Hit&Run

by Freya Barker

  The moment the realization hits me; my eyes pop open. That’s it—that’s what’s wrong. Other than the whiff of Jake I got from the bedclothes, there’s no evidence of him anywhere in this place. I miss him here.

  With my mind settled and a smile on my lips, I let my eyes get heavy and drift off to sleep.

  AT FIRST I DON’T KNOW what wakes me up.

  I lift my face from the pillow I’ve been clutching and roll on my back, alert to my surroundings. My ears pick up a slight sound from somewhere in the apartment; like fabric brushing against a solid surface. I rise up on my elbows and keep my eyes peeled on the closed bedroom door.

  Again I hear it, and I swing my legs over the side of the bed.

  “Grant? Is that you?”

  When there’s no answer, I get up off the bed and move to the door. I reach for the knob and next thing I know, I’m flying back toward the bed, landing hard on my ass on the floor.

  “Olaf?” Confused, I look up at the tall, silent figure filling the doorway. His face is impassive, devoid of any emotion, and his eyes are cold and detached. “Is everything all right? Where is Grant?”

  Wordlessly he steps into the room and a cold fist tightens around my insides. I scramble back until I hit the side of my bed, as he closes the distance and crouches in front of me. He tilts his head to one side, scrutinizing me.

  “I don’t see it,” are the first words he says.

  JAKE

  “Get Radar on speaker,” I bark at Dimi, who is not having any success getting hold of Rosie or Grant.

  I’m hitting triple digits as I weave through traffic, narrowly missing an elderly couple trying to cross the road on Horizon Drive. Normally, I have the ability to stay sharp during stressful situations, but I’m struggling to focus as panic threatens to overwhelm me.

  “I need all you have and whatever you can find on Olaf Fens. Any prior brushes with the law, family history, work, relationships—any fucking thing you can get your hands on, ” I rattle off the moment Radar answers the phone.

  “Already on it,” is his quick answer before he continues, “twenty-nine, born in Holland. No siblings. Parents were farmers and immigrated to the US in the mid-nineties when he’d just turned seven. They moved to a small farm near Pella, Iowa, and were heavily involved in the local Dutch Reformed Church community.”

  “Let me guess; homosexuality is a sin?”

  “Bingo. Looks like our boy was cast from the flock, so to speak. The latter part of 2004, he starts popping up on police records in LA County. Soliciting, prostitution, some minor drug offenses.”

  “Christ, he would’ve been what? Sixteen?”

  “About that,” Radar confirms. “His parents died about a year after he settled in LA, from carbon monoxide poisoning. It was blamed on an old furnace. Then nothing until 2009, when police questioned him after a retired casting director in East Hollywood, he had been working for as a houseboy, died in a fire.”

  “Boy toy is more like it,” I observe.

  “Hmmm, yes, police records show they’d received some complaints about the old guy over the years. Inappropriate conduct with minors. I wonder if our boy was getting too old for him.”

  “Possible,” Dimi contributes, as I navigate a sharp turn onto a side road to circumvent traffic lights on North SeventhRoad. “Rejection can be a powerful motive.”

  “True,” I add, “but how does that tie in with Rosie?”

  But even as I’m saying that, I remember the glimpse I got from the surveillance camera on the hotel hot tub a while back. The blond hair flopping over a blissed out face, mouth wide open, as Steele is giving it to him from behind. Steele, who probably discarded him, just like he did with all the other fuck toys he got tired of. Steele, who seemed to have developed more than just a fleeting interest in my gorgeous redhead.

  “I’m two blocks away,” I tell Radar. “Give me more. What does he drive?”

  “Probably one of the production vehicles. They left behind two GMC Acadias, black, for the remaining crew to get around in. Avis rentals.”

  “Get the tags and tell Bree to get on the horn with GJPD.”

  “She already is.”

  “Good, then get her those license plates stat, because I don’t see the car here.”

  I see the backs of Grant and Rosie’s cars poking out of the driveway, but no sign of an Acadia. It’s not until I pull almost even with the house that an acrid smell hits me.

