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Grant smiled at Lucas knowingly. “It’s her way of saying she’s scared and wants protection.”
Lucas leaned in, lowering his voice. “She never mentioned how she managed to get away from her kidnappers. Were any flammable weapons of the homemade variety involved?”
Tati answered the question for Grant, flanking his shoulder, which suddenly felt warm and tingly.
“It was Flynn. Once Birdie moved out of the Cambridge estate, Dr. Hillsboro moved me to a remote wing on the property while Errol, Ariana, and Flynn moved into the rest of the house.
“Late one night, Flynn found me and came up with a plan, all on his own, to help me escape. Days later, after everything was set into place, he waited outside my room while the guard left to snag his usual midnight snack, and then exchanged my I.V. bag filled with propofol to one with saline. He was sitting beside me, with a wheelchair at the ready, when I came to, and managed to get me past the guard, a vast network of security cameras, and into a waiting van that took me to a hotel room reserved under a pseudonym.” Her face turned concerned, setting all kidding aside, and she added with a broken voice, “He put himself in danger for me. Errol and Ariana treated him like a low-functioning half-wit. But he’s not. He’s smart and kind. And wonderful. He just thinks and reacts differently than other people. Flynn Shepherd is just as much a victim as me and Birdie Wellborn-Shepherd.”
* * *
Lucas wassurprised at how well his disguise worked as he walked past an oblivious Errol who was eating breakfast on the lanai, despite feeling utterly ridiculous.
He wore a tank top so tight, it looked like something a male stripper would wear for the mere ease of ripping it off his torso.
Riding low on his waist was a pair of high-end board shorts that were presumably all about aesthetics as opposed to support. Because, and he wasn’t ashamed to admit it, he preferred his boys to be cradled rather than roaming free-range.
On his feet, he wore OluKai Nui sandals. He never liked the style of sandals with a single piece of leather digging between his toes, and could feel a blister starting to erupt from the constant friction.
His wig, over his short trimmed dark hair, which was about twenty different shades of blond highlights, gave him a surfer dude look. A look he had never particularly cared for, despite having been raised a few hundred feet from the coast.
If all this wasn’t bad enough, the coup de grâce was the spray tan he’d attempted to apply. After last night’s acrobatics in the hotel shower, he wouldn’t be surprised if they charged for damages. He’d checked out of his room in haste, knowing there were streaks of bronze hand-prints smeared all over the hotel’s snowy white towels.
In his mind, all of these accoutrements were antithetical to living the “Salt Life.” Which was a lifestyle that was minimalist and raw and didn’t require branding, fake tan lines, or Instagram posts to “sell” it.
He and Tati almost devolved into fisticuffs when she insisted he wear a prosthetic nose. To which he won the battle but not the war, by agreeing instead to a pair of Bajio aviator-style, mirrored sunglasses.
Honestly, the sunglasses he liked and considered pocketing when this charade was over and he relinquished his duffel bag of vapid ridiculousness.
Wondering how long it was going to take for Errol to finish his al fresco breakfast, he set the duffel on the ground that was now full of pool-related items. Items on a very specific list that Tati had put together and told him to purchase upon arriving in Boston to complete his disguise.
While allowing his splotchy tan to dry, he’d read the pool testing instructions for the sake of authenticity, hoping he wouldn’t have to fall back on his late-night cramming.
Pool maintenance was not his forte.
Removing the water testing kit from the duffel, he set each of the various vials and containers on the pool decking.
Suddenly, a pair of alligator shoes came into view, and he looked up at a frowning Errol.
He straightened, sweat dripping down his back from the intense desire to connect his knee to the man’s beak of a nose.
“Yes, sir?” he choked, with constrained anger.
“Did Raul talk to you about the smart pool monitor I asked about?”
Who the fuck was Raul? Maybe the property maintenance manager? Not out of the question as the estate was Augusta National Golf Club-worthy, with acreage spanning approximately five acres and what appeared to be a NASA-level security team.
Except for when it came to the pool boy and his credentials, or lack thereof.
If Grant were here, he’d be mumbling, “fucking rookies,” under his breath.
Lucas pasted an affable grin on his face. “He did. Great guy that Raul.”
“Then why are you here, testing the pool manually, instead of installing the new unit?”
Why was that?
Always quick on his toes, he replied, “On back order. Top-of-the-line device that’s in high demand.”
