These Things About Us (23 page)

He snuck a hand under the covers and ran it over my ankle. “This isn’t about last night, is it?”

“What?” I glanced up at his worried features.

“Did I hurt you? Or was it too fast after all?”

 “No. God, no. Last night was the best night of my life, Trace.” I scooted up to him and slung an arm around his mid and pressed my forehead into the space between his shoulder blades. His hand tangled with mine on his stomach. “I’m just nervous about later.”

He started painting his swirls and circles on the back of my hand and I let my eyes flutter close at the soothing touch. This was much more effective than any breathing exercise.

“You’re going to be fine,” he said and for the shadow of a second, I could believe him.

After a quick a shower, I fumbled my hair into some sort of bun and put on my tough-girl outfit which consisted of my new brown combat boots, my ripped jeans and Trace’s large, grey shirt. I either looked like a cartoon character or like someone who could take on a grown man if she wanted to. I hoped for the latter, but for good measure I coated on some dark red lipstick before I grabbed my backpack and went down to the pub. Alex and Trace were leaning against the bar, next to each other, reminding me of the very first day I walked into this place when they’d been bartending together. I’d noticed their similar features then, and they stood out now. I might not be able to witness it first hand, but at least I could be sure that Trace would still be handsome at forty-something.

“Ready to go?” I asked, making their heads snap up.

Trace pushed himself off the counter and took my backpack from my shoulders. With my muscles still sore from the bad sleep, I couldn’t protest. “Ready when you are,” he said just loud enough for me to hear.

My smile was fake as I nodded. This was as ready as I’d ever be.

I contemplated hugging Alex goodbye, but I hadn’t taken the time to say goodbye to Wesley or Sierra. I wouldn’t start breaking down now. I just had to keep up the good face.

“See you later, Alex.” I waved at him.

He gave a tight smile in return. “Thank you, Darling.”

The cab ride to Victoria Station was too short. My throat had been too tight for most of the way to say any of the things I still wanted to tell Trace. So in the end, all I could muster up was, “Don’t let them push your buttons.”

 I was glad he held onto my hand, because otherwise I would have been shaking all over when we stepped into the front hall of the coach station. I dared to look at the screens with the departure times and gates just to have my suspicions validated: I was going to an airport. Heathrow airport.

I had to pull Trace forwards if I didn’t want to turn on my heels and run, so I dragged him towards gate five, my breathing speeding up with each step.

Who my father sent was unimportant to me. I’d tried to escape this life for what felt like ages. I’d had professional help to normalize my lifestyle and it was all for nothing in the end. You couldn’t choose your family and in my case you couldn’t even run away from them. My life unfolded before me like a map. I’d be forever trapped in my father’s scheme. His influence could keep me locked into his world for good. Maybe even after he died.

I tried to assess the situation when we arrived at the gate two minutes early. People with suitcases bustled past and forth, two kids were running around, playing catch, a janitor was sweeping the floor. There were pigeons in the waiting hall along with dozens of passengers, waiting for their coaches to arrive. It was a huge mess, and I knew that was exactly why Dad had chosen this place.

Trace’s hand jerked around mine, and I followed his eyes to a man in suit pants and a white button down, holding a black briefcase. There were a dozen of the same kind around, but this specific one, we knew.

I could be so stupid sometimes. Someone in plain sight but barely noticed. Crook 101.

“Jean,” I said as a way of greeting the man with his dark hair tied into a low ponytail. He looked like a true business man today, not some wacko French guy with a broken relationship.

“Actually, it’s Roland,” he said, completely accent-free. Well, he did sport some southern drawl, but nothing about him seemed French anymore. “Miss Ainsley. Trace.” He put his hand into his pocket as if this was a casual meeting.

“You sick son of a bitch,” Trace growled and my hand snapped tighter around his to keep him grounded. You didn’t lose your temper at business meetings unless you wanted things to go way wrong.

“I take it, this is for us?” I pointed at the briefcase. The tension between the three of us strained my nerves and even with Trace’s hand folded around mine, it took all I had not to start counting my breaths.

Passing the black briefcase to Trace, Jean/Roland still wore his coy smile. “Don’t spend it all at once, boy.”

