Amy Bensen 01 Escaping Reality (11 page)

on the envelope with my lease inside and it’s like a knife has cut open the

sultry veil of fantasy I’m hiding beneath. My handler wasn’t here today, but

he could have a key. I wonder if he’d had a key to my first place in New

York. I shiver again, and this time it is not with desire. I am creeped out in a

big way, and I’m having my locks changed.

I shake myself and stand up, setting the note from Liam back on the

table, uncomfortably aware of my circumstances. Liam is a distraction and a

problem I cannot afford. No matter how much I might want to see him

again, I cannot. I won’t. Sleeping through the sound of a feather dropping

isn’t an option to me, let alone relaxing with a man I barely know to the

extent I sleep through the opening and shutting of doors. Liam was good

for one night, a bridge to the next day in the face of a crisis. I’m on the

other side. I hope.

***

Thirty minutes later, I’ve showered, and I’m looking ridiculous in my

new t-shirt and a skirt, with high heels I intend to replace quickly, but the

t-shirt seems better than a gaping blouse.

To add to my disorderly appearance, I stare at the light blonde

poofball that is my hair in the absence of a styling product and a flat iron,

and decide I look like I just stuck my finger in a light socket. I am what my

mother would have called a “hot mess”, and I try to hear her voice in my

head and fail, which is why I normally don’t try. Failing hurts.

Giving up on my appearance, I snatch my small purse and head to the

kitchen table, and put all my new cards and ID in my wallet. Gathering my

lease and the cell phone I intend to return to Liam, I decide I need to take

my now empty carry-on with me. I load it up with my purse, paperwork,

and the phone. I’ll be dropping it by Liam’s hotel sooner than later to avoid

any chance of running into him. And thanks to the to-do list I wrote and

rewrote about five times before I dried my hair, I head to the door feeling a

tad more in control than when I woke up. Lists do that for me. I write things

out when I need structure. I rewrite them when I still don’t feel I have it all

pulled together. Or I clean and organize. Or I write lists in between cleaning

and organizing. Maybe that should be my cover. I’ll be a maid. No one

would expect to find my father’s daughter cleaning up after other people,

and it would control my stress. It isn’t my dream career, or what I went to

school for, but I have to find a way to get back to where I was before the

museum, where surviving was more important than dreaming.

I step into the hallway outside the apartment (I’m not ready to call it

“my apartment”) and I’m locking up when I hear the door directly behind

me open and shut. I turn and jolt to find myself locked in the penetrating

stare of a man as tall and devastatingly male as Liam, but that is about

where the comparison stops. While Liam has a worldly, refined, and

somehow edgy air about him, this man is a rugged bad boy from his torn,

faded jeans to his long, light brown hair tied at his nape.

“New to the neighborhood?” he asks, shifting a leather backpack to

one of his

impressively broad shoulders, and my gaze falls and finds his Dallas

Cowboys t-shirt, and the link it represents to what was once my home

momentarily knocks my breath away.

“You okay?” he asks, and my gaze jerks to his. Was I obviously

rattled? I’m never obviously rattled. “You look like you saw a ghost.”

“Yes,” I say quickly, silently warning myself this could be a trap, a way

to lure me into admitting some connection to a past I cannot claim. “I’m

new to the neighborhood. I just moved in last night.”

His gaze flickers over my clothing and lingers on my t-shirt, the way

my gaze had on his.

“Just a hunch,” he comments, “but moving here from New York?”

“Yes,” I confirm, hugging myself, embarrassed by the reminder that I

am a frizzy, mismatched mess, “and unfortunately, my clothes didn’t make

it from the airport.” I sound nervous. I
am
nervous, and I only wish I had the

luxury to let it be about his good looks, not his intentions. But I do not. “My

outfit is certainly a way to make an impression.”

“I’ve lost a few bags in my time,” he says, and his words are as warm

as the interest I see his eyes. He’s warm and oddly familiar in some way

that I cannot identify, but it doesn’t make me uneasy. In fact, it’s

comfortable. “And,” he adds, his voice a little softer, “I don’t think you need

a t-shirt to make an impression.” He motions to the elevators. “I’ll ride

down with you.” He starts walking.

I stare after him, trying to dissect what he meant. I don’t need a

t-shirt to make an impression? Is that good or bad? Bad. It’s bad. No matter

the reason, I don’t need to be leaving impressions of any sort on anyone.

Double-stepping, I hurry behind him to catch up and again remind myself of

what time has taught me. Bad hair and funny clothes bring attention just

like being overtly sexy does. I have to fade into the background, play mousy

librarian like I have in the past. Or clean houses, or whatever it might be.

I’ve lost the library as a cover. Anything I once did I can no longer do.

We stop at the elevator and he punches the button. “I’m Jared

Ryan.”

“Amy,” I provide, and force myself to say more and embrace this new

identity in a believable way. “Amy Bensen. Nice to meet you. You live in the

apartment across from me?”

“For a month or so,” he says, but doesn’t offer more. I want him to

offer more. “What brings you to Denver?”

I have no idea why, but I feel like a deer in headlights. The doors to

the elevator open and I rush inside, tired of spinning tales. “I hear there’s a

great mall right up the road,” I reply as he joins me inside. “That’s all a girl

needs.”

He steps into the car, tilting his head and studying me. I punch the

button to the elevator and the doors shut instantly. He keys in the floor.

“You moved here for a mall you’ve never checked out?”

So much for familiar being comfortable. “It’s been a long time.” It’s

not a lie. Never
is
a long time. A very long time. “How far away is it?”

“Cross at the stoplight and you’ll be at the mall.”

