here is a sneak peek of Fearless™ #10: LIAR
GAIA
Here I am, at my desk trying to do my English homework like a normal seventeen-year-old girl on a normal Friday afternoon. But the problem is I can’t get past the opening sentence of this book, The Great Gatsby. In fact, I keep reading it over and over again. I know it sounds a little psychotic. But I can’t stop.
“In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.”
That’s the sentence.
It’s like the author, this Fitzgerald guy, is winking at me through the pages or something. “Father” and “advice” are not words I tend to use in close proximity to one another—definitely not in the same sentence.
See, my father hasn’t blessed me with any wisdom in quite some time. Not since he went MIA five years ago. Not since I got stuck in foster care and bounced from one crappy home to the next until I ended up in Greenwich Village with a sweet but entirely clueless old agency buddy of my dad’s, George Niven, and his wretched wife Ella, the hoochie housefrau.
And no, in case you’re wondering, George and Ella are not what you’d call parental figures. We have an understanding. They don’t pretend to be my parents, and I don’t pretend to need any. I mean, they don’t ask me to turn over my report card or turn down the music or return home by midnight—let alone ever ask me if I could use any advice.
So, anyway. Father. Advice. These are two of the things I’m missing. Not to mention a mother. A home. Fear. Mary. A boyfriend. The list goes on and on.
The thing is, I could definitely use some advice right now. Especially about Sam. There are just so many questions. Like why did he literally run away from my house as soon as he saw Ella on New Years Eve? What was that about? Why didn’t he ever call or e-mail to explain what happened that night?
You’d think I could ask a friend for advice, but I only have one of those. His name is Ed and he tenses up at the mention of Sam. Mary would have given me advice about Sam. She would have known exactly what to do—whether to call or not to call, or e-mail him. Whether to casually bump into him at the chess tables in the park. How to apologize for acting like a sociopath when I ran into him at the library. Mary would have been able to advise me, but she is gone. You’d think I’d get used to missing things and that it wouldn’t have to hurt so much anymore.
But there you have it. No advice for Gaia. No one to talk to about why it is that I’m perfectly cool in the face of thugs, drug dealers, rapists, muggers, knives, and firearms, but an awkward, stammering moron around Sam.
Wait. So where was I? Oh, yeah. I was sitting here at my desk trying to act like a normal seventeen-year-old girl, trying to do her homework on a normal Friday afternoon. Trying to imagine what it would be like to have a little good advice. And maybe more than that, trying to imagine what it would be like to still have a dad who could give it.
almost
Sam could hardly stop himself from running after Gaia, from screaming her name at the top of his lungs. From telling her how beautiful she was.
Cruella
“CRUELLA DE VILLE, EAT YOUR heart out,” Gaia muttered under her breath as she watched Ella Niven wrap herself in an utterly atrocious floor-length leopard print coat.
“What was that?” Ella asked.
“Don’t worry about it,” Gaia said, reaching into the hall closet to grab her blue down jacket off a hanger. It was almost 3:30 P.M., which meant she was almost late to meet Ed. The last thing she needed right now was to get into some pointless altercation with The Bimbo.
But perhaps it was already too late. Gaia felt Ella’s glare on her back.
“And where are you off to, Miss Moore?” Ella inquired icily, moving in front of the door.
“Excuse me?” Gaia nearly laughed. Ella had to be kidding. Like she had any right to track Gaia’s comings and goings.
But Ella, not amused, asked again, this time as slowly as if she were speaking to a mentally challenged five-year-old, “Where … are … you … GOING?”
“Tell you what, Ella,” Gaia challenged, a glint in her eye. “You tell me where you’re going … and I’ll tell you.”
Gaia was actually pretty curious to know where Ella was slipping off to in that long coat and minuscule skirt. What was her deal? Was she fooling around behind George’s back? Living a double life? Did she have another poor sucker like George hidden uptown or something?
Ella scowled at Gaia, but remained silent.
“Hmmmm. Thought so,” Gaia said, victorious. “So why don’t we just stick to our little don’t ask don’t tell policy? It seems to be working pretty well so far, don’t you think?”
And, with that, Gaia blew her way past Ella, slamming the door behind her for effect.
Black Ice
SAM LOOKED AT HIS G-SHOCK AND exhaled deeply, watching his breath billow in the frigid February air. He’d been freezing his ass off in the alley by Gaia’s brownstone for almost half an hour, and he was beginning to lose feeling in his toes. Stomping his Timberlands on the pavement to defrost his feet, he slid sideways, nearly wiping out before steadying himself with the help of a nearby fire escape.
