by Lesley Young
On our lunch break on Wednesday she let me practice driving in the Plaza’s parking lot with her vehicle. My lesson on Sunday had gone better than the first, but Sam Cooper had still not been patient, so Jenny said she would attempt to help. Unfortunately, it went sour quickly, what with her banging on the dashboard, distracting me, pointing out all the expensive things I should avoid hitting in the parking lot. I decided then that she may have some control issues, to which I could fully relate.
On Thursday after work, I took the bus to B&L Driving Academy and waited in the grubby 1970s plaza strip storefront lobby area for Mr. Cooper to arrive. (I later learned its trainers are all contracted—had I known that in advance, obviously I would have chosen a school that properly vetted and hired full-time employees; as it was, I had signed up for the minimum twelve-lesson package.)
Mr. Cooper usually pulled up out front on time in his ancient Commodore. He was seven minutes late, and that should have been a sign. However, when the familiar, dreaded gray vehicle did finally pull up, I dashed out, not paying attention. Specifically, I did not notice the driver was climbing over the gear shift rather than getting out of the car. In my defense, I was extremely tense because I was determined to leave the parking lot in this lesson; furthermore, the sunlight was reflecting off the windshield in such a way I could not make out a face.
I pulled open the driver side door. There was a gun, pointed at me, along with a pair of bright blue eyes.
Sullivan Blaise, of course. He wore a cap of some sort, and his usual black T-shirt and blue jeans. He also had on a jacket with the collar turned up.
My heart shot out of my body, figuratively speaking, and was already across the parking lot hailing the giant bus I heard passing by.
“Get in. Act like everything’s normal.”
Now, while it was a busy thoroughfare, and there was a teenager waiting in the lobby for his lesson, having a gun pointed at me was a brand new experience and worked not unlike the effect of a conductor’s baton on an orchestra or a laser toy on a cat: I followed its every direction.
I climbed into the vehicle, my vision blurry from tears.
“Close the door. Jesus, Charlie, I’m not going to hurt you! I’m trying to help you.”
I closed the door.
“Drive.”
Hand shaking, I struggled to put on my seatbelt so much so he had to help me.
“Drive, ay!” he said, sinking lower, glancing behind him.
“Where?”
“Wherever you usually do. Just don’t peel out!”
I sighed with relief, and turned the key in the ignition. The vehicle made a terrible screeching noise and I yelped. “It’s already on, for Christ’s sake!” he shouted, grabbing my hand off the ignition.
“Well, Mr. Cooper leaves it off so I can practice turning it on!”
Sullivan stared at me with great derisiveness.
“Drive,” he muttered.
I moved the gear shift into the D position and set my foot on the gas pedal. We rolled forward rather quickly, hitting over fifteen kilometers per hour, faster than I had ever gone. My heart was beating a mile a minute as I pushed down the blinker button while checking left and right for any traffic. My brain was in overdrive and the cortisol was making it hard to concentrate. Before turning the wheel, I braked urgently, tossing us forward, because I had taken far too wide a berth for the turn in the parking lot. I almost nicked the parked cars flanking my right side! My hands were gripping the wheel so tight they hurt, and I sat far forward, both behaviors discouraged by Mr. Cooper. But these were trying circumstances. Concentrate! Coming upon the next turn, I reduced the speed to ten kilometers per hour, and steering clear of taking a wide berth this time, took too narrow an angle and braked hard and fast just in time to avoid nicking the cars that flanked my left! Fuck! I moved the gear shift to the reverse position and, checking my rearview mirror, prepared to back up—
“Holy fuckin’ Christ! You’re a fuckin’ bingle!! Give over!” shouted Sullivan, leaning over, undoing my seatbelt, climbing right over me, forcing me to shift out of the way. “I thought you were taking the piss, but you’re worse than a hoon,” he blasted, shifting on me.
Outrage.
He had managed to shove me halfway, which left me straddling the gear shift, before he took over completely, reversing and taking us right out of the parking lot—with one hand!—the other holding his gun in his lap, as I wrestled my leg over to the passenger side.
