Pinups and Possibilities

by Melinda Di Lorenzo

Smith cocked the pistol and Jayme started to cry.

  “Cohen wants him alive!” I nearly shouted.

  “I know,” Smith replied. “That’s why this gun is for you.”

  Smith turned, aimed the weapon at me instead of the kid.

  “Run, Jayme!” I shouted.

  Before I had time to see if he’d obeyed me, a shot echoed through the room.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Polly

  The short, blond-ponytailed man collapsed at my feet, blood seeping from his back to his shirt and then to the floor.

  The reverb from the shot echoed around me. And through me.

  Painter stood across from me, shock evident in his wide, green eyes.

  “It turns out my ass does fit through a bathroom window,” I said.

  As soon as I’d climbed into the shower, I’d realized how badly I wanted one. And not just because I was covered in dust and sweat and antiseptic cream. My body ached with the stress of the past few days and the water hitting my muscles was exactly what I needed.

  I lathered up my hair, rinsed it out, then slid open the shower door to reach for a towel only to hear the shout of angry men and Jayme’s terrified cry. I’d known I wouldn’t be much use if I burst in from the bathroom. But if I could take them by surprise…

  “Polly!”

  Vaguely, I was aware that Painter was calling my name, but he sounded like he was under water and I didn’t like it at all.

  “Polly!”

  Squeezing myself through the bathroom window had been the hard part. Grabbing the handgun from the cupboard above the stove and shooting Smith had been easy. Too easy.

  Why hadn’t Painter killed him before? I hadn’t even had to think about it. Why was it so hard for him?

  And then I started to shake. The weapon fell from my hands and bounced across the floor to Painter’s feet. I wanted to sink to my knees, but I was terrified of getting any closer to the dead man on the floor.

  “Polly!”

  I covered my ears to block out the disconcerting noise.

  Strong hands found my elbows and forced them to my sides. The same hands stroked my shoulders and pulled me into a warm embrace. I was freezing cold.

  Painter’s voice rumbled against the top of my head. Words came in and out.

  “…some clothes…”

  “…it’s shock…I know you’ll…”

  “Let me…Jayme…”

  Jayme.

  I didn’t realize I’d spoken aloud until Painter drew back slightly and nodded. I kept my eyes on his face, forcing myself to listen.

  “I told him to run. To hide. He’s a smart kid. He went outside, but he can’t have gone far,” Painter told me.

  “I’ll get him,” I replied, and pulled myself out of Painter’s arms and took two steps toward the door.

  “Hang on, Polly. You might want to, uh, put a little something on.”

  “Something on?”

  Painter inclined his head toward my body.

  I looked down and was reminded that I was naked. Dripping wet, too. If it was any other situation, I might’ve laughed. But I needed to get to my son. I reached for my bag, prepared to throw on the first thing I grabbed and a familiar voice froze me to the spot.

  “Well. I knew I’d be seeing you again soon. But I had no idea just how much of you I’d be seeing.”

  Cohen Blue.

  Slowly, with my hands covering what they could, I spun to face him.

  In one hand, he held a wicked-looking knife. And Cohen’s other arm was wrapped around my son’s shoulder. He shouldered his way into the room followed by three men with large guns.

  Cohen yanked Jayme in front of him and held him like a shield toward us.

  “Mommy?” His small, sweet voice was full of fear.

  “Painter,” I whimpered helplessly, desperately.

  Cohen’s eyes flashed, their cold grey momentarily warmed by his anger. “Don’t look to him for help.”

  “You want me to ask you instead?” The incredulous question was out of my mouth before I could stop it.

  Cohen smiled coldly. “No. I want you to beg me for it. Beg me to help you. And beg for my forgiveness.”

  I looked at Jayme, then swallowed. “Please, Cohen. I’m sorry for running away. Don’t hurt my son.”

  “You mean our son.” Cohen turned to his armed guards. “Take the kid away.”

  “Please! No!”