Damn, Sam, thought, looking down. Black ice.
That’s what he was standing on. A slippery film. Smooth. Clear. Invisible. Sam decided he’d take regular ice any day. You know, the white, or slightly grayish, thick, bumpy kind? The kind that let you know it was there. The kind that cried out to be skated on or sanded or salted or shoveled away. Or avoided altogether. Black ice, though, was insidious. It deceived you.
Deception, Sam had quickly learned, was not a game he could play. In fact, everything in his life had gone from bad to worse the night he deceived Heather. The night he cheated. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have made such a horrendous error in judgment? He’d drunk too much and slept with a stunningly seductive redhead. He knew the woman was a little older, but he sure as hell never could have guessed she was Gaia’s hated foster mother. It still seemed so unbelievable. Like some cruel joke. He’d literally freaked out on New Year’s when he put it together. That Ella was Gaia’s guardian. It was a twist of fate too twisted to imagine.
It was this nauseating coincidence that led Sam to the alley adjacent to Gaia’s brownstone this particular Friday afternoon. He was waiting for Ella to emerge from the house. He was waiting to confront her. To explain that the night they spent together was a monumental mistake. A mistake that under no circumstances could ever or would ever be repeated. A mistake that Gaia could never, ever, ever know about.
An NYPD cruiser rounded the corner and slowed down, interrupting Sam’s train of thought. Sam watched in mild amusement as the two members of New York City’s finest gave him, a collegiate kid in a Rangers cap and camel hair coat, a once-over. Did he look like a stalker or something? Apparently not. The cops sped away before Sam could even blink. He had to smile. He was an unlikely criminal. He looked a lot more like Holden Caulfield than Hannibal Lechter.
Yeah, sure, he was staking out the Nivens’ home. But he wasn’t the stalker. Ella was. She was stalking him with e-mails and calls. He was there to insist that she stop. To issue his own version of, what do they call it? A restraining order. That was it. He was going to demand that Ella leave him alone—forever.
Yes. Sam was going to set everything straight. He was tired of waffling and wavering, of dating Heather but desiring Gaia. It was time to make some decisions. To go after what he wanted. To follow his heart.
Collision Course
SAM’S HEART NEARLY STOPPED. THE front door of the brownstone had finally swung open. But it was not Ella Niven who appeared.
It was Gaia Moore. Gaia bounding down the steps. Gaia zipping up her jacket. Gaia slipping her slender fingers into a pair of torn gloves. Gaia freeing her long hair from the collar of her jacket, letting it stream behind her.
He knew it was trite and completely shallow, but Gaia looked like, well …
like a model. Not in a fashion-victim-waif sort of a way. No, Gaia would definitely be the healthy, outdoorsy, sporty kind of model. In fact, in that ski jacket and jeans, Sam half expected Gaia to pick up a snowball and playfully throw it at some hunky snowboarder who just happened to be wandering by. He could see the description:
ON HER: Pleasantly puffy down-filled parka. Shown here in Beaver Creek Blue. Also available in Aspen Azure, Vail Violet, and Telluride Teal.
ON HIM: Seventeen-pocket Polar fleece vest. In Periwinkle. One size fits all.
The thing was, Gaia seemed to have no idea. That quality of hers was as striking as her face. Generally speaking, girls in Manhattan tended to know they were hot. It was like a full-time job. They strutted down Prince Street in the latest trends looking like they knew they were being checked out by every passerby—male and female. They breezed past velvet ropes at the hippest clubs, charming the bouncers who opened doors and the businessmen who bought them champagne. They were self-possessed and perfectly put together. Girls like Heather, actually.
But Gaia. Gaia was different. Gaia was refreshing. Gaia had no idea. She had no idea, for example, how stunning she looked at this very moment as she swiftly strode toward Washington Square Park. That leggy gait. That glowing blond mane floating behind her. …
Instead, the front door swung open again and Sam snapped back to reality. This time it was Ella. She paused on the steps of the brownstone distracted by a ringing sound. Sam watched as Ella fished through her pocketbook, and finding what she was looking for, flipped open her cell phone and began walking briskly down the block.
Sam glanced one last time back at Gaia. The sight gave him courage. Taking a deep breath, he headed after Ella.
Ella, consumed in conversation, didn’t seem to hear Sam’s footsteps behind her. Sam, however, could hear Ella. She was arguing animatedly with someone on the other end of the line.
