Being Me

by Lisa Renee Jones

  Chris takes my hand and squeezes. “You okay?”

  “I am,” I reply bleakly. “I’m not so sure about Rebecca, though.” My attention flicks between Kelvin and Blake. “There are no names in the journals. I’ve read them all.”

  “Yet someone wants them badly enough to hire Greg,” Blake said. “That means we need to dig for why, and use their resources to look for things we might all miss.”

  “Exactly,” Kelvin agrees. “And keep in mind that there could be more journals. We’d like to dig around in the storage unit.”

  “We’ll give you the combination before we leave,” Chris says.

  My worst fears about Rebecca are taking root. I want these men to do whatever is necessary to find her.

  Kelvin slips the picture back inside the folder. “I know how Greg works. If he killed the lights, I’m guessing it was to get the opportunity to replace your lock with one that only he can open. Have you been back since?”

  As I shake my head, our food arrives. Once the waitress is gone again, I ask, “What if he did?”

  “If that’s the case we’ll cut it off and replace it again,” Kelvin answers, popping a fry in his mouth.

  Chris ignores his food, looking as concerned as I feel. “How worried should I be about Sara’s safety?”

  I’ve completely lost my appetite. There is no way I’m eating now. I didn’t really want to in the first place.

  Blake sighs, and I can tell from his tense expression I am not going to like his answer. “I wouldn’t get paranoid, but on the other hand, someone is desperate enough to hire Greg to find the journals. Add that to Rebecca being MIA . . . I would be cautious.”

  “Don’t ask questions about Rebecca,” Kelvin adds. “Let us do it.”

  Chris cuts me a look. “You hear that? Let them do it.”

  “I’m in a position to find out things they can’t,” I object, remembering my talk with Ralph. “One of the sales reps hates Rebecca.”

  This leads into us discussing the entire staff as we finish our meal. By the time we leave the restaurant, I’m eager to get out of the city, where I won’t have to look over my shoulder for a few days.

  Seventeen

  Chris and I stop back at his apartment and pack a few final things, including my dress. Jacob had already returned the journals and I convinced Chris we should take them. If he reads them maybe he’ll pick up on some clue I have missed.

  With both our bags, the 911 is too small, so we call for a car service. Once we’re inside it the freshness of what we’ve learned about Rebecca has me worried about Ella all over again, and I try to call her. After several fruitless attempts to reach her, I give up.

  “She’s fine,” Chris assures me, squeezing my leg. “She’s on her honeymoon in Paris.”

  I manage a tight smile. “I know.”

  “You don’t know. I see it in your face.” He snatches his cell phone from his belt and punches a button. “Blake. Yeah man, you got an extra guy you can have check something else out for me?”

  I am beyond touched by Chris doing this for me. I remember the first time, at the wine tasting, when he told me he was protecting me, and I said that I didn’t need protection. I tell myself now I don’t, but it feels good to have a protector in my life. Maybe too good considering how uncertain I feel about our relationship.

  “Sara’s friend left on her honeymoon and her phone hasn’t been working,” Chris continues to Blake. “This Rebecca thing has her thinking the worst. Can you check the airlines and make sure she left and see when the ticket says she will return?” He moves the phone from his mouth. “What’s her last name and when did she leave.”

  After checking the calendar on my phone, I relay the details he’s requested. He relays them and hangs up. “We’ll have good news by the time we land.”

  A small bit of the tension eases from my body. “Thank you, Chris.”

  He kisses me. “Anything to keep you from worrying.”

  I relax into his arms, and for the short drive I allow myself to let him be my Dark Prince, without worry of what the future holds.

  • • •

  Almost two hours after our lunch meeting, Chris and I finally board the plane. We stop beside the first-class seats that Chris has purchased for us and I cannot help but think of all the money he’s spent on me today.

  He motions for me to claim the window seat. “I’ve had more than my share of good views. You haven’t traveled much.”