I would have a bruise on my hamstring from the gear shift.
We were out of the parking lot, and down a quiet side street. I tried to correct my ragged breathing by telling myself that if Sullivan wanted to hurt me, he would have done so already.
“Quit glaring at me, Charlie. I’m here as a favor—had to make sure you got in the bloody car!”
A favor.
“So you are not going to kill me?”
He glanced at me, face twisted up in a disgusted fashion. “What the fuck?”
“I won’t tell Jace or Mr. Bennett about you, I promise!”
He flashed on me, before glancing in his rearview mirror. “Jace, ay? Drinkin’ the Kool-Aid.”
A pun. Perhaps a snarky one, at that.
“You know he’s using you, right? Real shit. Doesn’t trust you either. Put one of his best men on you now, the second you left the airport after your little Port Douglas weekend.”
My mouth popped open.
He shook his head, driving along slow, glancing in the mirror. “The boys keep watching your balcony show. It’s making the rounds. Couldn’t you have used some fuckin’ discretion, Charlie?”
All blood drained from my face.
“What? What do you mean . . .”
Men had seen Jace and me make love on the veranda in Port Douglas? I pictured myself straddling Jace’s face, then bent over . . . him pounding me from behind. I gasped and covered my mouth with both hands.
“God, you’re such a fuckin’ no-hoper,” he muttered. I sat forward, unable to process anything, fighting an urge to evacuate the contents of my stomach.
“It’s not right,” he muttered.
I removed my hands from my mouth.
“We were . . . filmed?”
He snorted. “I all but told you he’s being watched. Yeah, it was filmed by the boys, at ASIS. Shouldn’t’ve been, but it was.”
Silence permeated the car. He flicked a switch on the front panel. Apparently the air-conditioning was broken (guess that was why Mr. Cooper never turned it on), and Sullivan cussed under his breath.
“You know you’re just a bit of fun,” he started in again. “Like I told you.”
I bit my lip and felt my nose burn. I deeply resented all of the filth Sullivan Blaise seemed intent to import into my life.
I shook my head. He did not know.
“No, Jace cares for me,” I said quietly. “I know he does.”
Sullivan’s lips pursed. “I’m sure he does, right now.”
Condescension.
I stared straight ahead.
“Don’t matter, don’t give a shit. Things are turning black, soon, ay. Came to warn you. You’re in the fuckin’ shit, Charlie, or will be. Danger. The real deal. Charlie! You listening?!”
I shook my head. Was Jace just having some fun with me?
Was he?
Why do feelings have to complicate everything?
I reached for the door handle, but Sullivan grabbed my arm.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Getting away from you! You . . . ruin everything! You’re wrong about Jace, about everything!” I shouted, incensed.
His mouth popped open. “Me? Are you a fuckin’ dingbat or what? I’m trying to help you. Listen to me!” His face was bright red, a shade I had never seen on him before, and he checked behind for traffic, though we were stopped at the residential corner. He tightened his grip on my arm. “Don’t believe me. I don’t care. Just know this: your bloke’s about to take it up a notc
h, launching a new level of racket, semi-legit business fuckers with enough dosh to bribe a small country, never mind businesses, markets, fuck with things! You get that!? He met with six of ’em all last week and this week in Vegas. And there are others who want in, want out, want to stop it, or want to lead it. Any second he’s going to be wiped out and guess who’ll be collateral damage?! When your brains are hanging out of here”—he pressed his finger on my forehead—“don’t say I didn’t fuckin’ warn you.”
I stared at him. This could not be true. Jace was in Vegas to buy a property to develop a hotel.
But . . . a cold hard logic shoved its way to the forefront. Why would Sullivan lie?
Why would he be here now?
There was no benefit to him, to tell me this.
He was not asking me to spy anymore.
Logic does not lie.
My eyes became blurry again, and wetness slicked down my face.