“I’m talking about the dead girl, too. And I’m telling you any action taken was completely necessary,” Ella told the caller.
Dead girl? Necessary? What the hell was Ella talking about? Sam felt a chill crawling up his legs, and it wasn’t only frostbite.
Instinctively he drew closer. Ella dropped her voice, but only a little.
So her parents are rich. Who cares? There are plenty of rich people in New York City. They don’t all have influence with The Agency. What do you think they are going to do? Call Hillary Clinton?
Sam’s head was spinning. No coincidence was too great or too terrifying when it came to Ella. It was almost as if she was talking about …
“Moss,” Ella hissed. “You knew that.”
Mary Moss. God, was Ella really saying this stuff? Did it mean what it sounded like it meant? Was Ella involved in Mary’s death? Oh God.
The chill had numbed his spine and shoulders. What had he gotten himself into? This thing with Ella was sicker and scarier than anything he’d conceived of. What should he do? Follow Ella? Find Gaia and tell her what he’d heard? Go to the police?
Ella stepped off the curb and extended her arm to hail a cab.
Sam followed her into the street.
Deep breath. Deep breath, he ordered himself. Think. Think. Think fast.
Sam stood there frozen. Should he follow Ella? Or maybe go after Gaia. He knew he had to warn her, even if it meant telling her the truth.
But Sam did neither. He just stood there in the middle of the street, not noticing the sound of a car starting up behind him or the screech of its tires as it lurched into the street. It was only the loud long wail of the car’s horn that made Sam finally turn and see a brown Lexus taking off at top speed after the taxi—and headed right for him.
It was like one of those slow-motion moments in a movie. When all the sound drains out, except for the unnaturally loud thumping of the hero’s beating heart.
Right now, Sam thought numbly, I should probably be seeing my life flashing before my eyes.
Wasn’t that what was supposed to happen when you were about to die? But instead, Sam’s mind was blank. There he was, in the middle of the street. His feet wouldn’t move. Couldn’t move. And, all he knew was that it was too late. He was going to be hit by a car. He was a goner.
Brake
TOM MOORE PULLED HIS BROWN LEXUS away from the corner of Seventh Avenue and West Fourth Street and followed the cab Ella had stepped into moments before. The afternoon sun bounced off the windshield and into his eyes, making him squint as he hurried to catch up.
As he sped past the spot where Ella had stepped into the taxi, Tom noticed his daughter walking on the sidewalk, holding a blue jacket closed tightly against the freezing wind as she made her way through skateboarders and street vendors.
And that’s when he saw the kid. Or the back of the kid, really. Just standing there in the middle of the street. Definitely not seeing the Lexus speeding toward him. Definitely not getting out of the way.
Tom hit the horn hard. The kid spun around, his eyes open wide in fear. He looked familiar, this kid. Did Tom know him? Was it …? There was no time to think. Tom slammed both feet on the brakes, closing his eyes.
When he opened them it was Gaia, not the kid that Tom saw sprinting from the sidewalk into the intersection, hurdling garbage cans and parking meters, her hair flying loose and whipping wildly behind her.
What was she doing? Trying to save this kid? Tom’s mind reeled. It was all happening way too fast. Desperate, Tom pulled on the emergency brake, sending the Lexus into a violent spin.
From inside the spinning car, the rest of the world suddenly appeared to Tom with amazing clarity. He could see Gaia diving into the traffic unafraid, arcing her back over and across the speeding car like a high-jumper. He could see the look of recognition and disbelief on the kid’s face, as she pushed him to safety. And then the expression of complete surprise, wonder almost, on his daughter’s face, as the brown Lexus slammed right into her.
He watched Gaia’s body fly high up into the air and then crash down hard onto the hood of the car, as it careened to a stop. Oh, Jesus.
His heart was flooded with relief when Gaia picked up her head. She was alive. For a split second she seemed to look right at Tom. Then just as quickly she looked away and rolled off the hood of the car to safety with the grace of a cat.
Thank God the car had slowed by the time he’d struck her. Thank God she appeared to be all right. She appeared to be all right, but he couldn’t be sure.
He threw the Lexus into reverse and dialed three numbers into his car phone. A voice answered:
“911 emergency.”
“I’d like to report a hit-and-run at the corner of West Fourth and Seventh Avenue,” he said, as he sped away from the intersection. “You better call an ambulance.”
“And your name, Sir?” the operator asked.
The line went dead silent. Tom was long gone.
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