I don’t like how keenly he is looking at me. Like Liam, he sees too

much and I think his one-month stay is probably a good thing. The doors

slide open and I don’t waste any time escaping to the walkway outside, a

high wind lifting my hair around my shoulders.

Jared joins me and motions down the sidewalk. “Just walk straight

and you will run right into the mall.”

“Thanks. Nice to meet you. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again.”

He steps a bit closer. Really close, actually, and I can smell his

cologne. It’s warm like the man, and it reminds me of Texas cedar on a

spring day. He glances downward, his gaze landing on my feet, and he

inspects my open-toed shoes and my pink painted toes for so long, blood

rushes to my cheeks. Over my feet. That’s a new one.

His attention lifts, eyes narrowing almost suspiciously. “Are you

walking in those shoes?”

“It’s close. I’ll be fine.”

“You want a ride?”

Yes. No. Yes. No. No. No. Not only does Jared see too much, he has

this easiness about him that would make running my mouth far too easy. “I

appreciate the offer, but I’d like to go explore my new neighborhood.”

He considers my reply for a moment, his lashes lowering, and then

lifting. “I’d offer to show you around, but I have a meeting.”

It could be a polite comment without meaning, but there is

something in his eyes that tell me it’s not. I believe he would take me and

show me around and I would gobble up the opportunity to talk about my

old home state, or really, to just talk about anything. If things were

different. If I were really Amy Bensen.

“We’re neighbors.” Dang it, I sound hoarse, almost emotional, not

casual and friendly.

What is wrong with me? “I’m sure we’ll see each other.”

“I’m sure we will,” he agrees, and there is a rasp to his voice that

carries a hidden meaning beyond the obvious. I search his eyes and I

think…I think he feels this familiar comfortable thing I feel, too.

I lift my hand in a parting gesture. “See you soon,” I reply, and

somehow I make myself turn and start walking, but my steps are heavy and

slow, my body like lead, weariness seeping into my bones. I can feel Jared’s

stare, and I can feel him willing me to turn back around. And I want to. I

want to with a desperateness I can barely contain. The museum has given

me a taste of what “normal” feels like, what friendship feels like, and I miss

Chloe already. And I miss the tiny window of time when I walked around

corners without fearing what was on the other side.

I pass two stores and I swear I can still feel Jared watching me. Why

would he still be watching me? The hair on my nape prickles and I start to

think about Jared’s “Texas” shirt and the way he’d questioned me about

not knowing the area. He’s familiar. Why is he familiar? I don’t know. I am

suddenly glad I didn’t cave and ask about the shirt, and that I didn’t answer

his questions with any more detail.

At the corner, I stop by a bank, and I rotate to face the door, pausing

before entering the building to look for Jared, but he is nowhere obvious. A

funny, knotted sensation tightens in my belly and it’s not comfortable at all.

In fact, it’s downright uncomfortable, which is crazy. I have every reason to

be relieved that he is gone, and as I enter the building, the cash machine

appearing to my left, I have every reason to focus on what’s important. Like

answering the question of how much cash I have to survive.

I pull my wallet from my purse and pull out the card I’d used during

my life in New York and stare down at it. The desire to claim my cash from

the bank and know I have it is powerful, but out of the blue, an image of

Liam comes to my mind. He’s a billionaire, a man who has the money to

find out anything he wants to know about just about anyone, including me.

How do I know that whoever is chasing me doesn’t have just as much

money? What if my cards are all flagged or tracked in some way? I sigh with

painful resignation and slip my card back into my wallet. If I touch that

money it has to be on my way out of town, or maybe the country. My gut

says I should keep my cash card and my old identification that lets me

withdraw larger amounts in my purse, just in case.

Removing the new card my handler has given me, I slide it into the

machine and punch in the code I’ve been given, searching for my balance.

My name comes up on the account and I wonder how my handler managed

to set up the account without my signature. My balance is $5000. My new

rent is $2200, but it’s paid for this month already. I have no idea if I really

will get more money as promised, and I’m too cautious to assume I will.

That means I have to hold onto two months’ rent to feel secure until I see

another cash deposit in this account. That leaves me with $800 to buy

clothes and food. I’ll need more money to survive. Please let there be more

money.

My head begins to spin and I remind myself my handler said he’d

deposit weekly installments into this account, but when? On what day? Do I

have utility bills to consider? I remove the card and head into the lobby.

There is no way I’m letting anyone, not even my handler, track me by my

card number. I’m withdrawing all the money now.

***

Fifteen minutes later, I’m in a dressing room in a store by the mall,

wearing a pair of black shorts and a pink tank top, with a cheap, but cute,

pair of black Colosseum-style sandals on my feet. And what a relief they

are. In only a few blocks my feet are blistered—or, as my father used to say,

my dogs are barking. I’m going to take the tags to the cash register and

wear my clothes out of the store.

I’m just gathering together several other small items, enough to

make three cost-effective outfits that I can wash and rotate, when the

phone in my bag starts ringing. I sit down on the wooden bench against the

wall and listen to it, fighting the urge to pull it from the bag. I should have

taken the phone by the hotel first, but the idea of walking into that fancy

place with my t-shirt and skirt on was too much. And now it’s ringing and it

can be only one person. Liam. Liam is calling me and I want to answer.

Without a conscious decision to do so, I reach in my bag and pull out

the box holding the phone. It stops ringing and starts back up almost

instantly. I set the box down on the seat and stare at it like it’s some kind of

alien. It stops ringing again and my stomach twists and turns like rope in a

tangled mess. I’m a tangled mess. A beeping sound comes next. A message.

Liam has left a message and I don’t even think. As if I want to prove I am

indeed a mess, I snatch up the box and open it, punching the message line

and listening.

I haven’t heard from you and we both know you’re in some kind of

trouble. Call me, Amy.