The cops, therefore, weren't something I needed to worry about. There would be no hideous orange jumpsuits and trays full of fattening slop pushed across me on a cafeteria line in my future.
And, really, if David had no proof that I had actually done anything, what were the chances he would waste valuable money in hiring someone to make me go away?
I hadn't been working at the office when they'd finally gotten Bellamy to sign up, but Jules had let it slip to me about him being hired, about how much it would cost a client to bring him in.
Quin charged more money than most middle-class families would see in a decade just for basic services.
But for Bellamy's particular service? Yeah, the average person would likely never see that kind of money.
I knew that Blairtown Chem made an almost unconscionable amount of capital per year, but I also knew they stopped comping parking and that they replaced the weekly fresh flowers all over the building with artificial ones.
I knew enough about cutbacks to know that they were doing all the small things that might make it so that they could avoid layoffs for a while.
People cutting corners like that didn't drop huge sums of money on taking care of one rogue secretary.
Even if they suspected said secretary was snooping around.
There was no way they could have known what I was looking for, that I could have the information I had when I first walked through their doors, that my presence there was solely because of a mission I had been on since before I'd even sent human resources my very made-up résumé.
I had just been caught up in the moment, paranoid because of what I had found, what it meant.
Yes, David had chased me out of the building. That said, I had also very clearly quit without notice while the CEO, my boss, the man who considered me his right hand, was down with the flu. Which left no one at the helm of a ship that had a tendency to veer violently off in the wrong direction if someone so much as looked away for a moment or two.
It was probably nothing more than that.
That phone call he had been making as I pulled away was most likely to Phillip to tell him that I had abruptly quit.
Nothing more, nothing less.
It was over.
It was all finally, finally freaking over.
I sank back against the wall, feeling almost a bit lightheaded with relief.
My time spent at Blairtown Chem had been the most stressful, overwhelming period of my entire life. And that included finals at college. So it was saying something.
I chalked a lot of that up to the fact that being there, contributing to a place I didn't believe in, morally objected to, made me feel slimy and uncomfortable in my own skin.
Having to lie to everyone I loved too, yeah, that had been a constant, nagging source of anxiety. Especially because, as time wore on, they got more and more vocal about wanting me to quit, that they didn't like what it was doing to me. My father, in particular, had been getting more and more insistent, to the point where I was almost in tears sometimes when he caught me alone, knowing that if my mom was around, she would remind him to back off, to let me figure out my own life.
Being a source of clear disappointment for those who loved you most was a weighted reality, it dragged me down inch by inch every day that passed.
Even if I knew they didn't know the whole truth, didn't know why I was doing what I was doing, that when everything did come out, that they would likely be apologetic, proud of me.
It didn't make the present easier to deal with.
I had started to feel, at times, like a ghost of myself.
And all that? Yeah, it was over.
What that meant for my future, well, I wasn't quite sure about that.
A job hunt would be on as quickly as possible, of course. I had a decent savings, but not one I could live off of for any length of time. This time, though, I would get to pick a job that meant something to me, that actively worked toward fixing the crumbling world we are living in.
That was something to look forward to, to be happy about.
Why, then, was all I felt a muted sort of relief?
Not excitement, not joy.
Just a bit of calm.
That I could let the facade fall, that I could get back to how I truly was.
Maybe it would just take some time. Sometimes people had a hard time coming back from events. Hell, sometimes it took me a week to get back to level when exams were going on in college.
Stress did ugly things to the body.
Eventually, once I fell into this new rhythm--my old rhythm--I would be feel the excitement and happiness.
Until then, I owed it to the person I had repressed to become the woman I needed to be to work at Blairtown Chem to treat myself to some rest and relaxation.
I got dinner to-go, grabbed some shower steamers since my tub was unimpressive at best, bought myself some comfy new pajamas, and finally brought myself home for the first time in weeks.
My plants--my poor, beloved plants--were all on their last legs from lack of water. I put them all in the sinks to have a pool party while I showered, dressed in the silky sage green pajama pants and matching camisole, reheated my food, turned on some music, and sat down to eat.
Maybe it wasn't what some might call a celebration. Hell, it wasn't even one by my standards necessarily, but seeing as there was no one I had shared their journey with, there was no one to share the end of it with.
That was okay.
Things would be turning around.
I could let everyone in on it in no time.
Then all my family and friends would know why I had been living how I had, why I'd been so unlike myself. They would be happy for me. And the feeling would be contagious.
On that thought, I finished my food, going into my kitchen to clean up.
I would have missed it.
If I was just a couple seconds too early or too late.
If I wasn't still a bit antsy about the whole situation.
If I hadn't worked around men and women who had made it clear to me that--as a woman living alone, especially--you always needed to be aware of your surroundings. Even in your own home.
It didn't even jump out at me right at first, just a flash in my periphery that made me do a double-take, knowing there wasn't supposed to be anything on my balcony. At least nothing above waist-level since that was as tall as all my outdoor plants got.