  I slide into the seat and he follows. Once we’ve buckled up, I turn to him, and I can’t help but stroke a wayward strand of his hair. “Thank you.”

  He closes his hand around mine and settles it on the arm on the seat beneath his. “For what?”

  “The clothes. First class. Helping with Rebecca and Ella. All of this costs money.”

  “Money doesn’t matter to me.” His tone is nonchalant, dismissive.

  “What about the teen you once were who wanted money and power?”

  “He grew into a man.”

  “With money and power.”

  He gives me a wry smile. “I’ll rephrase. I don’t mind spending my money because I have plenty of it. I’m not about to give it up. It’s control. I like control.”

  “No kidding,” I tease.

  He runs his thumb over my bottom lip and follows with his mouth. “You like it when I’m in control.”

  “Sometimes,” I agree.

  “I’m working on all the time.”

  “Don’t hold your breath, or the world will lose a brilliant artist.”

  “I’ll have to make you pay for that one,” he taunts as the flight attendant begins standard announcements.

  A dart of heat races up my spine. I don’t know where Chris might take me next, but I have no doubt it will be deliciously unforgettable. He leans closer and whispers, “You know, I know a club we could join together.”

  I stiffen and his low rumble of laughter fans my neck with seductive promise, before he adds, “The mile-high club.”

  I jerk around to face him. “Forget it, and that’s nonnegotiable no matter what you do. There are people everywhere.”

  “What if I rent a private plane for our return?”

  He can’t be serious. “You’d do that just for us to, ah, get membership?”

  His lips curve devilishly. “Without hesitation. In fact, since this trip is one of many I’d like to take you on, I think that might be the way to fly.” A puzzled look slides over his face. “How is it again that you grew up with money and never traveled?”

  As if hit by a bullet, I stiffen before I can stop myself. “Busy with childhood and teen activities, I guess.” The plane is taxiing and, afraid he’ll read my panic, I quickly turn to the window and feign interest. Silently, I kick myself for missing an opportunity to begin to share my past with Chris. I just have this unyielding sense that once I open Pandora’s box and let one demon out, even if it’s one of the smaller ones, the bigger, darker ones will escape before I am ready.

  Chris’s hand falls away from mine, and I feel his withdrawal reach well beyond a small physical connection. It is all I can do not to drag his hand to my lap. “It looks like it’s going to storm,” I murmur, noting the dark heaviness of the clouds above burdened by a downpour yet to happen, much like the weight of my secret.

  “You aren’t afraid, are you?”

  I wonder if he’s talking about flying in the storm. With Chris, there is often a double meaning. With effort, I school my features and turn to him and meet his penetrating stare. He knows I was dodging his question; I see it in his eyes.

  “I don’t know what to expect. This is new to me,” I say.

  “Because your travel has been limited to almost never.”

  It’s not a question and this time I’m certain we aren’t talking about the weather. I blink into his unfathomable expression, but there is expectancy in the air. The answer to why I never traveled is on the tip of my tongue, lingering there, but I cannot seem to push it out. “Right
. Because I almost never traveled.”

  We lift off and the bumps are instantaneous. My fingers curl around the armrest again, but this time with white-knuckle intensity. Chris’s hand comes down on mine as it had before and I sigh inside with the return of his touch. “Just a little turbulence,” he assures me. “It’ll even out when we get to a higher altitude above the clouds.”

  As if in defiance of his claim, the plane jerks and we seem to drop. I stiffen and my breath lodges in my throat. “You’re sure this is normal?”

  “Very.”

  “Okay.” I breathe out. “I’m trusting you on this.”

  “But not on everything.”

  There is a coolness to his eyes, and I wonder how soon his walls will slam down in front of mine. I’m backed into another corner. If I tell Chris everything I may lose him. If I keep him shut out, he may shut me out, again. It’s time to at least start down a path that leads to my hell.

  The plane jolts again and my heart drops to my stomach.

  I tug my hand from underneath his and lift the armrest, and hopefully the proverbial wall separating us as well. “We were my father’s pets,” I say, angling in his direction. “He left us at home and ran off to his many mistresses.”

