TEN DAYS

by Jenna Mills

  Everything inside me was racing, spinning. I tried to slow it down, my heart, my thoughts, but the rush was too strong, crashing along with the music.

  Hot, I realized, lifting the cool drink first to my neck, then my mouth. I was so hot. And Sloan was right. There was no way to hold myself apart from the frenzy, not when the frenzy was all around me, inside me. And even though I didn't know him well, the way he kept me close to him, the way his eyes warmed when he looked at me, made me feel safe, even as—

  The sensation swept over me fast. Or maybe it swept through me. I wasn't sure, only that for a moment I couldn't breathe, and that there was cold, cold bleeding through the heat.

  I stopped. I stopped dancing while the chaos cascaded around me. I stood in the middle of a merry-go-round, each strobe giving me a glimpse, but only a glimpse, then stealing it so, so fast.

  "Kendall—"

  His hand. I could feel him tugging at me.

  "Hey—what's wrong?"

  The spinning sped up, faster, faster—

  "Kendall—"

  I tried to pull out of the free fall. I tried to stop it. But everything kept tilting, and the cold wouldn't let go. "I don't know," I said. "It's just..."

  Awareness.

  A hollow inside me.

  "Something's not right," I murmured, or tried to, but words and breath mingled, merged, making one indiscernible from the other.

  Finally Sloan stilled. Finally Sloan pulled back. "Hey," he said, and then he was guiding me away from the heart of the dance floor anyway, to a shadowy corner behind a spinning cage. "Talk to me."

  I blinked at him. Blinked again.

  Focus didn't come.

  "I need a minute," I managed. Away from the incessant thrumming and the swarm and the music, the flashing lights...

  And the woman. I saw her, saw her watching me—tall, beautiful, with exotically-painted eyes and a long copper braid wrapped around her head.

  The woman from the night before, who'd let Aidan inside.

  Watching me as if she knew I didn't belong.

  Watching me as if she could make me go away—

  "Come on," Sloan said, and then he was dragging me, dragging me as I tried not to lose her.

  But she was gone that fast, gone and we were moving through the throb of the club, toward a narrow hallway, a doorway with a single sign. Ladies.

  "I'll wait here," he said.

  I pulled from him and made it inside, avoiding eye contact with those at the sink, carefully redesigning their mouths and eyes. There were two stalls. Both were occupied.

  I waited until a door flung open, and a girl way too young with way too much makeup staggered out.

  I rushed in. And closed the door. Locked it. And just stood there. The other stall emptied. The laughing at the sink fell quiet. But still I stood, letting the quiet surround me. I needed it, needed the lack of sound to take away the rush inside me.

  Enough, I realized. I needed to go home. Swallowing, I opened the stall door—and everything else fell away.

  Aidan.

  An Unwanted Escort

  He stood there, tall and dark like always, blocking the only exit. But it was his eyes that stopped me, his eyes that held me, locked so crazy tight in that wobbly moment, his eyes that sent the whole room spinning all over again. They were narrow, burning with a darkness that stripped the breath from my lungs.

  My nightmare, but for a crazy heartbeat, I would have sworn it was his, too.

  "Jesus, God, Kendall." And then he was moving, two violent steps and he was there, where I was, reaching for me. "What the hell happened to you?"

  I tried to connect. I tried to connect his words to the ferocity in his eyes, to the feel of his hands gripping my upper arms.

  But I couldn't.

  I couldn't connect.

  Because none of it made sense.

  Aidan.

  Here with me in the dark, dingy bathroom.

  "How much did you have to drink?"

  "Not much," I said. "Two drinks." Sloan. The implication twisted through me. If Aidan saw me, he could've seen him, too. Seen us. Together. Close. Dancing.

  "Who gave them to you?"

  I stilled, not understanding. Aidan was looking at me, his gaze searching, fierce in a way I couldn't process.

  "Just a guy," I lied.

  There was no flicker of reaction, no indication that he knew I wasn't telling the truth, only the way he was holding me, looking at me.

  He took my hand, pressing two fingers to the inside of my wrist. My pulse, I realized vaguely. He was taking my pulse.

  I'm not sure what made me look in the mirror. Maybe the look on Aidan's face. Maybe something else. I only knew that I did. I looked toward the vanity and then I was moving, and the bathroom started to spin again, spin harder, and Aidan was reaching for me, holding me, guiding me until I was there at the damp counter.

  He turned the water on, but I couldn't stop staring. Because I saw what he saw. I saw my face, the dead white of my skin and darkness of my eyes, the smeared eyeliner and dilated pupils. And I saw my hair, no longer styled, but wild and disheveled.

  Me, I knew. That was me.

  But it wasn't. Couldn't be.

  "Here," Aidan said, lifting his hands toward my face.

  I leaned down and welcomed the splash of water to my skin.

  Cool. It was so cool.

  "Can you walk?"

  I lowered my hands to the counter and braced. "Walk?"

  Steady now. His gaze was so, so steady. "I need to get you out of here."

  Out of here.

  With him.

  Not Sloan.

  "I can carry you—"

  "No." I could walk. I could. I had to.

