by Brynn Myers
When the doors opened, I paused briefly before I stepped into the elevator. Normally, the elevator was packed, but today there was a gentleman casually leaning against the back wall reading the front page of The New York Times. "Morning," I said as he nodded. He was tall, fairly attractive, and wearing a faded black leather coat. There was nothing particularly menacing about the man, but the tattoo that appeared to creep out of the collar of his disheveled white shirt did lend itself to more of a "don’t screw with me" persona. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was something oddly familiar about him. I quickly dismissed my paranoia when Dior began ranting again. I stepped inside and pushed the close arrow buttons on the panel.
I could not stifle my grin as the doors closed. The spotty cell phone reception allowed me to miss most of Dior’s bitch session on the way down to the lobby. The only part I managed to hear was that if I didn’t get my ass to work soon, the lead actress was going to be late for her pedicure, and it would be my fault. "Okay, well I am on my way, and I am certain that Brooke can wait ten more minutes for me to get there. I’ve had to wait for her plenty of times." I stepped out of the elevator, and couldn’t help but feel as if the tattooed man was creeping up behind me, but when I turned to look, no one was there.
Shrugging it off, I pushed through the revolving lobby door and stepped out onto the avenue. A smile crept over my face as soon as I saw Olivia getting out of her black town car. Olivia had this uncanny ability to stop men in their tracks. She was a spoiled Italian princess, petite, with sapphire blue eyes, jet black hair, and a thick Brooklyn accent. When she walked into a room, time stopped and all eyes went to her, male or female. It was almost as if people were struck stupid at the mere sight of her. She, however, was oblivious to anything other than her latest shopping conquest. I guess the years of being a mob boss’s daughter and having a freakishly overprotective brother could change a girl’s perspective. I thought Dillon and Tynan were overprotective, but Vincent Batianni would beat both of my brothers in that category…hands down.
"Kylah, you have got to see my new Louboutin’s…they are gorgeous!" Olivia beamed as she moved to show me her new shoes, but at the same time, a businessman walked by George, our doorman, as he was hailing a cab for another resident.
The next series of events played out like a slow motion scene in a movie. The businessman could not take his eyes off of the slit in Olivia’s skirt. As the slit moved to show most of her thigh, the poor man then tripped and bumped into Olivia’s beefcake bodyguard. Joe, aka Mr. Muscle, lost his grip on the Louis Vuitton bags in his hands and fell towards the car, bumping into Olivia. The stream of expletives from my petite little friend would have made a sailor blush. "Do you have any idea who my father is, you stupid ass mother…?" was the last sentence I heard before I turned to head in the direction of Starbucks. "See you later, Olivia. Don’t forget about Saturday night–love you!"
Thankfully it was only a few blocks away, because at the moment, an IV of java wouldn’t be enough to keep me awake. As I waited for the barista to finish my triple espresso, my thoughts once again drifted to my latest nightmare. I swear I must be secretly hitting the hookah pipe. The dreams seemed so real. I could literally taste the air around me, and the sights and sounds were more realistic than a three-dimensional film. As the clerk called my name, I grabbed my drink and rushed out the door to hail a cab.
Luckily, I only had to be in the theatre for a couple of hours today for a few fittings, and then I would have a few hours to kill before I needed to head into Keenan’s tonight to meet Dillon.
I opened the door to the green room and saw the gang of impatient actors waiting. "Okay, who’s up first?"
I managed to make it through the craziness in the theatre despite Brooke’s constant huffing and puffing about how she was missing her appointment because of me. I told her if she moved one more time while I was trying to adjust her hem, I would make her miss more than just her pedicure. The snickers from the other actors led her to scowl at the crowd and finally stand still. I truly loved my job. Not many people got to make a living doing what they loved, but honestly, I could do without all the prima donnas.
Chapter Four
I sat down at my sewing machine and let my thoughts wander as I worked. It’d been five years since Mom and Dad were killed…five years of a lot of changes in all of our lives. I was now a costume designer for this Broadway show, and the boys now owned Keenan’s: a thriving Irish Pub in Hell’s Kitchen.