  Understanding seeps into his expression and he shifts to face me. “When did you find out about the other women?”

  “Once I moved away for college. That’s when my mother’s rose-colored glasses came off me.”

  “She knew.” It’s not a question.

  “Oh yes,” I confirm. “She knew.” I can’t tame the bitterness seeping into my tone. “If we were his pets, she was his lapdog. She was so in love with him that she’d accept anything she could get from him, which wasn’t much.”

  His expression is thoughtful, concerned. “How active was he in your life?”

  “He was my idol who was never home. I worshiped the ground he walked on, just like my mother. I had no idea we were his token family to look good for business or whatever his reason was for keeping us around. I think it was about power. Or because he could. Or because he didn’t want my mother to get all his money. I have no clue. I stopped trying to figure it out years ago. There had to be a reason that made sense to him.”

  “Do you think your mother knew why?”

  “I think she convinced herself he loved her. She was blinded by love.”

  “Don’t take this wrong,” he warns gently, “but was it love, or the money?”

  I hate the question I’ve asked myself, and rejected, too many times to count. “I don’t know really what was in her head. The mother I thought I knew wasn’t the one I discovered after I took those glasses off.” I shake my head. “But no. I never felt like she was about the money.” My mind travels the past. “She gave up everything she loved but painting. She’d hide her work and supplies when he was home.”

  “You said she created your love of art.”

  I nod. “Yes. Very much so.” I let out a heavy sigh, trying to escape the tight sensation strangling my airways. “Looking back, it was an abusive relationship, almost like Stockholm syndrome, where the captive adores her captor.”

  The plane jumps again and I grab his hand. As his strength and encouragement seep into me, I’m glad I told him.

  “Do you have any of her artwork?” he asks after a few moments.

  “No. After I left for college she gave it up completely. My father wanted her time spent doing high-profile charity events that made him look good. She was coming home from one of the events organized by the network when she died. He wasn’t even in the country at the time, of course.”

  “That’s why you blame him for her death.”

  My gaze drops to my hand that has somehow settled on his leg. I relive a searingly vivid memory of the moment I heard my mother was dead. Chris caresses my cheek. “You okay?”

  “I just . . . I’m remembering the day she died.” I have to mentally shake myself to continue. “I don’t blame him for her death. I blame him for her miserable life. Though she made her own choices, that doesn’t make his abuse of her acceptable.” An acid burn slides through me just thinking about what I’m about to reveal. “He didn’t even cry at her funeral, Chris. Not a single tear. Not one.”

  His hand goes to the back of my head and he rests his forehead on mine. He opens his mouth to speak and I quickly warn him, “Don’t say you’re sorry. You know that doesn’t help.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  Slowly we sink back against our seats and I settle onto his shoulder. He doesn’t say anything else, but he doesn’t have to. He’s here for me yet again, and it’s bittersweet because I know the next few demons will be more than mine. They’ll become his.

  • • •

  Once we’re in L.A. and in the back of a private car to the hotel, Chris checks his messages. “Blake found Ella’s flight out. It was one-way. Do you think she planned on staying in Paris and didn’t want to tell you?”

  “She left everything she owns and she said she’d be back in a month.” I shake my head. “No. She didn’t intend on staying. She was going to Italy, too.”

  He punches in a text to Blake with that information and gets an instant reply. “Blake says he checked any outgoing destination from Paris for Ella. There is no record of her leaving for Italy. He wants to know if you’re sure she didn’t resign her job?”

  My brow furrows and I’m already dialing. “I hadn’t thought of that.” I have to leave a message for the right person. “I hope they call back quickly.”

  “Find out about her status at the school, and if she hasn’t resigned I’ll have Blake’s team dig around some more.”

  I nod and prepare myself mentally for the school’s returned call. Not only do I need to hear that Ella is safe, but it’s time I officially resign. It’s a bit daunting despite my new dream career.

