by Meli Raine
“You’re in private security. You’re trained to lie for tactical and strategic reasons.”
“Yes. I am.”
“How do I know you’re not lying to me now?”
“You don’t.”
I sigh. “You. Silas. Drew. You’re all alike.”
“No–they’re better looking than me. By a mile.”
I can’t help but laugh.
“You think I’m kidding? They never tangled with an IED, like me. Don’t try to fight an explosive device with the side of your face. You’ll lose,” he tells me in a sage voice, as if he’s Luke Skywalker and I’m a baby Jedi.
“Is that where the scars come from?”
“No, those I got during Barbie Dreamhouse wars with my sister. She plays dirty.”
“Did you serve with Silas and Drew?”
“Served with Paulson.” He goes mum.
Mark Paulson is an enigma to me, a name I can’t help but have a negative association with, considering what my mother did. I avoid him and all mention of him. She handed Lindsay off to John Gainsborough, believing him to be Mark Paulson. The investigation cleared me, but it didn’t clear my mom. Did she know? When she told Lindsay to go to the helicopter, did she really know she was sending her to her death?
Or worse? Because she had to know that John, Stellan, and Blaine wouldn’t simply kill Lindsay.
They planned to torture her, nice and slowly, squeezing every sadistic drop of pleasure from her pain.
Knowing my mother might have done that on purpose is unfathomable.
I shiver, the full body shake spreading from my core and moving up to my scalp, down to my feet. It’s like a full-body shock, the images and thoughts too much. Overloaded circuits come in many forms, and as Duff parks the SUV in a small alley behind the flower store, I take comfort in the fact that unlike my mother, I’m alive. She would do anything to protect me.
And maybe she did.
Duff escorts me to the front door. The little bell that rings as we enter the store is an endearing throwback to the past. Most places have electronic doors and sensors, with computers instead of cash registers, but not The Thorn Poke. It’s like a store from my childhood, older and quainter, with an ethereal quality the second you step inside and close the door.
I’m transported.
Isn’t that the point of flower shops? They’re designed to help you feel.
“Oh, dear!” says a matronly woman with soft curves and the eyes of an old soul. Her hair is short and the color of honey, curling lightly at the ends. She’s about my mother’s age. “I am so sorry, dear, but we’re closing. We have a big wedding to do this evening and Bowie should have put the Closed sign up. BOWIE!” she screams toward the back. Her change in tone is so jarring, she might as well have suddenly turned into Godzilla.
“It’s fine,” I say, disappointed but being polite. “I can come back another day.”
“Is it–is it a simple order, dear? Do you know what you want?”
That question. Oh, that question. Do you know what you want? It echoes through me, stretched like taffy through time itself, messy and threadlike in some places, bulky and unwieldy in others, but sweet and simple, sticky and thick.
“Just, um, browsing,” I say, smiling. I stuff my feelings down inside my chest, scrambling to put them in a locked cage where they can’t escape and do damage. “I’ll come back another time. I love your store.”
A little O of surprise and pleasure forms in her expression as her lipstick-covered lips react. “Why, thank you! I feel so bad we’re closed, but please do return!”
Duff lifts his chin toward me as if to say we need to go. I turn around and exit the store.
Then burst into tears.
“You were really attached to those ferns,” Duff deadpans as he hands me a clean, ironed handkerchief from his navy suit-jacket pocket.
I take it and dab my eyes. Mascara smears onto the bright white cloth. “No. It’s the peach roses that are making me cry.”
Duff doesn’t touch me. None of the men are supposed to unless it’s to save or protect me. But his presence is suddenly a comfort. Silas would be infinitely better, but in his absence, Duff will do.
“What now?” he asks.
“Let’s go back to my apartment,” I say. “I’ll work out in the gym.”
“From flowers to treadmills.”
“Are you ever going to tell me who you really are, Duff?”
“I’m WYSIWYG.”
“That’s a computer term. I’m a developer, you know. And you are the opposite of ‘what you see is what you get,’ for sure.”