I would never forget the day Nana came into my room to explain what had happened. I don’t remember much of anything from those first few months, other than my brothers and my grandmother constantly doting on me, and quite frankly that was all I wanted to know. According to Dillon and Tynan, our parents had apparently left them in charge of my care in the event of their passing. I still find that instruction odd since none of us were children. We could have all easily moved out, taken our share of the inheritance, and started anew, but my brothers were a duo of tenacious Irishmen who believed that the sun rose and set with their fiery red-haired sister, so we all stayed together. I couldn’t help but be amused by the thought of them trying to raise me. I was hell-bent on trying to do everything my way, and they were hell-bent on stopping me.
Three years ago, Dillon thought we all needed a fresh start; the house in Stowe, Vermont was beautiful, but too secluded for their "restless" twenty-five year old sister...their words, not mine. I wanted to buy a studio apartment here in the city, but my brothers had no intention of letting me move out and live alone. Dillon and Tynan agreed to let me follow my dreams, but only if we all continued to live together. I knew I was never going to win a live-on-my-own argument, so I eventually gave in.
My only saving grace was Genevieve. She’d been like a sister to me: an ally, and a way to balance all the Irish testosterone in the house. I remembered when we all moved into the penthouse in Chelsea. It was a fall day like today, I had begun taking classes at the Fashion Institute of Technology, and Dillon and Tynan decided to open a bar to keep themselves busy. The boys didn’t need to work because of our family trust, but they had to find something to do. Genevieve warned them that they couldn’t keep track of my every move without me eventually retaliating against them, so they buried themselves into working at the bar. Times sure had changed a lot since Mom and Dad died.
I finished cutting the last thread on the beaded white gown I was working on and hung it delicately back on the rack. With the rest of my afternoon free, I grabbed my bag and tried to decide how to spend it. I could go home and rest, but then Dillon would want to know why I was sleeping in the middle of the day, so I decided to pass on the nap. Explaining to him that I had another whacked out dream where crazy demon-like things tried to kill me was not the conversation I wanted to have, so I decided that a stroll in Central Park sounded like a much better plan.
It was a beautiful fall day outside and a walk might help me clear my thoughts. The pond in Central Park had always been one of my go-to places. The water calmed me and helped sooth my nerves when it seemed as though nothing else could. I thought about the dream again as I walked towards the park. I could not shake the feeling that I was missing something–as if there was a message I was supposed to receive, but I wasn’t focusing enough on the details.
I was sure that my therapist would conclude that this was just my subconscious trying to reconcile the loss of my parents. According to Dr. Stoddard, I chose not to confront my depression in a "normal" way. He told me I needed to work through the stages of my grief. Screw the stages of grief. I preferred my method…get lost in my every day, and put all my feelings in boxes wrapped with elaborate satin bows. The thought that grief could be followed like a roadmap was ridiculous to me. I had lost the two people that had grounded me to this world; one minute they were here and the next minute they were gone. No warning, no goodbyes…just gone. It pissed me off that he thought he could tell me how I should move on. I stopped seeing him after the second visit. Some
day, when I felt like it, I would look in that box, but not because it was something I had to do, but because it was something I wanted to do…on my terms.
I walked across the Gapstow Bridge and paused to take in the fall air. The cool breeze blew through the trees as dogs barked and couples passed by. The scent of patchouli drew my attention as a striking young woman with short blonde hair walked by with her English bulldog in tow. The fragrance reminded me of my mother. The only difference was that Mom’s scent always had a hint of pomegranate oil mixed in. I followed behind the woman for a bit to enjoy the mental stroll down I-really-miss-my-mom lane, and then found a great spot to sit down. The rustle of the oak trees and the slow ripple of the water had already begun to soothe my nerves.
The vibrant fall colors of the trees were reflecting on the water. I could already picture a burnt orange chiffon gown as I pulled out a sketchbook from my bag to draw the dress. I gasped when my mother’s journal fell out and onto the sidewalk. I quickly grabbed it and dusted off the dirt and debris. This book was incredibly delicate, and if Dillon and Tynan knew that I had taken it out of the office, my head would be on a platter.