  I pushed from the counter and twisted toward the door all in one move, and the room tilted—until Aidan was there again, not lifting me, but sliding an arm around my waist and pulling me against him, pulling me tight, anchoring me to his side while the bathroom tried to swirl away.

  Two drinks.

  That was all.

  I'd had two drinks before. I'd had more.

  But I'd never felt like this.

  Aidan pushed open the door. The heavily tatted guy standing guard outside stepped away, and girls spilled around us, rushing in.

  Music throbbed. Lights. All the while Aidan guided me. He guided me down the dark hall. He guided me across the dance floor, toward the door. And I searched, searched until I found Sloan, standing by himself against the side wall. Watching. He had his hands in his pockets. His expression was mild, blank, devoid of any emotion.

  But there was emotion in me, a vicious twist. I kept watching him, watching him until our eyes met.

  I wanted recognition. I wanted alarm, or apology.

  I wanted something—anything.

  I got nothing.

  Absolutely nothing, as Sloan stood there with his long blond ponytail and watched me leave with the man he'd warned would slice me to shreds.

  Brick Walls

  The warm breath of night blasted me the second we emerged through the unmarked door, onto the street, busier and louder than before, the line no longer quiet and orderly, but three-deep and pushing. Music screamed from all directions. Lights glared. Cars raced by. It all blurred, smeared as Aidan guided me toward a side street.

  "Hey, aren't you—"

  He kept walking.

  Two young women hurried up beside us. "Omigod, I love you! Can we get a picture, please? No one's ever going to believe—"

  He walked faster. He didn't even pause to look at them.

  I tried to keep up. I tried to keep up even though my legs wobbled and the sidewalk swam, and the amazing boots Sloan had given me crushed my feet.

  Sloan—

  No.

  I never noticed the alley until Aidan dragged me into it, off the street with the lights and the noise and the pedestrians, into the quiet and the darkness, the utter stillness. It was like an off button. Like going from chaos to calm in the
space of one fractured breath.

  "Where's your car?"

  It was a simple question. It should have had a simple answer.

  "I came with friends," I reminded him, and myself, trying to recall exactly what I'd said in all those texts—

  My phone.

  Sloan.

  He had my phone. He'd taken it from me, slid it into his pocket.

  "Your friends didn't bring you here."

  Aidan was still holding me. Somehow that seemed wrong given the iciness of his voice.

  I pulled away, did my best to back away through the tilt-a-whirl.

  I'd had too much to drink before. I knew what it felt like.

  It didn't feel like this.

  Two drinks had never turned my world inside out.

  I thought about lying again. I wanted to lie, to stick to my story.

  But one look at Aidan, and I knew there was no point. He already knew. He knew the lie, and he knew the truth.

  "No," I said.

  "There were no friends."

  I took another step back. "No."

  He stepped forward, toward me, bringing himself closer than he'd been before. Too close. "You made all that up. You made up everything, except lunch with Nathan."

  It was hard standing there, caught somewhere between the spin of what happened inside the club and the reality of what was happening in that moment. What I'd made happen—let happen.

  What I should have known was going to happen. Was inevitable.

  "Yes," I said.

  A long, rough breath broke from his throat.

  Restrained. It was an odd word, but it was the only word that came to me, that despite the way he stood so close, despite the way he blocked me with his body, despite the tight lines of his face...he was holding himself back.

  Holding himself together.

  Restrained.

  He took another step, and so did I, or tried to, but I couldn't move far, because now there was a wall, warm and damp and brick, and it stopped me.

  "You made up last night, too," he said.

  Oh. God.

  "You weren't out for a walk when I left," he went on, and my heart kicked hard, then kicked again, and again.

  "You followed me here."

  Own it, I knew. I had to own it. Everything.

  "I did," I said, lifting my chin with the words and meeting his eyes with my own. I knew what I looked like. I knew I could hardly stand. But I wasn't going to roll over and play docile. "In case you've forgotten, that's why I'm here, to find the real Aidan Cross."

  The surprise on his face felt good, better than it should have, until he stepped closer, bringing his body to mine and sandwiching me there, between him and the damp brick.

  "Ever heard of questions?"

  "Yes," I answered, far more breathlessly than I liked.

  "You know what they're for?"

  Breathe. This time I was the one giving myself the instruction. "Yes."

  "They're for getting answers," he said anyway. "And they're much more honest than lies."

  But not necessarily effective—or productive. "And you would have told me, if I asked, where you went? You would have brought me here, if I'd asked?"

  Slowly he lifted his arms, pressing his hands to the wall on both sides of my face. "Have I told you no yet? Have I held back anything you wanted?"

  The questions streaked through me, the truth leaving a slow burn everywhere it touched. No. He hadn't told me no. Hadn't held back. He'd given me all that I asked for—all that I wanted. And more.

  "Is that a yes?" I made myself say. "You would have brought me here?"

  One corner of his mouth curved. "I guess we'll never know now, will we? Because you decided to go all spy girl and take matters into your own hands."

  That was my job, why I was there. But I didn't see the point in mentioning that yet again. He was too far gone, too trapped in his own version of what I'd done. He was a writer, a man who plotted every step and word and breath. He was always five steps ahead of the moment everyone else inhabited. He made sure of that.

