I’m going to puke, I just know it. I must be green by now.
“You don’t look so good,” he says. He’s teasing me, the bastard.
“I don’t feel so good.”
“What, don’t you think you’re ‘responding appropriately’ and that everything’s going to be okay?”
“Not really…”
“Okay, then, maybe you’ll trust me to handle things my own way in the future.”
I want to hate him, but I’m too damn depressed. “If we even have a future beyond the next five minutes…”
“See? There you go again. Incessant negativity.”
He starts to strap a parachute on me.
“WAIT – WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”
“I’m putting a parachute on you. What does it look like?”
“I thought we were jumping out together!”
“We are. I’ll tie you to me so we go tandem. This is only if we get separated – or my chute fails for some reason.”
I start to hyperventilate.
“Hey, you were the one who wanted the straight facts,” he chides me.
“You can go back to the joking.”
“Finally, she sees the light.”
“Five minutes!” Mike yells.
Grant strides over to the cockpit. “Alright, are you going to open the door, or is that something we do from – ”
“You can’t go out the door,” Mike interrupts.
Grant and I both stare at him, stunned. “…what?”
“You could get sucked into the engine if you go out the door. Or smash your head against the wing, or the vertical stabilizer on the tail.”
“What the hell good are parachutes if we can’t go out the door?” Grant fumes.
“There’s a baggage area under the left engine nacelle. You can access the baggage area from the rear of the cabin. Look for a panel on the left side with a bunch of bolts in it. There should be a tool bag in the same compartment where you found the parachutes.”
“Problem solved,” Grant mutters as he hurries back to the rear of the cabin.
I run after him. My terror feels like cold, slushy ice rising slowly through my body. “Grant, this is getting worse every second.”
“Relax,” Grant says as he fishes out a small canvas bag from the same place we found the parachutes. “Found the tools, and – yup, there’s the panel.”
“No, Grant, seriously – ”
He kneels down and begins unscrewing the bolts. “Relax, this is nothing. Hell, we jumped out of a skyscraper with nothing but a bunch of rope.”
“Yeah, exactly – we already cheated death once.”
“Once, twice… what’s the difference?” he says as he pulls the bolts out of the panel, one by one.
“One hundred percent.”
“What?”
“Twice is one hundred percent more than cheating death once.”
He grins. “Very funny.”
“It’s not funny at all.”
“Just look at it as 100% more cheating death. That’s a good thing.”
“I don’t think death likes to be cheated that much.”
“Years ago, I got drunk with a Hollywood stunt man in a bar,” Grant says cheerfully.
I stare at him. Partially because of the weird non sequitur, partially because I just can’t comprehend how this can be relevant in any way, shape, or form.
“He told me that when they do high jumps into water – you know, like from a cliff into a lake – the number one problem they have is that they hit the water so hard, sometimes it goes up their ass. So you have to wear rubber underwear, otherwise you could get an all-natural enema.”
I shake my head in disbelief that I am even hearing these words right now. “And why are you telling me this?”
“Don’t worry about death. Worry about an accidental enema.”
“This is not making me feel better!”
“Wasn’t supposed to make you feel better, just distract you.”
He pulls off the panel. Behind it is a dark chamber. I shiver when I realize we’re going to have to crawl into it.
Emanating from the baggage compartment is the moaning of the wind outside the metal walls of the plane. It sounds like a ghost from a horror film.
“Two minutes!” Mike shouts from the cockpit.
Oh God…
6
We’re back in the cockpit, where Mike is giving us last-minute instructions.
“Once you crawl in there, tie yourself to each other. When you’re ready, yell, because I’m going to open the door. That’s your cue to jump. You ready?”
“No,” I say. I’m literally shaking.
“Oh well,” Grant says good-naturedly, and takes me by the hand. “Thanks again, Mike.”
“For five million, you’re welcome.”
“Pleasure doing business with you.”
Then Grant drags me into the cabin towards the Black Hole of Doom.
“Oh God, oh God…” I moan.
Jumping out of the skyscraper was bad enough. It was horrible, actually. But the time span from when I found out we were jumping to when we actually jumped was one minute, maybe two at most.
I’ve known we’re going to parachute for ten minutes now, and that ten minutes is the killer. My dread has built up so much that I literally feel like I could puke any second.
I’m terrified. In fact, given the choice, I might just go down with the plane.
Grant’s not giving me that choice, though.
He throws the inflatable raft package into the cargo bay. Then he scampers inside and holds his hand towards me. “Come on!”
Ignoring my fear, I take his hand and crawl into the hole after him.
Once inside, it’s cramped and cold and loud. He holds a flashlight from the tool kit and cinches our parachute harnesses together. “If we get separated – ”
“Why would we get separated?!” I ask, terrified.
“We won’t, but if we do, pull this,” he says, pointing out the ripcord on my parachute. “And here’s the buckles to take off the harness. Once you hit the water, make sure you – ”
I almost scream at him, “Would you stop giving me instructions like we’re going to get separated?!”