  The car pulls up to the hotel and we rush in to drop off our things in our room and head to the hospital. We arrive just in time for an event Chris is holding for a group of twenty kids all battling cancer, along with many of their parents. After Chris and I receive excited welcomes from everyone, and pose for pictures I didn’t expect to be included in but am, I finally meet Dylan, the young boy with leukemia. It’s clear that Dylan is deeply attached to Chris, and Chris to him. He’s an extremely likable kid, both friendly and smart. My heart twists at the dark circles under his eyes, his bald scalp that tells of his cancer treatments, and the frailness of his thin body, which makes him look younger than his thirteen years.

  Chris takes a seat at an easel at the front of the room, and I sit beside him with Dylan. Together, Dylan and I watch as Chris draws special pictures by request. Spellbound by Chris’s interactions with the crowd, my heart is truly in my throat more than in my chest as he brings smiles to many a haunted face.

  • • •

  An hour into the event, I head to the cafeteria to grab Chris a drink and a candy bar since he hasn’t eaten since lunch and it’s now seven o’clock. Dylan’s mom, Brandy, a pretty thirty-something blonde, catches me in the hallway and falls into step with me. “Do you mind if I join you?”

  “Not at all,” I assure her. “Dylan’s a great kid. I see why Chris is attached to him.”

  “Thank you, and yes, they have a special bond. Chris has been a godsend on so many levels.” The elevator door opens and we step inside as she continues: “Did you know he calls Dylan every day, and on top of that, he calls either me or my husband, Sam, to check on us?”

  “No, but I’m not surprised. He talks about you guys often.”

  The elevator door opens again and we head to the cafeteria. “He’s paid what our insurance hasn’t, and that isn’t a small figure.” There’s a mix of appreciation and sadness in her voice.

  “He’d pay whatever it costs to save Dylan,” I say simply.

  She stops walking. “No money will save him.” The words tremble from her lips and fade to a whisper. Unshed tears gather like raindrops in her eyes. “He’s going to di
e.” She grabs my arm, her fingers biting into my arm, her urgency obvious. “And you do know that Chris is going to blame himself, don’t you?”

  My throat restricts. “Yes. I know.”

  “Don’t let him.”

  “I don’t think I can stop him, but I will be there for him.” I say softly, “And for you, too, if you need me. Please put my number in your cell. Call me anytime, Brandy. Ask me for anything.”

  Her grip slowly loosens on my arm and we exchange cell numbers. We silently head to the cafeteria, and after a somber silence, remarkably we manage to shift to random chitchat and it’s not long before Brandy and I are in the back of the room watching Chris and Dylan in animated conversation while they scarf down chocolate.

  “The doctors don’t like him to have candy,” Brandy whispers, “but how can I deny him the things he enjoys?”

  “I wouldn’t deny him anything he wants, either,” I say, my eyes falling on the young boy and shifting to Chris. He’s good with the kids, and I wonder if he’s thought about having his own. I’ve never thought about kids, but after today, I’m not sure I want to be a mother. How can you love this much and have that child stripped away from you? Losing my mother was hard enough. If I lose Chris—

  “You love him,” Brandy says softly. “I see it in your face when you look at him.”

  My gaze lingers on Chris. “Yes. Yes I do.”

  “Good,” she says approvingly as I shift my attention to her. “Sam and I see the pain that man carries around. He needs someone to hold some of it for him.”

  This analysis punches me in the chest. Chris has held everything life has burdened him with all on his own since he was a teen. That Brandy sees what he hides beneath his affable exterior speaks volumes about the kind of people she and her husband are. They are living in excruciating pain, but they still see beyond it to worry about Chris. I think about how upset he was on the phone two nights before, and it’s crystal clear to me that he needs me to carry some of his load this weekend. This isn’t the time to share my inner demons with him, and not because I want to put off the dreaded event. Because now is a time for me to be here for him, to show him I love him, even if I don’t dare tell him until I make sure he knows who I really am.