by Helen Hardt
I land in his arms and my mouth finds his.
We kiss hard. Deep. A kiss of life.
Time suspends itself.
We’re in a warp. Everything around us ceases to exist.
We kiss.
We kiss.
We kiss.
“Scotty.”
“Scotty.”
“Scotty!”
He pulls away from me. Who’s calling him?
“Scotty.” From one of the guards. “We need to talk to the lady.”
Scotty’s lips are swollen and pink from our kiss. Our feral kiss that I wish were still going on.
“Come with me.” I tug on his hand.
He simply nods.
A minute later, we’re sitting with Roy Wolfe himself and—
“Buck!” I launch myself at my brother.
“God, sis. Thank God.” He kisses the top of my head.
“When did you get here?”
“When Lucifer did. I’ve been watching him since you left. Somehow I lost him for a span of fifteen minutes, and the next thing I knew, he was on a plane. Once he was on his way, so was I.”
“Were you the sniper?” Scotty asks.
“Who the hell are you? And why were you kissing my sister?”
“Sorry,” I say. “Buck, this is Scotty. Scotty, my brother.”
Buck holds out his hand.
Scotty takes it. “Thanks, man. You saved the day.”
“All in a day’s work.”
“Buck’s an ex-Navy SEAL,” I say.
“Emily, Scotty,” Roy Wolfe says, “I’m so sorry for all of this. We’ll be taking a good long look at our security systems.”
“It’s not your system,” Buck says. “It’s top-notch. I should know, since I advised you on it. Lucifer Raven has gotten through top-notch security before. I’m just sorry I couldn’t stop him from getting here. I’m sorry, Emily. I thought you’d be safe here.”
I shake my head. “I know you did. This isn’t your fault. I’m not safe anywhere as long as Lucifer is free.”
“He’s won’t be free now,” Buck says. “These are charges that will finally stick. We’ve got a ton of witnesses.”
Roy’s phone buzzes. “Excuse me.” He puts it to his ear. “Yes?”
Pause.
“Thank you. I’ll let everyone know.”
“Mr. Ashton’s injury is not life-threatening. He’ll be transferred on a medical yacht to Hawaii where he’ll be hospitalized and under constant guard. I assume you’ll be filing charges, Ms. Moreno.”
I nod, shivering. “Yes. Of course.”
“We’ll be doing a full investigation on how he got onto the island,” Roy says.
“I can tell you right now how he got here,” Buck says. “Money. He paid off a few of your people.”
“Find them,” Roy says, “and take care of them.”
“Consider it done.”
“People need to feel safe here,” Roy says. “This can’t ever happen again.”
“Mr. Wolfe?” I say.
“Roy, please.”
“Roy.” I clear my throat. “He was determined to get to me. I should never have come here. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Buck talked to me beforehand about your situation. I’m sorry we failed to protect you.”
“You did protect me,” I say. “All he had was a knife. His weapon of choice is a handgun, which clearly he couldn’t bring here.”
“I’m still very sorry, Ms. Moreno.”
I smile. “Emily, please.”
“Emily. What can Charlie and I do to make this up to you?”
“Nothing. You don’t owe me anything.”
“I’ve taken a look at your work. You’re a very talented artist, especially with color mixing. Would you be interested in teaching here at the colony?”
My jaw drops. “You mean, live here?”
“Yes. You’ll live over in the staff huts.”
“With Scotty?”
Roy chuckles. “Well, not with Scotty. But in the same area.”
I want to pounce on this offer, but—
“I’m not sure.”
“Em,” Buck says, “this is a great offer. You’ll be able to paint to your heart’s content. Work on your craft while you help others with theirs.”
“It is a dream come true,” I say.
I’ll be free. Finally free from Lucifer’s invisible bonds.
But Scotty…
I’m pretty sure he mouthed the words “I love you too” when I mouthed “I love you,” but we were in a life-or-death situation.
I don’t want him to feel trapped.
And he was here first.
“May I think about it?”
“Of course.” Roy rises. “I’ll leave Jimmy here to get your official statement. Come talk to me when you decide.”
One official statement later, Scotty and I are walking hand in hand back to my hut. I’m shivering.
“I can’t stay here any longer. All I see in here is him, sitting on my bed, as if he owns the place.”
“Baby, why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you would have run away screaming.”
“No. I wouldn’t have. I already knew you had some kind of baggage. That you were running away. If you’d come to my place last night instead of here—”
“He’d have found me anyway, and he wouldn’t have thought twice of hurting you to get to me. Nothing stops him.”
“Except your brother’s bullet.”
“Lucifer—”
“I knew I recognized him from somewhere,” Scotty says. “He’s Lucifer Ashton. From the Ashtons of LA. Is it true? The rumors?”
“That he’s an underground drug kingpin? Yeah, they’re all true.”
“Emily”—he caresses my cheek—“my God. How did you…”
“He lavished me with gifts. With a life a starving artist could only dream about. I was seduced by the lifestyle, and gradually, I…” I shake my head. How can I admit what happened? What I allowed to happen?
“Damn, Em. Thank God you’re okay.”