He’s trying not to laugh, and for a second, I want to slap him. “You ready, then?”
“No!”
Grant smiles, then leans toward the hole in the wall of the plane. “ALRIGHT, MIKE – GO FOR IT!”
There is a mechanical CLACK sound, and suddenly the wall to the side of us pops open. The small doorway is almost ripped off as the wind shrieks in around us, cold and violent.
“Ready to cheat death again?” Grant yells in my ear.
“OH GOD!” I scream, and shut my eyes as Grant grabs me and throws us out the hatch into the void.
7
Another not-nearly-as-horrible thing about the skyscraper: we were upright the whole time. At least I wasn’t tumbling head over ass, completely disoriented.
Which is exactly what’s happening now.
We spin through the air for several seconds, me screaming the entire way. I can feel the wind trying to rip me and Grant apart, and I panic even harder.
After a few seconds, though, we stop tumbling and more or less stabilize in an upright position. I think. At least we’re not somersaulting through the air, anyway.
“Hang on!” Grant shouts.
I feel a tremendous jerk that wrenches my body. I feel like I’m three years old and wearing overalls, and an adult has suddenly snatched me up by my Osh Kosh b’Gosh shoulder straps.
Then we’re not falling nearly as fast. Everything is a lot more peaceful, if you can call cold wind whistling past your ears ‘peaceful.’
I open my eyes. Below us I can see the ocean, the glint of the moon off the waves, and a few patches of light on the coast. Which is actually really close to us. We’re not that far from the beach.
Off to my left, I can see the flashing lights of an airplane, tiny in the
distance. I realize it’s the jet we just jumped out of, and marvel that this all is working out.
“Easy peasy Japanesey!” Grant calls into my ear.
“There was nothing easy about this!” I shout back at him.
Off to our side, something big and orange plummets past.
“What was that?” I ask.
“The inflatable raft.”
“When did you inflate it?”
“Right after we jumped out.”
“I didn’t see you!”
“I was busy doing stuff while somebody else was screaming their head off,” he teases.
Yeah – with damn good reason, I think.
We are edging closer and closer to land, though we’re still over water. Everything is rushing towards us at a faintly alarming speed.
I thought you softly drifted down like a snowflake when you parachuted.
Not so much. More like semi-controlled falling.
“When we hit, let your legs bend and crumple up underneath you!” Grant says.
“Even if we hit water?” I ask, because it looks like we’re going to hit the water.
“Especially if we hit the water!”
Shit, we’re going to hit the water.
The raft hits the water far below, about sixty feet to the right of us. I can make it out, a dark rectangular shape against the glittery moonlight sparkling beneath it. It’s only a hundred feet from shore.
“Should I swim for the raft or the shore?” I ask.
“The shore. We should be able to make it easily.”
The waves rush up towards us. The foam on the breakers looks silver in the moonlight.
Grant adds in a mischievous voice, “Get ready for the enema!”
Damn it – I’d totally forgotten.
I clench my ass cheeks as tight as I can as we zoom towards the ocean.
SPLASH!
The impact is hard, and we go under – and then my feet hit something.
Sand.
We rebound up to the surface, sputtering and coughing, and I realize I can stand – at least when the waves aren’t crashing over my head.
“You okay?” Grant asks.
“Yes!” I say, deliriously happy. “No enema!”
He laughs as we half-swim, half-stagger towards the shore. We’re still buckled together, after all, and it’s like the worst three-legged race you’ve ever run in your life.
Once we can fully stand on the sand and not get submerged by the waves, he unhooks both his parachute and mine, freeing us.
“You know I was totally kidding about the enema, right?” he says.
I look back in shock. “What?!”
“Well, I mean, it’s a real thing, but I knew it wasn’t going to happen to us. Using a parachute makes you fall too slow for it to happen.”
“Then why did you tell me about it?!” I ask, angry as hell.
“So you’d stop thinking about dying!”
Oh.
Well, mission accomplished, then.
8
We never used my parachute, but Grant’s is sprawled out in the water like the remains of some giant jellyfish.
“We’ve got to hide this, or it’ll be a dead giveaway when they start looking for us,” Grant says.
We drag the parachute silk in from the water, which is like pulling in a giant net full of fish. The drag on the silk from the water is insane.
Once we have it in hand, Grant balls it into a giant, sopping wet bundle and carries it with us up the shore.
I look around us. There are huge cliffs rising from the water off to the right. The beach is sparsely developed, with only a half-dozen houses here and there, each a couple hundred feet from the beach. Everything is dark in the pre-dawn hush, lit only by the moon.
“What are we going to do?” I ask, clutching my wet body and shivering from the cold.
“Reconnaissance,” Grant answers, setting the parachute down next to me on the sand. Then he pulls off the backpack, unzips it, and pulls out his leather case of lock picks. “Stay here.”
“Where are you going?!” I ask, alarmed.
“To find an empty house.”