  Smoke.

  ROSIE

  “Where’s Grant?”

  He scares me, but with my back wedged against the side of the mattress, I have no means of escape, so I try to distract him with my words. To no avail, they don’t seem to register.

  “I don’t see the attraction,” he muses, his eyes carefully taking in my features in a way that makes me sick to my stomach. Controlled and calculating. “You’re too old, too fat, and too plain for the likes of him.”

  “Who? Jake?”

  This time I get a reaction; his eyes squint in confusion at my question.

  “Who is Jake?” he asks, but doesn’t wait for an answer before continuing. “We had something special, he and I. He tried to deny it, but I knew. I’ve known all along. I wouldn’t have minded waiting, but when he started fucking everything he could stick his dick into, I had to do something. I thought making him jealous would work, but he laughed at me. Said I’d been just another hole to fill, that he’d never end up with some ‘Muscle Mary.’ And then he started watching you...”

  “What?” I try to process what he is saying in that bland, disengaged voice, all the while keeping my eyes on the left hand he’s slowly reaching behind his back. “No. That’s not it, I saw—”

  “I saw him fall under your spell,” he cuts me off, more impassioned than before and infinitely more frightening. “Watched him eyeing you—came on to you strong that night by the pool. It seemed poetic for you to have an accident right there.” He shakes his head, a low growl rumbling from his chest. “You!” he suddenly yells, stopping my heart as spittle hits my face. But then he starts chuckling. “You’re like the proverbial bad penny. Each time I think you’re taken care of, you pop back up.”

  “I don’t get it. I haven’t done anything,” I plead, and I hate I’m about to lose control of my bladder. I was wrong about him; this man is not fucking controlled, he’s batshit crazy.

  “Sure you have.” He leans in and hisses, his features distorted, just inches from my face. Then he suddenly straightens up and says in that cold detached voice, “You distract him, you have to go.”

  “But you’re wrong!” I yell, just as I see something sailing toward me. Then everything turns black.

  JAKE

  “Sonofabitch!” Dimi curses beside me as I swing the car into the driveway, partially blocking the sidewalk. I don’t give a good fuck.

  A dark plume leaks from a slightly opened kitchen window and a moving red glow is visible just inside. Dimi beats me out of the truck and starts running to the side door. I’m close on his heels.

  “The door is warm to the touch but not hot,” he says when I reach him.

  I unceremoniously shove him out of the way and kick the damn door open. Immediately the red glow flares up into a bright golden hue, as the added oxygen feeds the flames licking at the walls.

  “Rosie!” I yell, but immediately dissolve into a coughing fit as the acrid smoke forces its way into my lungs.

  “Here,” I hear Dimi call out. I just see him duck down behind the kitchen island, right where a familiar pair of legs is just visible. “Help me.”

  Pulling the neck of my T-shirt over my mouth and nose, I brave the heat and the thick smoke to get to where Dimi is bending down, slipping his hands under the prone form on the floor.

  “Take the legs.”

  Together we manage to get the body outside, away from the worst of the smoke.

  “Fire department and ambulance on the way.”

  I look up to see the neighbor from down the street—the one
who witnessed the attack on Rosie in front of his house—come running up to us. I nod in acknowledgment, before looking down at the mangled face of Grant Peabody.

  “Peabody,” I try, although I’m not holding out much hope, his face looks like it’s been through a meat grinder. “Can you hear me, Grant?”

  I’m surprised when I hear a grunt and what I wouldn’t have recognized as an eye, open.

  “Olaf got to her,” he whispers, barely audible.

  “We know. We’re on it. Stay still, the medics will be here soon.”

  “No.” He shakes his head forcibly, flicking a spray of blood from his lips. He says something else, but I can’t hear it, so I bend closer.

  “Say it again?”

  “Home...Rosebud.”

  It takes a minute to sink in, but when I clue in and turn to the garage, my heart drops like a stone.