“He trapped me. Wouldn’t let me go anywhere without him, until the day I escaped. Buck sent me here. Then…”
“It’s my fault.” Scotty rubs his forehead, messes with his hair. “I should have walked you back this morning. None of this would have happened.”
“Oh, Scotty.” I entwine my fingers through his. “This isn’t your fault at all. It’s my fault. I stopped watching my back. I shouldn’t have, but I did. Carpe diem, as you say.”
“I wouldn’t have said it if I thought it could get you killed.”
“No. Don’t go there,” I say. “Last night with you was the most amazing night of my life. I’ll never regret it.”
He smiles. “Then stay here, Em. On the island. With me. And I promise we’ll have many more nights even better than last night.”
“You mean it? You want me to stay here? I may need some…counseling. To get over what I’ve been through and all.”
“There just happens to be a top-notch retreat center on the other side of the cliff with the best therapists in the world.”
“You want me?” I ask. “Baggage and all?”
Scotty smiles, kisses my lips. “Baby, I want it all. And you’ve made me think about a lot of things.”
“Like what?”
“Like maybe going back to school. I could take online courses and still work here. Maybe become a counselor myself.”
“You did major in psychology. That’s a wonderful idea.” I brush his hair off his forehead and return his smile. “I thought of a name for your cocktail.”
“You mean our cocktail”—he trails a finger over my lower lip—“my love?”
“Yeah. We’ll call it the Island Escape.”
* * *
Thank you for reading Escape! Read about the history of Wolfe Island here. https://www.helenhardt.com/book/?series=wolfes-of-manhattan
Island Escape
1 shot gold rum
1 shot crème de banana
1 shot crème de noyaux
3 shots orange juice
3 shots pineapple juice
Shake with ice and strain into martini glasses rimmed with sugar.
About the Author
#1 New York Times, #1 USA Today, and #1 Wall Street Journal bestselling author Helen Hardt’s passion for the written word began with the books her mother read to her at bedtime. She wrote her first story at age six and hasn’t stopped since. In addition to being an award-winning author of romantic fiction, she’s a mother, an attorney, a black belt in Taekwondo, a grammar geek, an appreciator of fine red wine, and a lover of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream. She writes from her home in Colorado, where she lives with her family. Helen loves to hear from readers.
http://www.helenhardt.com
Exes and Ohs!
Leah Marie Brown
Dedicated to my favorite Irishman, Alfonso. Thanks a million for the lethal craic. More than anything, thank you for your friendship. You make me grateful for it every day…and three times on a Thursday. And to Ciarán Johnston: I’ll never forget the first time I heard you sing at McGann’s in Doolin. It was like a golden ray of light on a dark winter night, which describes your personality, too.
1
Jaded Lady
You are never single if you are in a long-term relationship with yourself.
“Get the fuck outta here.”
I toss the glossy brochure onto the conference table and lean back in my chair, eyeing Kristin as if she has asked me to write a piece on genital mutilation—which, for the record, might be more appealing than a 3000-word article about some touchy-feely retreat designed to help sad singles “create healthy, fulfilling, long-term committed relationships.”
I’m Marlow Donnelly, by the way. I write a column for Conceit, the consummate luxury lifestyle, travel and leisure magazine, and Kristin is my editor and bestie.
“Exes and Ohs is an innovative self-help program offered by Ian Chapman.”
“Nuh-uh. No way. So not happening.”
“It’s Ian Chapman, Marlow. Ian Chapman!”
She says this as if I should recognize the name, and for one long embarrassing moment I wonder if the guy she tried to set me up with a few years ago was named Ian. Ian. Ian. Fuck me! Was his name Ian? Think around it, Marlow. Tall, brown hair, Gregory Peck glasses. FBI hostage negotiator. Talked about the importance of understanding nonverbal communication and being able to read body language, while slowly reaching under the table and trying to slide his hand up my skirt. Yeah, I got nothing here. He could have been Ian or Tom or Freddie.
I finally shrug and lift my hands.
She exhales and her silky black bangs flutter off her forehead. “Ian Chapman. The Love Guru?”
“The Love Guru?” I snort. “The Love Guru? Please tell me you are joking, because if you’re not, I will change into go-go boots and pepper my speech with phrases like, ‘Oh, behave’ and ‘Yeah, baby, yeah.’”
Kristin narrows her gaze and crosses her slender arms over her chest. I know I should swallow back the bubble of laughter rising in my throat, but I imagine myself sitting crossed-legged on a grass mat interviewing a bejeweled and berobed man, a cloud of patchouli incense swirling around us, while he uses hokey phrases like vibrational escrow, and I am dying, hooting and wiping tears from my face.
The interns snicker.
Kristin doesn’t even crack a smile. She was exposed to the Wide World of Marlow Chapman in full technicolor many years ago and is now blasé to my dramatic flashes.
“Are you finished?” she asks. “Ian Chapman is a psychiatrist and relationship expert with three million YouTube subscribers.”
Oh, well, three million YouTube subscribers…
“His TED Talk on soulmates is one of the top ten most watched videos.”
“Soulmates? You did not just say that word.”
Kristin looks away because she already knows what I am going to say. She’s heard it a bazillion times.