  My nudity went out of my head as I dove for Jayme. Painter’s arms closed around my waist and he dragged me back.

  “Don’t, Polly,” he cautioned. “You’re going to make this worse. Don’t give Cohen what he wants.”

  I struggled for a moment before sinking into Painter with a sob. He stroked my hair, then wrapped a blanket across my shoulders.

  “What’re we going to do?” I whispered.

  “Whatever it takes.”

  Cohen sighed. “Let’s get this out of the way, too, Polly…You can tell him how you ran out on me and kidnapped our child and I promise you, you’ll see Jayme again. You have five seconds.”

  I opened my mouth to voice my denial.

  But if you tell him the truth, what will happen to Jayme?

  I didn’t even know which him I meant. I just knew that in this case, the truth would most certainly not set me free.

  “I did it,” I said so softly that my voice barely carried across the room.

  Cohen heard me anyway.

  “Did what?” he replied. “Be specific.”

  Oh, God.

  I closed my eyes. “I got pregnant with Cohen’s baby, and I ran away.”

  Painter’s arms stiffened.

  I’m sorry, I wanted to tell him, but I didn’t dare.

  I willed him to recognize that I was only saying what I had to because Jayme’s life hung in the balance. Painter was very still, giving away nothing.

  “Good,” Cohen said. “And now, Painter, you can explain to her what a murdering piece of shit you are. Go ahead.”

  “Cohen…” Painter’s voice held a dangerous edge.

  “It’s your fucking funeral. And hers.”

  Cohen nodded at one of his guards, who tipped the gun in our direction, and Painter relented. He let me go and met my eyes.

  “I killed a girl,” he stated evenly.

  “Specifics,” Cohen commanded.

  “I got drunk and I drove and I killed her. She burned to death and when Cohen offered me a way out, I took it.”

  He spoke the words in such a detached, matter-of-fact way that I stepped away from him.

  I didn’t want to believe it. A small, logical place in my brain urged me to consider that Cohen was manipulating the situation. Or that a piece of the puzzle was still missing. After all, I’d lied about Jayme’s parentage. And I wasn’t about to confess that.

  But you’re doing it to protect your son, I reminded myself. Who does Painter have to protect but himself?

  The bottom line was that I’d asked Painter outright if he’d ever killed someone and he’d told me point-blank he hadn’t. Not under duress, not because Cohen was there, pressuring him. He said it while we were alone.

  And if he lied about that, what else had he lied about?

  I could live with a dark past. I could listen and try to understand. But I didn’t know if I could live with someone who lied to save himself. I’d done that for long enough already.

  The careful bridge of trust that had been built between us began to crumble.

  “Why didn’t you tell me when I asked you?” I demanded.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he retorted.

  “I—” I paused, swallowed the truth and said, “I was afraid it would change the way you feel about me.”

  He his hand over his hair. “Polly…I told you I didn’t care. More than once.”

  I tipped my chin up angrily. “And you’re in the habit of always telling me the truth?”

  His hands sought me once again. They closed on my arms, warm and familiar. God,
how I wanted to believe whatever he was about to tell me.

  But he didn’t offer me an explanation.

  “I was waiting for the right time,” he said instead.

  Cohen grinned gleefully. “Too late for that, I think.”

  “Let her tell me, then,” Painter snapped.

  I glanced at Cohen, wondering how long he was going to let us argue. He’d never been a patient man and it wouldn’t take long for him to get bored with whatever game he was playing. And when he did…it wouldn’t be good for either of us.

  Or Jayme.

  On cue, Cohen spoke up. “The air is as clear as it’s going to get. You can stop looking at each other all starry-eyed and move the fuck on. Polly, you’ll put on some clothes and come home with me. Painter…you can ride with us. I’ll pay a nice severance and you can consider yourself retired. Your services are no longer needed.”

  Painter’s eyes flicked to Cohen and narrowed suspiciously. “So you can shoot me in the back when I go?”

