We tumble to the ground, and the ache in my side intensifies. There’s liquid and glass on the floor from broken wine bottles. I roll so that Cecilia is on the bottom, and from her yelps of surprised pain, I know her back is being stuck with jagged shards. The pain makes her loosen her grip, and I wrest the gun from her. Scrambling back into the corner so I can see the door, I point the gun at her.
“I’m not much of a shot, but I bet I don’t miss from here,” I pant. “Sit over there.” I gesture toward the opposite wall. I want her as far away from me as possible, but I need to be able to see the door in case Travis comes in. I want to look for a phone, to be able to call Ian, but I’m afraid to take my eyes off her.
“You have so much,” Cecilia cries. “You could spare a few million, and Richard and I will be out of your hair. We’ll go to Monaco, and you’ll never see us again.”
“Don’t beg.” I rest my back against the wall-to-wall shelves that hold probably a hundred bottles of wine and pull my knees up. I’m shaking from adrenaline, from pain, and from fear, so I use my knees to steady my arm, never taking my eyes off her, never moving my aim. I can’t shoot her, though. Not like this. And maybe not ever. I try not to let that show in my face, but holy Christ, I’ve never held a gun before and I’ve never shot someone. I don’t even want to. What I do want is to know why, and so I ask, “Is it just about the money? Ian says that in your circle, it’s either money or status. Don’t you have status from your family?”
“Is this where you think I’m going to spill my guts to you like some bad movie villain?”
I shrug. “Fine, don’t talk. I guess I don’t give two shits why. You’re going to go to prison. Imagine how your nails are going to look in there.”
“You know that Ian called Richard and threatened him,” she snarls at me. “Was I supposed to just sit and take it? After all I’ve done to maintain our lifestyle? After all the years I’ve spent cleaning up after Richard, did you think I’d allow you and Ian Kerr to ruin us? Besides, Richard out on his own would have squealed like a pig. I love that man, but he’s weak and useless.”
“It was you behind the notes, the assault on Ian? All of it?”
“All of it,” she sneers.
“You’re a horrible person. You are so horrible that I’m glad you’re going to go to prison and that you won’t ever be able to hurt Ian again.”
“You are so uncouth.” Her lip curls. “Ian is as well, if all he’s interested in are your sexual abilities. Like mother like son. He probably sold himself. That’s where his money came from.”
“Uncouth but loaded.” I can’t help but mocking her. “Besides, his mother wasn’t a prostitute. She was desperate, and your husband took advantage of her. I don’t get why you stayed with him. Is he a good lay? Because he’s not a good provider. You’re a pretty woman with a good background. I think you could’ve done a lot better.”
“You have no idea.” She sneers. “Men over fifty look at women like me as if we are some kind of relic. We only have one role to men with money and that is to care for their children. Otherwise, there is no second chance for us. They want—and are able to—fuck teenagers and college students. Anyone over the age of twenty-five must have some kind of spectacular attribute. Big tits. Long legs. Both, preferably and those only last until they’re thirty, and by thirty-five you are simply too old to be considered of any use. Richard might eat at different restaurants, but he always returns home to me. Always.”
“Because you have money. Or had money, but once that goes, so will he,” I say.
She turns away, trying to hide, but not before I see the anguish flash in her eyes.
I’d feel sorrier for her if she hadn’t kidnapped me and tried to kill me. I try to calm my racing heart by taking a deep breath, but the pain in my side intensifies. I drop my hand to press against the ache, and it’s red when I pull it away. Blood-red.
“You shot me,” I say in a stunned voice. “I can’t believe you f**king shot me.”
“Did you think the gun was for show?” She rolls her eyes like I’m some stupid child.
“You’re a psychopath.”
Eyes blazing, she retorts, “I protect what is mine. Just like your precious Ian.”
“Ian held off any action against your husband for years because he didn’t want to hurt you. You and him are nothing alike. You used people and hurt them—like Lauren and her brother. Buying cops? Shooting at people? Ian would never do that. He’s better than you and always has been.”
“You’re weak,” she says. “You’ll never be able to shoot me.”
I fear she’s right. I’ve never fired a gun before, but I want to live more than anything. I want to hold Ian again. I want to kiss him, f**k him, live with him until I’m old and gray and can’t do anything more than sit on our little beach and hold hands. Biting my lip, I squeeze the trigger.
IAN
FEAR AND RAGE ARE FIGHTING for dominance. The only sound I can hear is my harsh, ragged breath. My throat is coated with bile. I clench my teeth hard to stop the shaking. I bargain with God, with Buddha, with every single higher entity. Please. Don’t let her be harmed. Let them just be talking.
Deep breaths, I counsel myself. I need to be calm to help Tiny. Serenity is too far out of reach, though.
I open my mouth to offer the driver more money. At this point, I’m ready to buy him a f**king transportation company, but before I can get a word out, I’m thrown backward as he presses the gas down hard.
“Don’t need to offer me more cash,” he calls back. “I heard. I’m getting you there, stat.”
We speed down the 65th Street transverse and catch air as we pop out of Central Park and head toward Lex. “Turn down Lex,” I order.
“I know where to f**king go,” the driver growls back. Barely braking, he takes a hard left on Lex and then a right onto 64th but he’s not driving fast enough. There are too many f**king cars on the goddamn road. I want to howl with rage. “What side?”
“Right!” The front door looks formidable. I’m not going to be able to kick it down, and shooting the lock off in broad daylight seems risky. “Go down to the corner.”
At the corner is a store that sells lotions and shit. It’s blindingly white and probably smells like a florist’s shop. He brakes hard, and I’m running before the car stops. Behind me I hear a door slam, but I don’t take the time to look back. Throwing open the door to the soap shop, I barrel through, dodging a saleswoman and the center display aisle.