He runs up the shore, into the rocks that border the sand.
I have nothing else to do, so I look inside the backpack. The money is soaked, but 45 grand spends just as well wet or dry. I know it’s not local currency, which is a problem if we need to buy food or get a cab, but that’s a bridge we can cross when we come to it.
I’m sure the computer is toast. So is the cell phone, not that we could have used it. The passport and credit cards are worthless by default, since using them would trigger an online alert. I doubt the rest – the metal tools, the putty, the switchblade – was affected by the saltwater one way or the other.
Yay.
I stand there, chilled to the bone and miserable, speculating on all the terrible choices that led me here: cold and wet on a foreign beach, an international fugitive hunted by both the authorities and a serial killer.
I remember some of the things that had run through my head when Grant hired me a thousand years ago, just this past Monday morning:
You would think that telling a girl that Hannibal Lecter is in the mix would scare her away.
If I were smarter, it probably would.
But I’m not smart like that. Just book/computer code/programming smart.
Not ‘avoid the possible homicidal maniac job at all costs’ smart.
This might just be the coolest internet security job I’ve ever had.
Five times the money…
Danger…
A Hannibal Lecter type in the mix…
And quite possibly more of the best sex I’ve ever had in my life.
Idiot, idiot, IDIOT.
When you lead a quiet, boring life, danger seems exotic and exciting and fun.
Then, when you actually experience the danger, you realize you were absolutely insane to want it, and that you’d do just about anything to go back to your nice, quiet, boring life.
Do just about anything.
That was the question: WOULD I do just about anything?
If somebody offered me a ‘Get Out Of Jail Free’ card right now – if I knew for a certainty that Epicurus would never come after me again, and that the authorities would pretend I had never run afoul of the law – if I could walk away from Grant without any repercussions, and never look back – would I?
…no.
No, I wouldn’t.
Last night in the New York brownstone we broke into, I was scared as hell that maybe I was falling in love with Grant, and maybe that was why I was sticking by his side.
This moment right now – standing here, wet, cold, hunted, and in danger, yet refusing to leave him – this just confirms that fear even more.
And it terrifies me.
I can’t fall in love with him.
I won’t fall in love with him.
He doesn’t love me. How can he? We’ve known each other less than a week.
All I am to him is hot sex. That, and a computer hacker who’s helping him evade death.
He cares about me, sure. He wants me safe. But that just shows he’s a good human being, not that he loves me.
He’ll leave me when this is all over.
I can’t fall for this man. I can’t. I have to protect myself.
I have to protect my heart.
I start to cry silently. Hot tears run down my face.
It’s really fucked up that I’ve been hunted by a killer, jumped out of both a skyscraper and an airplane, and forced to flee my own country, but the thing that’s got me most upset is a man.
A man I’m falling in love with, and I can’t deny it anymore.
I look out at the ocean, wondering if the jet plane has gone in the Channel yet. I can’t see the lights anymore, and it’s been at least ten minutes since we landed in the water. It has to have crashed by now.
Just like YOU’RE going to crash, if you’re not careful.
; I hope that Mike made it out in one piece.
Just like I hope that I make it out in one piece.
From Epicurus…
From the authorities…
From Grant Carlson.
“Hey!” a voice whispers, and I about jump out of my skin.
I turn around and see Grant in the darkness, looking like an excited little boy.
“I found an empty one,” he says.
9
The beach house is a snap for Grant. No alarm, just a deadbolt. Within 45 seconds we’re inside.
It’s deserted. There is evidence of a family – pictures on the walls of smiling parents with three small children – but the house feels vacant. There is a chill everywhere: the cold, damp staleness of salty air bottled up for weeks on end.
Grant leads me to a laundry room off the kitchen and snaps on the light. “We have to hurry,” he says as dumps the parachute on the linoleum floor. “A shower to warm up, then we need to hit the road.”
“In what? There’s no car.”
“There’s an old Mercedes a quarter mile away that I can definitely hotwire. I’d like to be a couple hundred miles from here when the owner gets up and reports it stolen.”
“What about our clothes? They’re sopping wet.”
He points to the dryer. “Voilà.”
I arch an eyebrow. “You’re going to put your $5,000 suit in a regular dryer?”
“We’re on the run from the police and a serial killer, we just parachuted out of an airplane into the English Channel – ”
“Okay, okay,” I interrupt. I get it: what I just said was thoroughly ridiculous. We have problems ten thousand times worse than him ruining an Armani jacket and pants.
“Besides, I don’t have a lot of options at the moment. I already checked out the clothes of the guy who owns the place, and he’s about a foot shorter than me and skinny as a rail. But you’re welcome to inspect the lady of the house’s wardrobe, if you want.”
That feels… weird, for some reason. Which is funny, considering that breaking into other people’s houses has become a daily habit for me now.
The Billionaire's Redemption (The Billionaire's Kiss, Book Five): (A Billionaire Alpha Romance) Page 2