  “I think we’re past that, don’t you?” Cohen replied. “I know where the girl you killed is buried. You know the truth about Polly and my son.”

  Painter exhaled. “I won’t go cheaply.”

  “Why would you? You didn’t come in that way, did you?” Cohen mocked.

  “I’ll need a working passport and some other ID, good for long-term use. And enough cash to last an awfully long time.”

  “Done.”

  After a second, Painter gave Cohen a curt nod that made my heart drop down to my bare feet.

  “Good,” Cohen said again. “Let’s go. We’ve got a long fucking drive back to the city and quite frankly, the past six years have exhausted me.”

  When I looked up, Cohen and one of his men were gone.

  After a moment, I grabbed a dress from my bag and shoved it over my head wordlessly.

  * * *

  Painter and I sat in the backseat together out of necessity. One of Cohen’s men drove while another rode shotgun. Cohen himself had climbed into a different car, where I assumed my son waited. I didn’t dare ask.

  The trip passed in tense silence.

  The six-inch space between Painter and me seemed like six miles, and the five-foot space between the two cars seemed like a yawning chasm.

  For hours that felt like days, I kept still and kept my eyes ahead. I didn’t eat the fast food they tossed our way, and I only got out at the gas station so I could catch a glimpse of Jayme.

  When we parked in Cohen’s large garage, I didn’t look at Painter as he hopped out, and I refused to acknowledge the ache in my heart when he didn’t glance my way, either. I kept my head down so I wouldn’t have to look at the home I’d fled from more than half a decade earlier and face all the demons that went along with it.

  Finally, one of the guards dragged me from the car and right to my old room. Cohen was waiting there, and when I came in with my eyes cast down, he strode toward me, tipped up my chin and looked me in the face. I refused to flinch away.

  “Where’s Jayme?” I asked. “You promised me I could see him.”

  “You’re different than the last time I saw you, you know,” he replied.

  I could tell from his tone that he wasn’t going to respond to my request unless I played along with his.

  “Six years is a long time,” I pointed out.

  “True. But something more than time is different.”

  “Maybe it’s because I’m no longer a child, Cohen.”

  He released my chin and took a step back. He eyed me up and down.

  “No,” he agreed. “You’re not. But that’s not it, either.”

  “Maybe it’s the combination. When I left you, I was scared little girl, dependent on you for everything. I’ve had time to grow up.”

  “So you don’t need me anymore…is that it?”

  My jaw tightened involuntarily and I had to force it loose. I stared at him wordlessly, aware that anything I said would give him fuel for whatever emotional fire he was building.

  “Or you think you didn’t need me to begin with?” Cohen continued. “Is that it?”

  “I don’t think I had much choice.”

  “There’s always a choice.”

  His words reminded me immediately of Painter, and I pushed aside the momentary sting that came with thinking of him.

  “Ah.” Cohen’s voice was smug. “There it is.”

  “There what is?”

  “The difference.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  But for some reason my heart thumped unevenly in my chest. I turned away from Cohen and fixed my gaze on a spot across the room.

  “Painter Darren,” Cohen said.

  I swallowed nervously. “What about him?”

  “Does it upset you that he killed someone?”

  “Why does it matter?”

  “Do you want to see Jayme?”

  “Yes.”

  “So just tell me the truth.”

  I closed my eyes. What did it matter? Painter was probably on his way to the airport already anyway, money in hand. And if he’d meant what he said, if he really was just waiting for the right time to share his secret, what were the chances that Cohen would let him live longer than a day?

  “Be honest with me,” Cohen added. “Make me believe what you tell me is true.”

  I opened my eyes again. “Yes, it upsets me that he killed that girl.”

  “And?” Cohen prompted.

  “And it upsets me even more that he lied to me about it,” I admitted.

  “And this is because you slept with him.”

  “No.”

  Cohen paused in whatever he’d been about to say. Clearly, my reply surprised him.

  “It’s because I made the mistake of trusting him,” I told Cohen. “I relied on him.”

