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“I heard what that girl said in the conference room,” Everett says, the deep bass of his voice calming and reassuring me. “That was low.”
I wish we had the kind of relationship where I could turn towards him and curl up in his arms, or at least lean against his stalwart shoulder for comfort. Instead, I back up and slump against the wall to his left, closing my eyes.
I need a second, just one moment to collect myself. All the outward armor I don to be a tough, shrewd twenty-six-year-old CEO is powerless against someone saying my parents’ names out loud.
“It’s good you’re going on vacation,” Everett says.
I nod and allow myself to verbalize the truth. “I’m tired.” Saying it out loud is like letting a huge boulder roll off my back, but it also feels like admitting defeat.
“You are so tired, Laina,” he replies, sounding relieved to be able to say it.
I glance at him in surprise and wait for him to look me in the eye, but he keeps his gaze straight ahead. He’s usually so hesitant to confront me. Even when I fell asleep in my tray of sushi on top of all my notes for the annual shareholders’ meeting, he didn’t say I should have gone home sooner or called it quits or taken better care of myself. To hear him make an observation about me that’s remotely negative is new territory. And a little thrilling.
“What about you, are you tired?” I ask, pressing back.
He’s seen me every single day, including every holiday, every weekend - he’s never taken time off. He’s the only one who sees me cry, he’s seen me angry, seen me celebrate my biggest wins with silly happy dances in the car. He’s helped with wardrobe malfunctions, even carried tampons in his jacket pocket. So, isn’t he tired too?
But he doesn’t answer and I don’t ask again. Every so often, I brush up against firm boundaries that Everett has in place. Discussing his personal state of wellness is one of those. I switch to a breezier topic. “What are you going to do while I’m gone?”
“Read, sleep in. I have some research I’ve been assigned by the home office at Black Swan Protection.”
I’m surprised his agency gave him homework, especially on his first break in years. “Researching what?”
“The Vidovic Group.”
“The Vidovic Group? What’s that?”
“A criminal organization out of Eastern Europe. Pretty nefarious: drug runners, human traffickers, they run a big weapons black market. They’ve paid off most justice systems to turn a blind eye to them.”
“We’re going to have the most opposite weeks possible,” I say with a laugh.
He grins at me and there’s no quelling the butterflies in my stomach. His grin is my favorite for how genuine it is, wide and unabashed. I can’t help but smile back as we stride across the lobby and out the doors into the cold sunshine.
The buzz of reporters and instant shouts fill the air. Multiple camera shutters burst into action. A quick scan of the area tells me it’s a bigger day than normal for the paparazzi. They must be waiting for the gorgeous, disgraced Noa Ice.
On my left, a guy in a hoodie and baseball cap stands with his hands shoved in his pockets. What’s a paparazzo doing without a recording device or a camera? I watch him, he watches me watching him, and a chill goes down my spine. My hand involuntarily grabs Everett’s arm. He looks down at me, catching my expression, then stands tall, going on high alert.
“On our left” I say in a low voice. “Texas Rangers hat, no camera.”
Everett switches to walk on my left side.
Ever since the untimely death of my parents, I’ve had an irrational fear that there’s some sort of Milenna curse, that I might be the next one taken too soon. Watching this strange guy, the fear pops up again, like an ugly jack-in-the-box. My body goes into fight or flight mode.
The guy suddenly whips his right arm out of his pocket and I flinch, shying into Everett.
“It’s okay, I’m here. It’s just a phone.” Everett puts his arm around my shoulders as we keep walking towards the car. He’s almost tripping me as he pushes us forward while keeping an eye on the sketchy guy who’s holding up a cell phone. He opens the passenger door and stands over me as I get in, immediately closing the door behind me.
Everett slides into the driver’s seat and guns the car into an opening in traffic. He keeps pivoting to look out the window and behind us and it’s not until we’re through an intersection that he sits back in his seat and says, “Probably nothing. Good eye though.”
My hands are shaking and I reach for my purse to channel my frayed nerves by searching for my phone. I hate this overwhelming feeling of vulnerability. I’m the one in control, I’m the one in power, but why is it that those at the top are usually targeted?
After shuffling things around for a moment, I shut my bag in frustration.
“Should I be going on vacation alone?” I ask out loud.
“It was you and Tara’s idea to go alone,” Everett says. “I initially advised against it.”
My one concession to needing outside help in my life is my therapist, Tara. After a massive panic attack and worrisome cardiac symptoms landed me in the hospital a few months ago, I asked if I could just take some anti-anxiety medication and get back to work.