  Black smoke is billowing out of the cracks of the garage door, snaking up the side of the structure and already almost obscuring the apartment above. I don’t hesitate, I’m on my feet and running, taking the stairs two at a time.

  I don’t even hear the approaching sound of sirens.

  My eyes burn from the smoke, and the heat stings my skin.

  The fire is concentrated along the far wall of the apartment, with flames licking up from below. The source appears to be from the garage downstairs, but I don’t have time to worry about the floor collapsing under me, I have to find Rosie.

  Using furniture to guide me, it feels like hours, but is likely just seconds, when I finally spot her on the floor of the bedroom. Here too, the fire has snaked up the wall and I feel the hair on my arms singeing. There’s not much time.

  “Rosie—baby, we’ve got to get out of here,” I mumble, while struggling to lift her up.

  There is no reaction. Her body is like dead weight in my arms, as I stumble blindly toward where I think the door is. I don’t even know if she’s still breathing. I shake my head and blink against the tears. From smoke, or fear, I don’t care—I’m holding my heart in my arms, and I have never been so scared in my life.

  She’s alive; she fucking has to be.

  A draft of cooler air hits my face and I turn in that direction, forcing my legs to carry us outside.

  “I’ve got her,” Dimi’s voice greets me, even if I can’t see a thing.

  “No,” I croak, pulling Rosie prone body even tighter to me.

  “All right, Hutch. Okay.”

  An arm is wrapped firmly around my waist as he guides me down the stairs and away from the heat. The moment I feel soft grass under my feet, I sink down, letting my legs collapse under me, Rosie still clutched tightly to my chest.

  “Sir, let me look at her.”

  I blink a few times to clear my eyes and can make out the firefighter crouching down in front of me. Still I won’t let go.

  “You got her out, now let them look after her. You’ve gotta let her go, Hutch.” Dimi’s calm voice sounds beside me.

  Reluctantly I loosen my grip on her, as she is taken from me and laid flat on the grass at my knees. Her beautiful ivory skin is dull with soot, and her luxurious red hair is singed and streaked with fine black dust. A mask is pressed over my face and rather than fight it, I give myself over to the sob ripping from my chest.

  The agony at the possibility I may have lost her is a pain unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. My life hangs in the balance with hers; I can’t remember my life before her, or imagine a life after.

  Love has always been an elusive concept to me. Something frivolous people indulge in, giving them rose-colored glasses to see the world through. Sappy, saccharine, and so sweet, it made my teeth ache. I had it all wrong.

  Love is equal parts bliss and torture—it’s passion and fear—and once discovered, it becomes as essential as breathing.

  But right now, in this moment, love is shredding me.

  CHAPTER 25

  ROSIE

  Good Lord.

  I almost sag through my knees at the sight of my beautiful friend’s face. Tubes and wires appear to tether him to the hospital bed, which appears at least a size too small for his large frame.

  “Hold up, chickie. Let me get you a chair,” Hillary cautions from behind me, and I feel myself pushed down on a seat. “The swelling will come down over time, and aside from the large one running down his forehead, his scars will fade as well.”

  “It’s his spirit I’m most worried about,” I confess to her over my shoulder. A slight movement in the bed draws my attention, and I catch the obsidian glint of Grant’s single visible eye.

  “Nothing wrong with my spirit,” his gravelly voice rumbles from between his wired jaw, only making my tears stream harder. “And quit your sniveling, I’m not dead yet.”

  Hillary snorts behind me. “As you can tell, there’s nothing wrong with his sharp tongue. He’s been a handful, full of his usual beans since he woke up.”

  “I’d kill for some beans,” he fires back. “All you guys have been feeding me is Jell-O. That stuff is only good in a blow-up pool, with a couple of juicy twinkies tangled up in it.”

  His off-the-wall humor is music to my ears, and for the first time since waking up in the hospital yesterday, I let relief wash over me.