“You got money?” he said, accelerating again to turn the bend back to the parking lot.
“Charlie! Do you have money to fly home?”
I stared at him, his eyes. Suddenly they were not so menacing.
They were full of . . . pity. And perspective.
PERSPECTIVE.
I shook my head. “No. No, I do not. But—”
“Fuck,” he said, his mouth a tense line. “Niagara Falls, was it?”
B had just been relocated to consult in California. “No, Silicon Valley,” I whispered.
“I’m going to swing it as soon as I can, and you better fuckin’ use it. In the meantime, you act like everything’s smooth. And don’t throw me under the bus, either, or I’m as good as dead. Got that?”
I nodded, and a sob broke free.
“Just be prepared to go to the airport at the last minute when I get word to you. Don’t know how he’ll react if he hears you’re boarding a plane for America. And don’t tell another fuckin’ soul about this, got that, or it’s my arse. Charlie! You listenin’?”
I nodded.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
The rest of the one-minute ride back to the parking lot was silent. When we arrived, he dropped me off and then sped off without a word or even a second glance.
Chapter 17
The only time I ever called in sick to the Niagara Falls Public Library where I worked, I had a terrible case of pneumonia. I believe I caught it from Shorty, a very tall crack addict with three children who had sneezed on me when I was questioning her (as I had done several times in the past) as to which floor of the abandoned building on the outskirts of town my mother was last seen in.
Three weeks later, I was flat out in bed, as the vicious bacteria weakened my red blood cells, reduced the oxygen circulated through my body, and created extreme fatigue. I had been willing to spend the money on the antibiotics, mind you. I had just left it too long. So I sent my mother instead, with eighty dollars cash in hand and my prescription.
She returned straight away with it, and one of those Asian chicken noodle soups wrapped in cellophane, which she proceeded to make and to feed to me, in bed. I fell asleep listening to her humming a Beastie Boys song and cleaning up in the kitchen.
It had been one of the most pleasant moments of my life . . .
. . . until I woke up in Jace Knight’s arms.
I stared at the clock.
Saturday, 8:04 a.m.
I had told Jenny I was not feeling well when I returned from my driving lesson Thursday—watching over my shoulder, seeing not one sign of anyone following me. And I texted Jace to tell him I would not be FaceTiming with him or going into work the next day. When he called immediately, expressing concern, I reassured him that I had eaten something that was past its best-before date. It would run its course, and I reassured him that yes, no matter what, I would “haul arse” downstairs and into the car that would be waiting for me Saturday morning at nine a.m. to take me to the airport.
I strained to listen for any sign that he did not truly care for me. Having no idea what I should listen for, I obviously found nothing. He was excited about our weekend, and told me how much I would love where he was taking me.
I packed my old suitcase with my old clothes Thursday night. I wanted to be prepared for when Sullivan called—to go back to America.
Perspective is like a map: you cannot find your way anywhere without it. In Jace’s absence, my lustful blinders had been lifted, and Sullivan Blaise, the man I had thought was my nemesis, was evidently trying to help me. An officer of the law. How could I have . . . forgotten the facts of my situation, those that Sullivan had originally presented? How could I ignore what he had said now, how I was in danger? It took a while for those words to sink in. (I do not believe I shall ever find a way to process the fact that I now have a starring role in a pornographic film—I could only hope those men at ASIS would not distribute it to the public.)
Jenny was delighted to loan me her overnight bag, and I packed a selection of new clothes for this weekend’s outing in case Sullivan did not come through in time. She was very kind to offer to keep an eye on Miss Moneypenny, too.
The two bags sat packed by my bedroom door.
I checked my phone once more.
I greatly wished to hear from Sullivan before I had to leave for the airport. For I could not fight the effect Jace had on my mind, or my body, or my heart, and I wished to follow through with going home while I still believed it to be the most logical course of action (and before I threw myself in yet more danger or eroded my dignity further).
He did not contact me.