“The money is in there?” Trace asked and I mentally applauded him for ignoring Roland’s comment. “Should we go somewhere to count it?”

“There’s no need for that,” I said, “This is the part where my father still plays the good Samaritan. It’s all there. If any of the guys who handled the suitcase took something out, they wouldn’t wake up tomorrow.”

Trace kept a straight face and nodded. God, I hated that this didn’t shock him. I didn’t want him to think this was anywhere near normal.

“Okay. Well, let’s go home,” he said, causing Roland’s eyebrows to jump high.

“The girl is coming with me,” Roland said and I pulled my hand out of Trace’s.

This was the end. I tried to think of the best way to tell him with my own words but when I glanced up at Trace, understanding washed over his face. He dropped my backpack to the floor. “She’s not going anywhere but back with me.”

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken, boy.” Roland’s cockiness must have looked funny and reckless to Trace. That guy was half his size after all.

Trace moved up to him, invading his personal space and I watched the others move from the corners of my eyes. “Trace,” I warned and shot quick looks around. We had a few passengers watching us, plus the guys my father sent. “People are staring.”

“I don’t fucking care, Kitty. I’m taking you home.”

“You won’t,” Roland sneered. His patience was finally faltering.

My control was being tested. Damn. I felt them closing in. I couldn’t see all of them from where I stood, but I knew there were five of them. Despite his strength and my speed, five were too many for us to take on. Especially with the janitor keeping his sharp eyes trained on us but being the only one who wasn’t coming closer.

“What do you want to do?” Trace spit in Roland’s face.

“Trace. Stop. If you don’t want the buzz cut janitor to shoot you, you back off. Now,” I hissed. Finally, I had his attention. He scanned the hall for the guy I was talking about and I used the chance to point at the two men with the baggage cart by the exit to the parking lot and the guy standing just four feet behind Roland with a phone pressed to his ear. I couldn’t see where the bulky guy in sweats was, but he must have been somewhere behind me. “We’re outnumbered.”

Trace’s eyes darted to the various exits and I watched his face contort and slacken as he realized we couldn’t run.

“Take the money and leave,” I ordered.

“I’m not leaving you with them,” he said and stepped back from Roland, towards me, then stopped dead in his tracks at the same time that two meaty hands fell down on my shoulders. Well, the big guy was a quiet one. “Get your hands off of her, asshole.”

I bent down to pick up the backpack and the guy behind me let me. Because for him, I was royalty. I got hurt, he got hurt. Trace, however, was of no meaning to them.

“Kitty, don’t do this.”

“I’m sorry, Trace.” As soon as the words left my lips, the two men from the baggage cart – both tall and muscled – flanked Trace. He kept still, with his eyes boring holes into my skull. I swallowed, already regretting saying the next thing out loud in front of Trace, “If you hurt him, I’ll make sure neither of you will be able to conceive children after tonight.”

Neither of them flinched.

They were used to this world as much as I was.

“I’m sorry,” I repeated and allowed the big guy and Roland to haul me outside. Trace called after me. Once, twice, three times. I closed my eyes and prayed they took me serious enough to break none of his bones. Especially not his hands. He needed them to make music.

At least he had the money. They got to keep the pub, their future, their home. That counted more than the cracks ripping through my heart with every step that carried me away from Trace.

Roland lead us past the coaches towards a black limo with tainted windows. Apparently even a coach wasn’t safe enough for my transport. The slim man opened a door to the back of the car for me and I shot a last glance back at the waiting area, but I couldn’t make out anything behind the dirty windows from back here.

I hoped he’d left. Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath but the cold air stung in my lungs. Maybe my heart really was shattered now. It felt like all its splinters had pierced my lungs and I gasped the air up again.

“Get in, Miss Ainsley,” Roland thundered behind me.

Nothing in the world could make me sit next to this man, so I scooted as far over as possible and buckled up. I hugged my backpack tight but something hard pressed into my belly. Thinking it was the plastic thing on the straps I reached down to adjust it but got hold of a pair of ear buds instead. I followed their cable into my bag and pulled at it until a silver IPod surfaced from the depths of my backpack.