  Except tonight.

  Tonight I stepped ahead of him.

  "Let's say you brought me here then." That I'd gone inside with him, not Sloan. That he'd bought me the drink. That he'd steered me to the dance floor. That it had been his body—

  I broke that thought before it could go any further.

  But the image lingered anyway. Him, pressed against me, holding—swaying. Heat bleeding between us. There together—

  And deep inside, the crazy forbidden quickening wouldn't stop.

  "How would I have known what I was seeing and experiencing was real?" I asked, "and not simply what you wanted me to see and experience?"

  His eyes darkened, which shouldn't have been possible. His brow furrowed. His body tensed. "How do you ever know?"

  The question stopped me.

  For just a heartbeat.

  Because the answer, the answer sent everything free-falling all over again.

  I didn't know.

  I didn't know what was real.

  What was make-believe.

  Who was lying.

  Who was telling the truth.

  I only knew what I wanted—

  But that wasn't true, either.

  I had no idea. No idea what I wanted. No idea what was fantasy.

  Only of the questions.

  And the uncertainty.

  The rumors that shadowed his every step.

  And the way he looked at me—

  "Never mind," he muttered quietly. "Don't answer that."

  I wanted to look away, to breathe.

  I did neither.

  "You're reckless, Kendall. You're dangerous. And that's what gets people killed."

  I swallowed hard. "I told you. I only wanted—"

  "To follow me. To see for yourself. Yes," he said. "I know. But I also know this city. The dark underbelly no one likes to talk about. You can't just roam the streets by yourself. Do you have any idea what could have happened—"

  He made it sound so ugly. So naive. "I didn't think—"

  "No, you didn't," he said. "I know that, too."

  There was anger, yes. I heard it. Felt the tightly wound chord. But for the first time, something else slipped through, from him to me...and it wasn't anger.

  "I have to walk these streets," he said, and on some vague level, I was aware of him shifting, leaning closer, of his voice, the hitch, the hoarseness that had not been there before. "You want to make it something sinister, lurid...but it's my job, Kendall. It's how I find truth." A hand then, to my face. Soft, gentle, sliding a few strands of hair from where they stuck to my mouth. "Just like if I want to know what a woman looks like in the moonlight..." Another brush of his hand. "...with fear in her eyes."

  Quiet. It was quiet, I knew. Crazy quiet. But the hum. The hum inside me screamed so loud.

  "...what those eyes do, if they flare or glaze over, in those final, last moments before I kiss her..."

  I stood there, frozen.

  I stood there, burning.

  I stood there with my back to the hard brick wall, alive, alive in a way I'd never imagined, alive as he lowered his face to mine, close, so close, his mouth only a breath away. And even as I died, I wanted—

  "I don't leave life to chance," he said. And then he was gone, backing away, one step, two, three, until a gorge gaped between us, deep and cold and endless.

  And still I stood there, no longer wanting.

  But hating.

  Because he was smiling.

  Because he knew exactly what had happened.

  What he'd made happen.

  What he wanted to happen.

  "I didn't want you here," he said, his voice no longer low or hoarse or hazy, but strong—and cold. "You know that, right? You know I didn't want anything to do with this ridiculous farce about the real Aidan Cross."

  He laughed. It was as cold and hard as his voice.

  "I didn't want to be responsible,"
he went on, but this time I responded. This time I interrupted.

  "Responsible for what?"

  "For you," he said simply. "Your future, whatever this little assignment is."

  Twenty-five. I was twenty-five.

  But in that moment, I felt ten all over again.

  "But Nathan didn't give me a choice. He said I owed him. And so now here you are. Running around behind my back. Lying to me. Deceiving. Doing exactly what I've warned you not to."

  My throat tightened. This was it. It was over.

  "I should send you home tomorrow," he said, exactly like I knew he would.

  Apologize, a voice inside me whispered. Tell him I was sorry. That it wouldn't happen again.

  But the words wouldn't form.

  Because words, I knew, were cheap.

  "I'm done," he said, and finally he released me, not with his hands, he'd done that long minutes before. He released me with his eyes, his words. He looked beyond me, down into the deeper darkness of the alley.

  I don't know how much time passed. A minute. Two. Three.

  I was the one who spoke first. I had no idea what to say. No idea what he would believe. But I did know that I was wrong.

  "Aidan—"

  "Can you walk?"

  The question caught me off guard, but somehow I found myself pushing from the wall and testing my balance. "I think so."

  He frowned. "Your track record with thinking isn't the greatest." And then he was closing in on me again, sliding his arm around me and guiding me, this time from the alley and toward his car, parked one street over from Sloan's Porsche.

  But there was no talking. Not in the car, not during the drive, not once we got back to the house.

  This time, this night, the fourth, he didn't activate the security system and lock me in.

  The message was clear.

  I was free to go.

  He was done.

  Day 5

  Early Morning Visitors

  The doorbell woke me. I lay there a moment, in the predawn darkness, listening. Within seconds I heard it again, several rapid-fire chimes followed by loud pounding.