“Artificial intelligence has come a long way.”
“You’re a robot?”
“When it comes to protecting my clients, that’s right. I am. Just remember: we’re robots. We do as we’re programmed and we follow Asimov’s three rules.”
“Location, location, location?”
And with that, I finally get Duff to laugh again.
Chapter 10
The Toast is the first place I saw Lindsay after she was released from the Island. It used to be this super-chill 1970s-style hippie place, except it was authentic. Real hippies ran it. The pineapple-carrot breakfast muffins were vegan and delicious.
Now The Toast isn’t run by hippies, but hipsters. Completely remodeled a few years ago, the coffeehouse is reflective and bright, all stainless steel with color sprinkled in on mosaic tiles, the lighting low and the seating abundant.
I look at Silas as we wait for our lattes and remember seeing him here, guarding Lindsay, seven months ago. He found me, taking over for Duff with a suddenness that confirms we’ve gone past the professional into the personal.
“No hat?” I tease.
He gives me a deeply confused frown, the skin between his eyes folding in. “What?”
“The first time we met was here. You were following Lindsay. You pretended to be her chauffeur.”
He groans and leans down, whispering. “That stupid cap?” His eyes light up with mischief, making his lips curl up with a grin that sets my blood rushing.
“Why aren’t you pretending to be my chauffeur?”
“Because you’re not the daughter of–” His sentence ends like someone clipped it off, like it was under a guillotine.
“Right,” I chirp, pretending to be chipper as our coffees are handed off by a barista wearing glasses with white surgical tape between the lenses.
“I didn’t mean it that way,” Silas clarifies.
“I know. But it’s a new reality. Besides, the hat was cute.”
“The hat was annoying.”
“Maybe I’ll order you to wear it,” I taunt.
“I can order you around, too. It goes both ways.” His breath against my ear makes my skin light up. “Maybe you’re the one who should wear the hat. In bed. And nothing else.”
“You have chauffeur fantasies?”
“No. But you in that hat, high heels, and nothing else would be quite a sight.”
Suddenly, I’m parched. I need the coffee to give me something to do. Something other than blushing, which I’m excelling at.
Silas takes my silence for acquiescence and smiles. “Last time we were in a coffee shop, your car was bombed.”
“Don’t blame me!”
“I’m not. Just observing.” He smirks. “Maybe it’s the coffee’s fault.”
“It will take more than a car bomb to get me to give up coffee.” I smile at him before taking another sip. “Thank you for my apartment.”
“Thank him.” Silas points toward the front of the coffee shop.
Drew approaches the main door, pulls it open with a precise, strong movement. He ushers Lindsay into The Toast, looking around furtively.
“Someone’s paranoid,” I murmur.
“It’s his job to be paranoid. And that’s his woman he’s protecting.” Silas makes it clear he identifies with Drew.
Lindsay comes right over to us, ignoring the place to order coffee,
and we’re hugging before I can think. It’s the first time we’ve touched since yesterday, since finding out who we really are and aren’t. I can feel her pain.
I want to snap at Silas for the “his woman” caveman comment, but the thought fades as Drew and Silas start giving each other the evil eye, then huddle to talk about us.
“He’s a piece of flypaper,” Lindsay complains. “Won’t let me out of his sight.”
“He cares,” I say, as Drew moves to the counter to get coffee.
Lindsay pulls me away from the guys. Immediately, Drew’s head turns, eyes on her, constantly jumping between whatever he’s attending to and back to Lindsay. “I can barely go to the bathroom!” she hisses under her breath. “He’s relentless.”
“This is Drew Foster you married, Lindsay. Drew. You know, the guy who is the poster child for the word relentless.”
“I know! I know. But–he’s suffocating me.”
“I’m protecting you,” Drew says to her in a dry, beleaguered voice. He glares at me. “You are never safe anywhere. There’s no one you can trust, Lindsay.”