  Once the words were out of my mouth, I realized how hollow and naive they sounded. If I couldn’t get past this one lie, this one little bump…

  Oh, God.

  I was the one who couldn’t be trusted. I was the one who couldn’t be relied upon. This was about me and my issues. Not about Painter’s mistake at all.

  Cohen didn’t notice my sudden change in perspective or the frantic beat of my heart, even though I was sure it was visible through my clothes. He just grinned his usual, self-satisfied smile.

  “You do seem to put your trust in the wrong people, Polly. Your mother betrayed you. Painter, too. Don’t you wonder what would’ve happened if you’d just given me a chance? A warm place to sleep. Food on the table. If you hadn’t run when you did…”

  He reached into his pocket then, and pulled out a familiar little box that made me shake unpleasantly and forget momentarily about the present. Six years ago, the same velvet-covered package had appeared on my nightstand. And six years ago, I’d had the same reaction. Panic that made my stomach roil and my heart want to burst.

  “Marry me,” Cohen had said back then.

  I wanted to scream my denial at the top of my lungs and run in the other direction. Cohen put his hand overtop of mine, making my skin crawl. I worked at moving my grip from his slowly rather than jerking it away, then met his eyes as boldly as I dared.

  “My mother…” I replied weakly.

  “Has had half a decade to claim you,” Cohen reminded me. “If she was coming back, she would’ve done it by now.”

  “You don’t have to do this.” I tried to make it sound like I was giving him an option.

  “I always take care of my own.” His hand found my stomach and caressed it. “And as disappointed in my actions as I may be…that baby makes you mine. The paperwork is done. All you have to do is sign and stick that ring on your finger. Congratulations, Mrs. Blue. You’re officially a trophy wife.”

  Then he’d kissed my forehead and left me alone with the too-big diamond and a mountain of regret.

  By the end of the week, I’d taken Howell up on his offer to help me escape, and I’d been running ever since.

  Now
Cohen held the little box out to me with a cold smile.

  “I’d rather die than marry you,” I said before I could stop myself.

  He chuckled darkly. “You certainly proved that with your little stunt. Did you know I believed you were dead?”

  “Yes. That was the plan. Howell said it was the only way to keep you from chasing me down.”

  “How do you think I felt about that? Thinking my pregnant fiancée was killed?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know.”

  “You mean you don’t care,” he replied. “And for the record, I felt nothing. I didn’t care that you were gone. Either of you. I didn’t care that I’d lost a child. You’d already become a liability.”

  My heart dropped, and I realized I’d been counting on him to care about Jayme the way I did. If he didn’t…what were the chances that he was going to stay safe?

  “Are you going to let me see my son?” My voice had a desperate edge to it. “You said you’d let me see him.”

  “Our son,” he corrected again.

  My throat constricted. “Our son.”

  “Put on the fucking ring.”

  “Why? If you really don’t care…then why?”

  “It’s a matter of principle. You made a fool of me, and you need to pay. So put on the ring, or find some other, more creative way to appease me.”

  The speculative look on his face made me hurry to snatch the ring box from his open palm. With my heart somewhere down around my ankles, I opened it. The diamond glared at me from its satin bed. I took a breath and shoved the band around my ring finger. It pinched the skin just below my knuckle, but I ignored it and shot Cohen what I hoped passed as a smile.

  “Please. Can I see him?”

  In reply, Cohen whipped his phone from his pocket, hammered out a text, then passed it over to me. On the tiny screen, a full-colour image popped up. I saw a door I recognized as belonging to one of the guestrooms, and a large man with a gun clear on his hip. The man opened the bedroom door, reappearing a minute later with a small figure bundled in a blanket. I stifled a worried gasp. The man leaned his head toward the form, drew back the blanket, then held Jayme up to whatever camera was recording them. My son’s thumb was firm in his mouth, making my heart ache. He had given up the habit over two years earlier. He lifted his free hand in a sleepy wave, and relief flooded my body.