This was decidedly above waist-level, though.
Which was likely because this dark figure actually had a waist. As well as a body above and below it.
A person.
There was a person on my balcony.
And seeing as said person was completely decked out in all black--including his face--I figured they weren't just dropping in to ask to borrow a cup of sugar.
Hooded figures on your balcony pretty much always meant harm.
My body fell face-first into fear. Nerve endings fired off, making my skin cold and sensitive. My pulse sped into overdrive, pounding hard in my temples, throat, wrists, groin. My breathing immediately shallowed out, a fist of uncertainty curling around my throat.
I don't know how long it took to respond.
Not long.
Seconds, maybe.
Though everything felt slower, like time itself was doused in molasses, fighting against the stickiness.
My foot sought freedom before my brain even seemed to be in on it, turning sending me in the direction from where I had just come.
My mind finally clicked in as the slam behind me said this person wasn't wasting time trying to carefully cut the glass and unlock the door from the inside, keep things quiet. It told me to get my phone, to call the police, to get help to come to me.
But my phone was carelessly tossed on the foot of my bed where I had thrown my bags on my path to my bathroom.
It was also further from the door.
Which meant I was much more likely to be caught.
When it came to fight or
flight, my scale was heavily tipped toward the flight side. I was thin, not strong. Instinctively--all pride aside--knew I had absolutely no chance against a man who looked like he weighed nearly twice as much as me. Who seemed like he was here to catch or kill me.
Phone meant freedom, but so did making it to my front door, out into the hall.
So that was where I headed, grabbing my keychain as I went, knowing that I'd gotten a birthday gift from Gunner one year that came in the form of an eye-gouging kitty cat.
While I wasn't entirely sure I was even capable of gouging someone's eyes with a sharp object, I liked the option as I slammed my door behind me, getting into the hall.
I knew some of my neighbors in passing. By name. Enough to share pleasantries. Enough that, I hoped, they would call the police for me if they heard me screaming. That they would try to help me fight off a man chasing me if they were in the halls or lobby.
I knew better than to stop and pound on doors, waiting for someone who might be too afraid for their own safety to come to my rescue. It was human nature to protect yourself first.
Smith had once explained how they'd lost a client who did that very thing. Standing, pounding, begging. And I remembered him saying she should have screamed and slammed a fist into the doors as she ran, just so people knew it was an emergency, not just someone who got startled by a rat or something.
So I ran, screaming, pounding when I could. All the while hearing footsteps behind me. Not gaining per se--and I was never so grateful for my long legs before--but not falling behind either.
No one was in the halls or in the stairwell as I nearly threw myself down them, feeling my chest getting tighter with the need for more oxygen.
The lobby was also abandoned as I raced through it, bursting outside, the cool nip in the air biting at my skin, giving me clarity as I did the only thing I could think of.
I ran toward my car.
Maybe I would waste precious seconds getting it unlocked, getting inside, and re-locking it, but I wasn't sure for how much longer I could outrun him, or if there would be anyone in any direction who would be willing to save me. At least in my car, I was safe from getting snatched, could drive myself to freedom.
My key slipped into the lock, turned.
My other hand reached for the handle.
Close, so so close.
Pain exploded through my face as my whole body was slammed forward, my head colliding against my car, sparks flooding my vision for long enough that I worried I might pass out. And then, well, who knew what could happen to me?
There were defining moments in life, times when you realized something about yourself that, previously, you never could have known existed.
In that moment, as my fingers slid into two little circles, I realized I was, in fact, the eye-gouging sort of person.
With every bit of strength in my overwrought, terrified body, I turned, twisted, cocked back, and swung forward.
My stomach dropped low as the pointed cat ears sliced through the knitted black ski mask and ripped through actual flesh.
Not eyes.
And I was oddly thankful for that, not sure if my stomach could handle it, if I could live the rest of my life with that image flashing before my eyes as I tried to go to sleep at night.
But right into the cheek.
His howl of pain matched my hiss of revulsion.
Just as my arm started to pull back, his upper body whirled away, hands going up to press into the--I imagined--holes in his face.
I stared down at the happy yellow cat face now dripping in blood for a long second before remembering myself, turning again, yanking open the door, slipping inside, slamming the door, pressing the locks.
"Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, my God," I shrieked into the hollowness of my car, stabbing the key into the ignition. "Fuck!" I cried out as the car shook, making me turn back to see a foot crashing into my back window.
My foot, once again, remembered itself, thought faster than my brain, slamming into the accelerator as my hand threw the car into reverse.
Tires squealed, and the man who was thrown off yelled, but all of it was drowned out by the somewhat eerily upbeat sound of my happy playlist blasting through the speakers.
"Okay. Okay," I told myself, feeling the need to hear my own voice, thinking it might ground me as I put the car into drive, heading out of the lot. "It's alright," I added, trying to take a deep breath that trembled through my chest. "You're alright."