“Aside from you,” she says softly, eyes filled with a gritty love the two share.
“Trust no one?” I say, brushing off the overt insult from Drew. “Where have I heard that before? You’re sounding like a cheesy 1990s paranormal television show, Drew.”
“Oh, no, Jane. Whatever will I do? Jane Borokov doesn’t approve of me. My reputation is tarnished,” he shoots back. His voice is hard to read. Hell, Drew is hard to read. I can’t tell if this is good-natured but hard-edged teasing, or if he’s gone Jekyll and Hyde on me.
Lindsay pulls me to a booth on the far end of the coffee shop. Drew looks like he’s about to explode from being a whole forty feet away from her.
“I mean it,” she says in a wailing tone, but quietly. “Ever since yesterday, he’s even more worried.”
“Does he have a specific reason? Is your dad–our dad–uh, the senator–”
“He’s still my dad,” she says gruffly. “Even if he isn’t. We had a long talk last night.”
Jealousy turns from green to red inside me. I stuff it down, down, down.
“And?” I venture.
“No one will tell me who my biological father is. Daddy claims not to know. Mom conveniently left the country early this morning for an appearance in China for some children’s foundation.”
“Monica’s so selfless. So giving,” I reply.
We share a snort.
Drew appears, carrying two coffees. He hands one to Lindsay, who thanks him with a smile. He sips from the other. “Jane and I will stay here, and you and Silas can do your he-man thing over there,” she informs him. She points across the room.
“No. This table is fine.” He hip-checks her, sending a surprised Lindsay four inches to the left as he sits in the booth. “This way, I have a full view of the windows and you’re protected by Silas on your right,” he says calmly, like he’s memorized every single contingency and this is the one he’s retrieving from memory.
“I want to have a private conversation with Jane.”
Drew looks up at her from the lip of his coffee cup as he takes a sip, all eyes and nose. “Go ahead.”
“It’s not private if you two are here.”
“This is the most privacy you’re getting from me, Lindsay.” He looks at me like it’s my fault.
Lindsay’s mouth draws tight. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“I’m being careful.”
“You’re being obsessive!”
“Then I’m doing my job.”
“I’m not your client anymore! I’m your wife!” she explodes.
“Which means protecting you is an even higher priority.”
“So is respecting me,” she says with a disgruntled humph!
“Protecting you is how I respect you.”
She rolls her eyes and gives me a long look. “See what I have to deal with?”
Before I can answer, her eyes narrow. Then she gives me a tight grin.
“My cramps are sooooooo bad,” Lindsay groans. Drew’s halfway through his coffee when he pauses, then does that polite thing where you pretend you didn’t hear what you actually heard.
Silas looks away, as if either the vase filled with eucalyptus on the next table over or the sugar container is a fascinating work of art.
“Ibuprofen isn’t helping, Jane,” Lindsay moans. “And the clots! They’re grapefruit sized!”
Drew sets down the forkful of cantaloupe he was about to eat out of a small to-go fruit cup.
Silas winces, but says nothing, his eyes constantly moving, unable to look at anyone or anything, increasingly frantic.
“And my breasts are soooooooo sensitive when I have my period. All I want is salty and sweet stuff. Poor Drew, too. I get so horny–”
“This isn’t going to work,” Drew says under his breath. “You’re not saying anything I don’t live with.” But his teeth are gritted, and Silas looks like he’s about to break out in a sweat.
“Honeymoon over?” I ask Drew sweetly as Lindsay plucks a piece of grapefruit from his abandoned fruit cup and starts chewing away.
Silas tries not to laugh, his knee bouncing with nerves.
Drew’s phone buzzes. “Gotta take this,” he says, giving Silas an obvious look that screams Keep an eye on them.
I touch Silas’s hand. “We can get pretty graphic.”
“I made it through combat tours. I can handle female–” He waves his hand around my torso. “–stuff.”
“How evolved of you,” Lindsay drawls.
“That’s me. Evolution in motion.” He gives her a big grin.