I tried to keep a straight face, as I was sitting next to my very own guard dog, but mentally I drew my eyebrows together at the sight. Because I didn’t have an IPod.

I pressed all the buttons, unsure which was the right one, until the screen lit up. The track list showed one single file.

Kitty.

This might not be my IPod but Trace had put it in my backpack for me to find. Before I could think twice about the smartness of the move, I popped the ear buds in and pressed play.

Trace cleared his throat and another crack hit my heart. “Hi Kitty. This is it, isn’t it?” He’d recorded a message for me. “We won’t say goodbye. Not the way we should. You’re going to leave me here… I’m sorry. That came out wrong. I don’t want you to feel guilty about doing what you think is right. Just so you know, I’d live in the gutter and eat rats if it could make you stay. But you want to be a good person. You are. Nobody else would sacrifice their freedom like that for people they’ve only just met a couple of weeks ago… You’re sleeping next door, in your room, right now. And you look anything but comfortable. Fuck. I want to be there with you. It’s the last chance for me to feel your body pressed against mine. But I’m trying to be selfless. You deserve a proper goodbye. In case I’m wrong, you won’t ever hear this. God, you have no idea how badly I want you to never have to hear this. I wish we could do this face-to-face, but if we did, I couldn’t let you go. And I know that’s what you need from me. Kitty, this is my goodbye.”

He’d known I was leaving and he came with me anyway. He’d been prepared for this and still he’d tried to fight. If the broken remains of my heart weren’t already his, he’d have owned them now.

Trace took a deep breath and then I heard the sound of his guitar. It was a melody that I thought sounded dark, until I heard his even darker, low voice.

“I’m standing here in this clouded room.

I’m waiting for nothing, I let my life loose.

There’s nothing left for me but this.

It’s a fading song, a drowning melody.

Nothing remains that I could miss.”

I could hear the hurt through the ear buds and my throat tightened. I couldn’t fathom how he’d kept that kind of pain off his face all morning. Pressing my forehead against the cool window, I waited through the strumming of his guitar for his singing to pick up again.

“Keep your secrets if you must.

There are all these things about us.

They force us apart, they pull us back in.

We are more than where we’ve been.

You walk in, stop across the bar.

You’re clear through the smoke, rip open my scars.

Something drags you down deep inside.

You’re trying to hide it from the world,

Running from shadows, searching for light.”

He was singing a song about us. About me. I clutched a hand to my mouth to keep the sobs down, but tears started leaving hot trails on my cheeks.

I turned my face away from Roland and hoped he wouldn’t notice that I was falling apart only a foot away from him.

The suppressed sobs stung in my throat and I squeezed my eyes shut against the pain. The darkness sealed me off from the world and I was alone with Trace’s voice. I could stay in that small, dark corner for the rest of my life. Just me and him.

“Keep your secrets if you must.

There are all these things about us.

They force us apart, they pull us back in.

We are more than where we’ve been.

You saved me in more than one way.

Your strength puts the breath back in my lungs.

It’s a debt I can never repay.

Keep your secrets if you must.

There are all these things about us.

They force us apart, they pull us back in.

We are more than where we’ve been.”

I’ll move heaven and earth to get back to you, Kitty. Until then, this song has to keep you company when I can’t.”

I lived in a bubble. I didn’t watch TV, didn’t read the newspaper, hell, I hadn’t touched that sparkling new tablet in weeks if not months – ever since everyone had been informed of the new it-girl in Hollywood: Annie Ainsley. Didn’t that have a nice ring to it?

I didn’t like the cover but Dad had insisted that I needed it unless I wanted suspicious cops snooping around in his business. I didn’t mind the snooping, but I didn’t want to end up in jail, just like him. On the pro side, I got to go shopping a lot and had a whole room full of pretty clothes. When I sat in there, surrounded by rich fabrics and bags more expensive than my entire trip to England, I could ignore that the house was filled with security staff and that I had paparazzi following my every move as soon as I stepped outside. In there, on the plush, light green armchair, I could pretend that I was a normal, albeit privileged, girl and that I wasn’t some sort of figurehead for the illegal business my father and his men were tending to in L.A. That I hadn’t just sat through someone being shot in both knees two days ago.