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Finally, I come up with just making a move, any move.
Me: when are you free for next meeting?
I squint at my phone as the sending message changes to a timestamp.
He answers me almost immediately, and I can't help but notice that my heart rate picks up a little bit.
Emmet: tomorrow night. 6:30 PM. Navy Pier helipad. Wear something easy to slip out of.
Helipad? Does that word mean what I think it means?
Well, he may not know romance, but he sure knows how to whip up a spectacle.
Something like excitement rises in me. What will I wear?
CHAPTER 9
Dillon
“What are you doing with your hands?”
I pick up my hands and look at them. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
Emmet rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. I think I like his shirt better than mine. When he crosses his arms it opens at the collar, showing off his pecs. My shirt is not showing off my pecs. Goddamnit. Next time.
“You’re doing something weird with your hands.”
“I’m not doing anything weird with my hands. You’re imagining things.”
“Well, you’re pacing,” he scolds me.
“I'm not pacing,” I reply, forcing my feet to stop moving and stuffing my hands into my pockets. “It’s just that she's late, is all.”
“Who gives a fuck if she's late?” he rolls his eyes. “It's not like we’re going to leave without her.”
I just take a deep breath and squint down the long walkway. Tourists and business people brush past each other without even looking, hundreds of them. Maybe a thousand, even. It's one of the prime times of the day, when people who actually work on Navy Pier collide with people who came here to gawk at it. To ride the Ferris Wheel. To go through the museum.
Frankly, it's a stupid place for a helipad. I like the one on top of our building, of course. That’s where Emmet wanted to go, but I wanted to make sure they were seen, as per the agreement. If it were up to him, they’d just spend every moment alone, maybe take off to the desert. I need to keep them on track. If this works, it’s best for all of us. He should get that through his thick skull.
So here we all are, almost being seen. Actually, nobody could see us unless they look up since the helipad is on a raised platform surrounded by shrubs and trees and vines and shit. The curving stairway that leads up here is almost hidden. You would have to know it was here to even find it.
An unfamiliar heart-shaped face pops up ten feet below me, then tips to the side. I look at it curiously, wondering how she got there.
“Hello?” she smiles, tucking a long, straw-colored strand of hair behind her ear. “Can you throw down a ladder for me or something? Is there some kind of pirate secret code or something?”
“This is a private area,” I answer, scowling and shading my eyes with my hand. Her face disappears, reappearing moments later at the bottom of the staircase.
“Well, yeah, that's the idea,” she remarks as she climbs the stairs, shouldering her heavy bag behind her. “I guess that's how I got the exclusive.”
“Oh, okay… and you’re from?”
“HuffPo, usually,” she shrugs, flicking a business card between her fingers like it is some kind of magic trick. She pushes her sunglasses up on top of her head, revealing pretty green eyes and a pert, freckled nose.
“Yeah, okay. HuffPo. Come on up, I guess,” I shrug, standing aside. Necessary evil.
She mounts the last few steps and looks around, pushing her chin out and nodding appreciatively at the helicopter, the waiting pilot, and Emmet who's leaning nonchalantly against a post over there. That's one of his favorite poses. He thinks people think it looks natural. It does not look natural at all.
I look down at the card in my hand. Melody Parker. That’s a good name for a writer, I suppose.