Lindsay leans in and ignores Silas as she says to me, “We really need to talk about how you’re being set up. I know you didn’t do any of the awful things the press and others are saying you did.”
“Others?”
“You know. Talk show hosts. Political bloggers. Op-Ed columnists in the major newspapers. My mom. Half my dad’s political circle. Three billion Facebook users who share memes...”
“Oh. Them.”
“Right.”
“You don’t believe them? Really?”
“I did at first. But I know you’d never kill Tara.” Light bounces off her eyes, which shine with unspent tears. “I can’t believe she died like that.” She shivers.
“No. I wouldn’t. I didn’t. I swear.” At the mention of Tara’s name, my heart hurts. Silas cleared me, local law enforcement unhappy to have federal agents step in, but there’s no evidence linking me to her death, thankfully.
“Someone’s setting you up, and they’re making it increasingly obvious. I think the whole machine behind this is falling apart.”
“Machine?”
“Someone is at the center of a very complicated network of people who have an agenda to ruin my dad–er, your dad–er, you know. The senator. It started with what happened five years ago. They resumed the second I came home from the Island. They were stupid enough–and that bimbo neighbor of Drew’s, what’s-her-face, was smart enough–”
“Tiffany,” Drew calls out.
Lindsay glares at him, as if he’s not supposed to remember and she’s upset that he does. “–to catch it all on live-streaming video. All the evidence they tried to spin turned into dust. And they’re dead.”
“But not all of them. It was never just John, Stellan, and Blaine.”
“That’s becoming more obvious, isn’t it? At least I have Drew to protect me.” Her eyes dart over to take in Silas, then return to me. “But you have... ?”
“I don’t know what I have.” Honesty is the best policy when it comes to romance. It’s a relief to talk about it with someone. Anyone.
But especially Lindsay.
The weight of Silas’s hand on my shoulder makes me smile. He says nothing, but that touch speaks volumes.
“You were my informant, though. You are connected to people who are in a web of some kind. Someone out there wanted t
o feed me information while I was on the Island. Were they part of John, Stellan, and Blaine’s plan? Or someone different?”
“I don’t know. Truly. It was a guy with an Irish accent. Older, but not super old. He gave me tips on how to get to you and what to feed you. But at the same time, I was supposed to protect you.” I touch her hand. It’s cold. “You know how hard it was.”
“I stole minutes on the internet when I could. If I’d known it was you, it would have really helped,” she says in an stern tone, wounds from the past coming out in her words.
“If I’d told you it was me, we could have both been in more danger.”
“I know.”
We sit in awkward silence, the seconds knitting broken bones and shattered promises. I can’t undo the past, and she can’t, either. We’re powerless when it comes to everything that’s come before this moment.
Going forward, though, we’re invincible.
I hope.
“Can you forgive me?” I ask her, Silas’s hand tightening, now moving to my arm, helping me to breathe. When he connects his body to mine, it grounds me.
“Of course. Can you forgive me?”
“Why would I need to do that?” I recoil in surprise.
“Because I was stupid and believed what everyone around me said.” Just then, Drew returns, sitting next to her, looking at Lindsay with an inquiring look. “And mostly because Drew told me you did it.”
“Did what?” Drew asks, giving Silas a pointed glare.
“Were part of the conspiracy to kill me,” Lindsay answers.
His face tightens. “I’m still not convinced you aren’t, Jane.” Never one to mince words, Drew cuts through the good vibes at the table.
“And I’m not convinced you’re looking at the big picture,” I say calmly. “I’m being set up. It’s increasingly obvious.”
“If that’s true, who’s behind it? Why? What does someone have to gain by setting you up? You’re already persona non grata to most of the country. People hate you.” Drew’s blunt words cut through me. So many emotions start to jangle inside, like wind chimes in a hurricane. How can he be so direct? How do people look others in the eye and call them liars, cheats, conspirators, murderers?
The disconnect, the lack of caring about my emotions is so cold.