For a long couple of minutes, it seemed like I was, too.
Until a crash, a jolt, the sound of crunching metal, my head slamming back against my headrest, the shocked scream that escaped my lips.
The backend of my car fishtailed hard as my hands grabbed the wheel tighter, trying to stop it from spinning.
By the time my foot remembered to hit the brake, I was in the opposite direction, staring down the car that had hit me.
For a moment there, I had been freaked that, in my panic, I had ran a red or skipped a stop sign, had caused an accident on top of it all.
But one glance out my windshield said something else entirely.
Because there were two men in the front seat, both in masks, one holding a white tee to his cheek, steadily soaking through with blood.
"Shit shit shit shit," I hissed, throwing the car into reverse, slamming on the gas. Praying their damage was worse than mine, I peeled off, taking every other backroad I knew, trying to make sure I wasn't caught up with.
There was one simple rule to follow when you were being chased while driving, one that everyone knew, that everyone told themselves they would obey should they find themselves in the situation.
Drive to the police station.
It was an easy one to remember, even easier to implement so long as you didn't live in the boonies.
Drive to the police station.
They could stop anyone after you; they could get you safe; they could get you medical treatment for the screaming headache and the trickle of blood down your cheek.
That was where you were supposed to go.
Yet I drove right past it.
A few streets down.
To a secluded cul-de-sac.
To a familiar driveway.
To a house lit from the inside.
Inviting me in.
Promising its own kind of safety.
I barely remembered to put the car into park, and didn't even bother cutting the engine or closing the door as I flew out of it, racing up the path, throwing open the front door that I was never so grateful to still find unlocked.
"Lincoln!"
The sound of my own voice was foreign to me. Shrill, ear-splitting, desperate.
I never before truly understood the concept of a sound being 'blood-curdling' until I heard it in my own voice as I stood there.
It was seconds, surely, before the thud of feet on the stairs got louder and louder as they descended, but my hyperactive brain felt like it was in slow motion as he finally appeared, eyes huge, mouth hung open in shock.
"Gemma?" he asked, tone a whisper before his head jerked, trying to shake off his surprise, trying to slip into professional mode. "Gem, what happened?" he asked, voice louder, stronger.
Strong enough that I knew I was safe enough to be weak, to fall apart.
Throwing myself into his arms, I did.
"He... He... He was in my apartment. They hit my car," I added, burying my face in his neck as my body trembled so hard that my legs refused to hold me.
"It's alright. You're alright," he assured me, arms wrapping me up. Tight enough that I couldn't breathe. But this time, I found comfort in that. "I need more than that, Gem. I know you're freaked out, but I need more than that. Did they follow you here?"
"I don't think so. I... I took the backroads."
"Okay. But we can't stay here," he added, giving me a harder squeeze before peeling me away, half holding me up by my arms.
"Why?"
"Because I don't know what the fuck is goi
ng on. Or if they have a tracker on your car. Or what the hell kind of danger you are in. We need to get you to the office."
With that, he released me. And I was lucky enough that my legs decided to hold me as he veered away from me, going behind his TV cabinet, nearly knocking the TV on the ground in his haste to grab something behind it.
A gun.
As a rule, I hated guns. I didn't like what they represented. I didn't like the ugliness they could bring out in people. I didn't like the big holes they could put in human bodies.
Yet in that moment, I had never been so thankful that they existed, that one was in the hands of someone trained to use it properly, that he could keep me safe with it.
"Okay. Come on. We're taking your car," he added, going to the door, glancing out, before reaching for my hand, seeming to sense there was no way I was going to be able to follow without some help.
"Lincoln..."
"It's alright," he assured me, giving my hand a squeeze before dragging me outside, pushing me into the passenger side of my car, then hopping in the driver's seat. "Remind me to thank Gunner," he added as he backed out of his driveway.
"For what?"
"For giving you that fucking cat keychain," he told me, making me realize he'd seen it dangling there, soaked in blood, a macabre little testament to how very brutal things could come in very inconspicuous packages. "Are you hurt?" he asked, reaching down to put the gun into the cupholder, giving my hand another squeeze. "Did they hurt you?"
"He slammed me against my car," I told him, reaching up with my free hand to prod at the injury for the first time, wincing when it smarted to the touch.
"You have a cut there. Don't touch it," he told me. "And you're probably going to have a black eye. You might have broken your eye socket. It's starting to swell already. Did they hurt you anywhere else?"
"I, ah, no. They hit my back quarter panel," I remembered. "My head whipped back. But it feels fine. I'm fine. I'm just..."
"You're freaked out," he finished for me. "It's alright. We are going to handle this now."
"We?"
"Yeah, honey. There is no way I am going to be keeping this shit a secret now. Not when we know there is a threat. And a physical one. I need Quin in on this. And Gunner. Smith is off with Miller, but I am not taking this shit on by myself. You're too important."
The Middle Man Page 10