“I do not believe in soulmates. The idea that every person has a single mate they are meant to be with through eternity is a myth, like Marie Antoinette saying, ‘Let them eat cake,’ or creams that can get rid of cellulite, or George Clooney’s charm.”
“I love George Clooney,” an intern in a bowtie and hornrims whispers.
I ignore the Clooney-loving minion.
“Do you know who made up the soulmates myth? A tragically lonely person—probably a spinster living in a ramshackle house filled with stacks of old yellow newspapers, and a clowder of cats.”
“What’s a clowder?” Bowtie whispers to the girl standing next to him.
“She made the idea up because she didn’t want to admit she was a socially awkward recluse who would rather hole up with her fur babies than get out there and meet a man.” I’m warming to the subject now. “‘I haven’t met the one yet because there are seven billion people on the planet. He will find me, though. I am sure of it.’”
“Are you quite through?” Kristin asks.
“I am.” I grin before turning my attention to Bowtie. “A clowder is the word used to describe a group of cats.”
“In the last ten years, wellness retreats have grown in popularity, particularly among the wealthy who have exchanged exclusive cruises for resort-based self-help-focused vacations.” Kristin pushes a key on her MacBook and a PowerPoint pie chart appears on the conference smart board. “Wellness vacations have become a six hundred and thirty-nine-billion-dollar industry. Singles summits and relationship retreats are the biggest slice in that pie.”
Props to my bestie. She gives an impressive presentation, but it hasn’t juiced my mojo enough to make me want to set a date with the Love Guru. In fact, there is little she could say to convince me to spend a week having my head shrunk and my heart healed by some New Age charlatan spouting clever mantras. Every choice you make helps align you for your mate. Seriously? What if I choose chicken salad on a croissant instead of a tuna wrap for lunch? Does that throwaway decision bring my soulmate one step closer to me?
“Social media,” Kristin says. “I believe our dependency on social media has inspired this travel trend. People feel more disconnected than ever before. A recent study found that people who use multiple social media platforms report more symptoms of depression, anxiety, insomnia…”
I sit up. My crafty bestie is speaking my language now. She knows my disdain for social media, especially dating apps. It’s no accident she slipped that last part into her presentation.
“Marlow, this story needs your unique perspective to keep it from becoming a fluff piece. I’m looking for a docudrama here, not a rom-com.”
“My unique perspective?” I laugh. “Would that be my jaded outlook on the happily ever after?”
“Precisely.”
She is lethally serious.
I look at the brochure again.
Seven days of workshops, exercises, and mixers carefully crafted to help you…
I push the brochure away. Kareena, my archnemesis, reaches for it. Yes, I am aware the word archnemesis is only used by comic book characters and preteen girls, but I can’t think of another word to describe a hyper-competitive, energy-sucking entity with talons for fingernails, and I’m a professional wordsmith.
“It’s in Ibiza,” Kristin interjects.
I snatch the brochure before Kareena can get her claws on it.
Determine what is blocking the deposits into your love bank.
“Yeah, I’m out.” I toss the brochure back on the table. “There aren’t enough pills in Ibiza to get me to spend seven days talking about my love bank.”
2
How to Kill a Friend
“I’d like a Tight Snatch.”
“I am going to have a Ginger Bush.” Kristin wrinkles her nose and purses her lips. “On second thought, make that a Creamy Pussy. Could you add a splash more Tequila Rose, though?” She hands her corporate credit card to the bartender. “You ca
n start a tab. Thanks.”
We’re grabbing post-workday drinks at our favorite cocktail bar. Vesper has a chill vibe even though it’s super swank. It was a theater during the Golden Age of Hollywood. The owner, the only daughter of an Academy Award-winning director, is an influencer with serious clout. She dropped a wad restoring the place. The banquettes are plush, the low amber lighting gives you flawless selfie-filter face, and the salaciously named drinks are super strong. The beautiful people come here to spill tea while getting drunk on top-drawer booze. Kristin and I come here to watch trends and abuse the company AmEx.
“You haven’t told me what happened with Michael.”
Michael is a music producer I met at the gym. After weeks of fitness flexing and flirting, he finally asked me out. We went to a Post Malone concert, hung out at his studio, worked out together.
“Yeah, hard pass on the hard body.”
“Why? You were having fun with him.”
“I was until he took me to dinner at Circé.”
Kristin stares at me blankly.
“He ordered salmon.”
“I didn’t know you had such an aversion to salmon. Is it freshwater sockeye, Chinook, or all species of salmon that offend you?”
“Ha-ha! He pronounced it sall-men. Once he said it, I couldn’t unhear it.”
“Are you kidding?”
“Nope.”
“You broke up with a tall, dark, spicy snack because he mispronounced one word?” Kristin raises her glass in a toast. “Congratulations, Marlow. That might be the stupidest reason you’ve ever given for breaking up with a guy.”
“We didn’t break up because we were never together.”
Kristin finishes her cocktail in one swallow, sets the empty glass on the table, and rolls up her sleeves. It’s about to get real.
“You broke up with the real estate agent because he drank milk with pizza.”
“That’s just weird.”