I found it one day when I was looking for one of my father’s novels. It was nestled in between a 1926 copy of Pride and Prejudice and a tattered copy of The Count of Monte Cristo. I could not see a title on the spine, but the aged gold scrollwork drew my eye and seemed to call to me. The moment I opened it, tears filled my eyes. The Gaelic version of our family name was embossed onto the cover of this antique treasure.
The scent of patchouli hit me again and I looked up to see the blonde with the bulldog standing in front of me. "Is this seat taken?"
"No, please feel free." I smiled and scooted over a bit as I tucked Mom’s journal back into my messenger bag. Her dog came to sniff my boots when she moved to sit down. I leaned forward to let her dog smell my hand. "What’s his name?"
The woman smiled. "Well, her name is Darcy." I chuckled because this stocky dog had such a prissy name.
"It’s okay to laugh. I get that all the time. I named her after my favorite character…Mr. Darcy from Pride and Prejudice."
"That is so funny, I was just thinking about that book."
"Hi." She extended her hand. "My name is Layne. It’s very nice to meet you."
"It’s nice to meet you too, Layne. My name is Kylah."
"So you are a fan of Jane Austen too, huh?" Layne tugged on the leash and Darcy moved to lie down at her feet.
I grinned from ear to ear. "Absolutely. I love the classics."
Just then my phone rang, and the AC/DC ringtone reminded me that I had forgotten to check in with my brother after I left work. I fumbled in my bag, trying to find my phone, and picked it up after a few rounds of T.N.T.
"Hey Dillon, what’s up? I’m sorry I forgot to call you. I guess I got distracted."
I closed my sketchbook and packed up my bag as I continued speaking. "I am hailing a cab as we speak; I’ll see you in five."
I winked at Layne and pushed the end button. "Hey, if you are not doing anything on Saturday night, we are having one helluva Halloween bash at our family pub," I said grinning. It never hurts to do a little shameless self-promotion when the opportunity presents itself.
"Sounds great. Can I bring a date?"
"But of course. Keenan’s Irish Pub in Hell’s Kitchen. Dress in your Halloween best. The best costume wins free beer for the rest of the year. Hope to see you there."
"I wouldn’t miss it for the world." Layne waved as Darcy began to bark at the leaves swirling by.
I headed toward Fifth Avenue to hail a cab. As I raised my arm, all of a sudden horns began to blare. I glanced up to see what all the commotion was about, and saw the man from the elevator glowering at me. That’s odd. Tires squealed to a halt and curse words began to fill the air as he forced his way through people and traffic. I stood motionless as this man trampled over a bike messenger and slid across the hood of a parked car on his quest to cross the street. He was so distracted by something in the trees behind me that he apparently didn’t see the car headed straight for him. His eyes flashed crimson as he glared at a man in a Mercedes who was trying to stop his car. I was so confused by the ruckus that I didn’t see the cab in front on me.
"Hey, lady, you gonna get in or what?"
I uttered a yes as I watched the tattoos on elevator man’s neck move. They twisted and turned upward into his tangled, dark hair as others began to suddenly appear on his hands and face. He grinned wickedly in my direction as I grabbed the handle of the cab and thrust my bag and self into the seat. I slammed the door so hastily, I didn’t realize that it wasn’t completely closed; the handle of my bag was caught in the latch.
"West 51st street, and make it fast." I opened and slammed the door quickly as I turned to see if the man was still crossing the street. As the cab pulled away from the curb, the crazy man was suddenly at the cab slamming his fist into the door. What the hell?
The cabby shook his fist and screamed obscenities out the window, his Brooklyn accent thick with threats as he continued to maneuver his way through 5th Avenue traffic, leaving the man behind. "That your boyfriend, lady? Cause he’s an asshole." He slammed his fist on the steering wheel. "Now I’m gonna have to write a freakin’ report about the dent he put in the door."
