying.

  “You have to let me up!”

  “Stop, Betsy.” How was he so calm? “Stop.”

  I fought him, crying, pushing. “You have to hide. You have to run. Please. Please. Westin. Please.”

  But all he did was tighten his hold and drag me toward the darkness. “Shh. Shh.” He rocked me, side to side, but I didn’t want his comfort. I wanted him to let me go so Gordon saw me.

  Brakes screeched and sirens screamed as blue and white lights lit up the night. Officers jumped out of their cars and streamed down the sidewalk, guns drawn.

  I redoubled my efforts. “Wes.” I didn’t know what I was saying anymore or what I wanted.

  Heavy footsteps raced down the sidewalk, sliding to a stop at the mouth of the alley. Josh.

  Brant.

  Lan.

  Now Wes let me go. I crawled, fingers digging into the dirt and garbage to find purchase so I could get to my feet and fall into their arms.

  “Are you okay?” I dragged my hands over their faces, pushed aside jackets, and knocked Brant’s hat off his head. “Were you hurt?”

  They wrapped me in their arms.

  “Stupid girl.”

  “You goddamn stubborn ass woman.”

  “Thank God.” I didn’t care what they said or how angry they were. They were alive. I kissed whoever I could reach. “I love you,” I repeated over and over. “I love you.”

  Eighty-Two

  Brant

  I broke Gordon’s arm. And his nose. I didn’t even think about what I was doing. I saw the gun, and acted.

  He got a shot off and terror raced through me. Betsy. Oh fuck. I couldn’t see anything through the rain
.

  Gordon lay on the ground, writhing and moaning, but alive. I stood on his hand, while Landry yelled at the officers hurrying toward us. He had his knee on Gordon’s elbow, but his gaze was on the darkness, where we’d last seen Betsy’s form.

  My body shook and I swallowed against the vomit rising in my throat. An officer pushed at me, hooking a handcuff around Gordon’s wrist, and I took off.

  It was the longest sprint of my life. Lan was right beside me, swearing and praying, but I couldn’t make a sound.

  Every one of my senses was straining for Betsy. “Wes! Please!” There. I slid to a stop, tripped over the wet cement, and pushed myself back up. Rain dripped down my face, but I could see well enough that she was safe.

  Alive.

  I stumbled into the alley, reaching with greedy hands. I smoothed her hair back from her brow. “Stupid girl.”

  Then I kissed her, anywhere. Everywhere. Her body shook against mine, and I was certain she could feel me trembling as well.

  She knocked my hat off my head, her gaze raking me from head to foot. “Thank God.”

  Those were words I’d say to myself for the next fifty years. Every time I looked at her. Every. Single. Time.

  Thank God.

  Eighty-Three

  Josh

  I was never letting this girl go. Betsy, wet and shivering, stood in my arms. But she was alive.

  I held her, kissed her hair, her face. When my friends dragged her against them, I lifted her hands to my lips and kissed her there.

  My brave girl. My brave, stubborn, impulsive girl.

  “I love you,” I said. She scared the shit out of me, took years off my life, but holy shit, did I love her. “Elizabeth Lauren Belle Bartlett. I love you so fucking much.”

  Eighty-Four

  Westin

  If I lived a thousand years, I would never forget the sight of Betsy’s blonde head, racing through the rain toward a crazy man. “I’m here!”