  I DON’T REMEMBER WHAT happened, all I can recall is Olaf knocking me out with something. Jake says it was a tube sock, filled with sand, which they managed to recover from my apartment. Or what’s left of it. Jake had to fill me in on all of it.

  Jake—he was the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes. He looked like he just crawled out of hell against the stark white interior of the ambulance. Covered in soot, his bloodshot eyes wet, and sucking in deep breaths through the oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. Pulling the mask away, he leaned over and gently kissed my chapped lips.

  “Sweetheart.”

  I could hear everything in that single word. His voice, raspy from smoke inhalation and pent-up emotion, betrayed it all: fear, worry, relief, and love—such incredible love.

  I tried talking, but couldn’t make a sound. So I held his eyes, and with mine, tried to bare my soul to him.

  He wouldn’t leave my side, not even in the hospital when medical staff tried to push him out the door. He held on tight to my hand, refusing to budge until they finally gave up and worked around him.

  Although the scan showed no damage to my head, they admitted me for a concussion and smoke inhalation. Jake stayed too, dozing off and on in the chair next to my bed, and bit by bit, filling me in on the events of the day. He dismissed every nurse who came in, wrinkled their nose, and offered him a chance to clean up. Through all of it, he never let go of my hand once.

  But this morning, when Hillary came into the room, he had met his match. She told him, in no uncertain terms, he was stinking up the place and needed a shower. When he resisted, she turned on her heel, walked out, and returned just seconds later with both Dimas and Yanis in tow. Only under threat of severe physical harm did they finally manage to pry him off me, and took him home to shower and change.

  That’s when Hillary told me Grant was awake, and I made her take me to him.

  “BETTER GET YOU BACK to your room,” Hillary says, helping me out of the chair, her arm supporting me in case I get wobbly again. “Almost time for rounds, and I don’t want to get into trouble because you’ve gone AWOL.”

  I lean over the bed to give Grant a kiss, but there’s no safe place to touch.

  “This would be an excellent opportunity to have you kiss my feet,” he quips. “But I can’t vouch for their condition at this time.”

  “Always a smart-ass,” I mumble through my smile, as I carefully lift his hand and press a kiss on top. Emotion laces my voice when I add, “And don’t ever change.”

  “Couldn’t if I tried.”

  When we walk into my room, the doctor is there, tapping a pen on the chart he’s holding, and giving Hillary a death stare.

  “Told you,” she hisses in my ear, before trying to hustle
me back in bed.

  “Don’t bother,” he says, waving her off. “Ms. Perkins will be going home as soon as her release papers are ready. Might as well help her get ready and dressed.”

  His words slap a harsh reality in my face. I may not have a home to go to. I’m not sure of the extent of the damage the fire caused to Grant’s house, but from what I gather, there is not much left of my apartment. I don’t even know if they managed to salvage any of my things. Not that I had a lot, some old pictures with my dad, a few old diaries, just memories; snapshots of my life to date.

  I’m quiet as Hillary sets me up in the shower, while she digs up a pair of scrubs, and some paper booties.

  “You okay?” she wants to know as she helps me get dried off and dressed.

  “I’m sure I will be.”

  JAKE

  “Better have news for me,” I growl when the guys manhandle me into the passenger side of Yanis’ ride.

  “Apparently airport security had a vehicle matching the description towed from the drop-off zone, outside departures last night. The impound lot filed a report with GJPD a few hours later, but by that time he’d flown the coop,” Dimas outlines. “Our boy was in a hurry and skipped town. Hopped a flight to Vegas where we lost track.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Not so fast,” Yanis jumps in. “We thought he was in the wind too, until about forty minutes ago when I got word he was picked up.” I turn and check his stoic profile, except for a muscle flexing along his jaw.

  “And?” I prompt him.

  “Cops were called out on a domestic disturbance at a gated community in Hidden Hills, at four thirty this morning, and found a man curled into a ball, lying beside a lifeless body,” he reports, emotionless, if not for the persistent twitch of that muscle. “The body was identified as Kyle Steele. His head was caved in with the base of a sculpture.”