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Logic struggles to override panic, on the short speed walk along the hallway and down the one flight of stairs. There’s no way anyone could know the address of my new studio. I’ve only told my closest most trusted friends.
Again, before leaving the building, I look through the glass doors, the Uber is right there. A couple of quick steps and I’m yanking the car door open and falling into the back seat.
The driver turns to greet me, and I offer him a weak smile, then with shaking hands I quickly buckle up my seat belt. The driver pulls away from the curb and finally I can breathe. Relief floods my body and I slump down into the seat.
Soon we’re stuck in traffic and for once, I don’t care. It feels safe being surrounded by other cars and the usual crowds of people only feet away on the sidewalk, all seemingly in a hurry to get wherever they need to be.
There’s safety in a crowded place. I remember my grandfather telling me that when I was fourteen and my world had imploded around me, revealing there had been multiple threats on my life. This one memory above all others remains clear. The icy coldness of my fingers in his large warm calloused hands. My grandmother’s arm around my shoulders, hugging me close, attempting to stop the uncontrollable shivers running up my back. It’s a terror I’ll never forget. Something no fourteen-year-old should ever have to deal with. It was so unfair. Why did I have to suffer for the sins of my parents?
It feels like the subsequent years haven’t made me any better equipped to handle the fear. The Uber stops and I realize we’re outside the apartment block. The driver turns again, waiting for me to get out. I attempt to smile back, but I expect it looks more like a grimace.
Nervous about leaving my cocoon of safety, I check up and down the sidewalk before pushing the door open. I jump out, then continuing to check left and right, I get to the door as quickly as possible. I must look like a lunatic but I’m beyond caring.
Steve, the doorman, comes toward me. “Miss, are you okay?” he asks, confirming my suspicions.
My racing heart eases slightly knowing I’m truly safe now. Steve wouldn’t let anyone he doesn’t know past.
“Fine, Steve,” I mumble, and with my head down, I walk quickly to the bank of elevators. The ride up to the seventeenth floor seems to take longer tonight. The vibration of another incoming text buzzes against my palm. Not another one. I can’t look, not here when I’m so exposed. My heart is doing trampoline jumps in my chest. I place both hands to my stomach trying to push down the fear that’s gurgling away.
Ding. The elevator arrives and I’m out before the doors are completely open, running along the corridor to the apartment. When I burst through the door, I race straight to the bathroom, no longer able to hold back the nausea.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m in the living room in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, one arm wrapped tightly around my waist and a glass of Logan’s best whiskey grasped tightly in my still shaky hand.
I hear the front door lock unclick and tense briefly even though I know it’s Logan.
Chapter thirteen
Logan
Still darkness greets me when I step through the door. Allie mustn’t be home yet. I can’t help feeling disappointed. I’ve enjoyed our shared dinners and hoped we could have another one tonight. I drop my bag in the hall and walk into the living room.
I’m stopped in my tracks when I catch sight of Allie, staring intently out the windows, her shoulders heaving as she sucks in deep breaths like she’s just run a marathon. Her dark seductive figure is silhouetted against the glittering city lights beyond the glass. She turns and I immediately know something isn’t right.
“Allie, are you okay?” I ask while I lean down to turn on the nearby lamp.
“Please don’t turn on the light,” she whispers with a distinctive crack in her voice. I’m next to her in seconds, wrapping my arms around her shivering body. I’m not sure what’s happened, and at this point, I don’t care beyond my instinctive need to comfort her in any way I can. She doesn’t pull away. Instead, she drops her head to lean on my chest. She needs me. I don’t know why. And I don’t even need to. What I do know is that I could never not be there for her.
Minutes pass and when her breathing seems to have eased, I ask gently, “Was it another text?”
She nods, then whispers softly, “Two texts.”
“Okay, you’re safe now. You know that don’t you?” She nods again. I reach between us to remove the glass from her cold fingers, placing it on the nearby side table. Then I pull her closer to my chest, so there’s no gap between us. Her arms tentatively reach around my waist underneath my suit jacket, her fingers clutching tightly to my shirt like she never wants to let go.
I drop a featherlight kiss to the top of her head. She probably can’t feel it, but the touch of her soft silky hair on my lips makes me feel like I can keep her safe.
We stay connected like this as the minutes tick by. How many? I don’t know. But eventually, she lifts her head a little and whispers, “Thank you.”
My hand reaches between us to gently lift her chin. Tiny beads of moisture dot her cheeks. Her eyes remain squeezed shut but not tight enough to prevent the fresh tears from leaking between her lashes. Her skin is a ghostly pale shade that even a layer of makeup can’t hide.
“Oh, Sunshine.” My thumb wipes across her damp cheekbones. “Please let me help you,” I beg, the rawness of her fear slicing through me.
She opens her eyes, and I want to drown in those pools of liquid green. Blinking, she releases another tear that runs down over her silky-smooth skin and again I wipe it away. The pad of my thumb feels rough against the delicate softness of her cheek.
Her lips open slightly and on an exhale, she murmurs, “I don’t know how you can help, Logan.” I’ve never heard her voice so broken or lost. Now more than ever I believe she knows why she’s getting these text messages. I wish I knew how to earn her trust enough so that she would share the reason with me.
“Can you at least show me the texts?” She nods, and with the rise and fall of her shoulders on a deep breath, she relinquishes her grip on my shirt, takes a step back, and picks up her cell from the coffee table. I notice that she hasn’t completely let go of me. One hand remains at my waist.
With a swipe of her finger across the screen, she opens to the first of the two messages and holds it up to show me. Her head tilts back to lean against my chest in a casual gesture I could get used to. But I push those thoughts away, reminding myself she’s a friend who needs support and nothing else from me tonight.