And I found myself being escorted, by Jimmy, onto Jace Knight’s private plane as it sat on the tarmac being refueled, heart beating in my throat.
“Charlie,” said Jace, standing up when I set foot in the passenger area. My heart slid back down into its proper place. He was taller than I remembered, and much younger-looking than thirty-four, in jeans and a T-shirt. There were dark lines under his eyes, a first, and I worried about his health. He was also less bronzed than usual, which suggested he had not spent much time relaxing under the Nevada sun.
He hugged my body to his, and I hugged his to mine. We drew in our familiar mingled scent and barely made eye contact before our lips met. And just like that, he was swirling through my veins. I was high on Jace Knight again.
I pressed away, smiling, staring up, elated, jubilant, giddy, to take in his smooth skin, his geometric-ness (and I never make up silly words), the glint of intelligence in those large, dark caves of safety. He flashed teeth, grinning, and sat me beside him, though I nearly sat in his lap so desperate was I to maintain contact. I needed someone to slap me.
“Can’t believe how much I’ve missed you,” he said warmly. His arm was wrapped around my shoulders and he pulled me toward him and kissed my head. “Everything feels much better now,” he added quietly.
“I agree,” I said, placing my hand on his thigh and feeling his warmth through his jeans. I really wanted to feel his leg hair on my hand, and to inch my hand higher—my God, he was my fix—and I glanced up at him.
But he was watching Jimmy and . . . six more men boarding the plane. Jace removed his arm and leaned over, saying “G’day” and “Cheers, mate” to the members of the private security op team introduced by Jimmy, shaking their hands. They were a rather robust armada of muscle. Nerves tingled. Extra security. Why had Jace upped the size of his protection detail?
I turned and stared out the window, ignoring their chatter, pressing my mouth against my fist. I watched the ground traffic coordinators motioning to one another. Perhaps I could . . . leave.
“Don’t you want to know where I’m taking you?” asked Jace, after everyone was seated, hand on my skin, plucking, pinching, rubbing softly. I was wearing a sleeveless tank top and capri pants he had bought me. He rubbed my arms and smoothed my hair and kissed me . . . always touching me. When he pulled back I saw his dark flat brow connect in the middle.
“What’s wrong? You still off?”
he asked.
I cleared my throat and slapped myself mentally. “No. I just, I get nervous . . . flying. But yes, of course, I would like to know. Where are we going?”
“Uluru. Ayers Rock,” he added, giving the English name of the red rock formation in Australia’s outback. “Never been myself, if you can believe it, always wanted to, but had other things to do. You’ll love it . . . supposed to be the most peaceful place on Earth, Charlie, second to being with you. At least, I hope it will be,” he added, hesitantly, watching me.
“I’m sure it will be,” I said, smiling at him, coaxing my nerves steady with the hopefulness in his face. His words, that I was a peaceful place for him, swam around in my head.
“We’re even now,” I said, the smile gone from my face.
He glanced down at me, confused. “What do you mean?”
“That’s two gifts you’ve given me.”
His smile grew forced.
“Right,” he said, slowly staring straight ahead.
I had thrown him.
Maybe on purpose.
Guilt pinched me so hard I winced.
How could I ever doubt his affection for me? I could feel it right then, how I had hurt him by pushing him away with my comment. Why did I do that? No, it was not about feelings. It was about trust. For the first time ever I realized trust is not a feeling. It is a behavior. He needed to show me I could trust him. Then maybe I could find my own faith.
And yet, as unfair in the moment as I realized I was being, worse, I simply could not find the motivation to draw him back.
I wanted to leave as much as I wanted to stay.
I hated feelings more than ever (choosing the only thing I could identify behind my self-induced torture to focus on). If I could have them removed from me in an operation, I would start saving up money now.
Thankfully, Jace took a last-minute call before take-off, which was full of hushed murmurings and ended with him growling, “I’m on fuckin’ holiday for the first time in two years and if anyone bothers me again they’ll be fuckin’ sorry.” It was Mr. Bennett, I was sure.