I just stared at the cabby, unable to answer; thoughts were running through my head at lightning speed. I looked back once more to make sure that he was not following us. How did he get across the street so fast? How was he hanging from a moving cab? I looked up and saw the cabbie staring at me in the rearview mirror.
"Uh…no, he’s not my boyfriend…I have no idea who the hell that was." I checked my bag to make sure I had not lost anything in all the chaos. I wasn’t paying attention when the cabby pulled up to the curb in front of the bar. He snapped his fingers in the air.
"YO! This where you wanted to go?"
"Yes, thank you." I grabbed my bags and stepped out of the cab, but before I closed the door, I leaned in. "I’m really sorry about what that guy did to your cab."
The cabby waved it off. "Crazy assholes do that shit all the time. You stay safe now. I gotta cousin about your age, and you neva know what kinda crap you are gonna encounter."
I closed the door and handed him the fare through the open front window. "I put a little extra in there for you. I really am sorry."
As he drove away, I ran into Keenan’s and tossed my bags on the bar with a thud. Adaira, the head bartender, and Dillon, both turned to face me. I tried to catch my breath before I spoke, but my words still came out in a rant.
"What the hell is up with the tattooed freaky dude you have following me? Dillon, I swear, if this is one of your lame ass attempts to keep tabs on me, you are gonna be walking with a limp for the rest of the night."
Adaira chuckled, and Dillon gave me the "brotherly look" which made my anger boil over. "I’m a grown woman, Dillon, not a child!" I wasn’t certain why my anger had peaked this way. Oh who was I kidding? I hadn’t slept in days. The look he gave me, however, was one of concern, not possessiveness.
"I do trust you, Kylah, and I don’t have anyone following you." He walked around the bar and grabbed a hold of my shoulders. "What does this person look like, and when did you first see him?"
My anger quickly melted into fear. "You really didn’t send anyone, Dillon?" I searched my mind for more details and a shiver ran through me. "Oh God, he was in the elevator this morning when I left for work."
Confusion overwhelmed me; I wondered how long this man had been following me. How long had I been oblivious to my surroundings? I looked into Dillon’s eyes. "He knows where we live. He could find me anytime, couldn’t he?" My resolve was shattering. "I don’t want to be home unless you’re there."
Dillon calmly asked Adaira to hand him a pencil and a legal pad from under the bar. When Dillon handed it to me, he grinned wide. "Show me what he looked like. Remind me why I spent all that money on art classes."
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br /> "Smartass." I thanked Adaira for the pencil and began to sketch the man’s shaved head, his chiseled features, and his unforgettable eyes. The tattoos that covered his face and neck were made up of symbols and intricate swirls. They connected to one another as if they were telling a story. When I finished the sketch, I slid the tablet over to Dillon. He glanced at Adaira.
"Have Syd meet me in my office." Dillon grabbed my bag and took my hand to help me off the barstool.
"I’m taking you upstairs to the office, Kylah; you can rest there until it’s time to go home, and I want you to call in sick to work. You have a virulent case of the flu and you won’t be in for a few days."
The look Dillon gave me spoke volumes. I could protest, but it would have only ended in a battle of wills. Besides, I was too afraid to be alone right now, so I didn’t bother doing anything but agree. "Any chance you’ve heard from Ty and Vivi about when they’re getting home?"
"Ty called and said that he and Vivi are going to visit some friends and then spend their last night at Nana’s." He looked up with a smile. "Come on now, you had to know Nana would be expecting a visit from them since they were in Ireland."
I smiled and rifled through my bag, trying to find my phone. "This is true. I wish I could see Nana. I know with everything I’ve been going through lately I could really use her comfort right now."
"What are you not telling me, Kylah?"
My words came out in a stuttering mess. "I…I have been having some bad dreams, Dillon. It’s no big deal. I just need to get some rest is all."
The elevator ride to the third floor was a quiet one after my last comment. I knew I teased him a lot about how overprotective he always was, but in times like these, I was grateful he made sure we all stayed together. I reached over and grabbed my brother’s hand and smiled when he squeezed mine in response.