Imitation (7 page)

“
Taylor,” I say. It comes
out breathy because I am relieved to remember something this
important when I am still reeling about the danger I must be in
even now.

She inspects me critically and I
freeze. “You look … better than I expected. How’s your head? I
didn’t expect you out so soon.”

“
My head’s fine. Sore,” I
amend, knowing I should be feeling something from whatever injury
I’ve sustained.

“
I should’ve known it
wouldn’t keep you away from a good party,” she says. “Did Daniel
come with you?”

Daniel. I recall a face from the
photos. A senator’s son. Titus’s right-hand man. The way Linc spoke
of him, this boy is being groomed to take over Titus’s business
someday. Linc didn’t mention a connection between Daniel and me so
I’m not sure what to say to Taylor’s expectant expression. “Um
…”

“
Don’t tell me you haven’t
talked to him yet,” she says. “The paparazzi have been driving him
crazy from what I hear, trying to get the dish on what you two were
doing together that night.”

Paparazzi. I remember Linc saying the
word when we paged through those albums. Men with cameras, always
angling for gossip or secrets or something to sell. As if Raven’s
private business is a commodity.

I stare at Taylor, trying to
understand what she’s not saying. Was I with this Daniel the night
I—Raven—was injured? Is he special to me—to her?

“
I’ve been so busy with
doctor appointments, I guess I haven’t had time,” I say with a
careless shrug. “I’ll call him tomorrow.”

She smiles and the way her lips curl
is insinuating. “I bet you will. Come on, let’s make the rounds and
then find the bottle the maid stashed for us.”

She loops her slender arm through mine
and I let her lead me toward the party. Linc falls back and soon I
don’t see him anymore. We wander from gathering to gathering.
Taylor does most of the talking, her tinkling laughter cutting
through even the most serious conversations. Taylor knows everyone
and everyone knows Taylor. She is a master at small talk and
compliments and leaving everyone smiling in our wake. I wonder if I
am usually just as talkative but she doesn’t seem to mind my
silence.

More than once, I feel eyes on me from
across the room. I turn, expecting a glower from Titus or Gus’s
unsmiling watchfulness. Instead, I find Linc studying me with a
careful stare that seems to see everything all at once though he
only looks at me. Despite his judgmental treatment, I feel safe
with Linc watching.

When we’ve done a full lap and spoken
with everyone present at least once, Taylor leads me through a side
door and into a dimly lit room containing rows and rows of coats.
Small aisles span right and left, too narrow to walk through
without my shoulders brushing the jackets hanging on either
side.

“
Shut the door, will you?”
Taylor goes to the nearest rack and begins searching
pockets.

I push the door until it latches and
then wait while she continues patting down jackets. “What are you
doing?”

“
I had the maid leave a
stash for us. Should be right around … here!” She pulls her hand
free from the pocket of a fur wrap, grinning triumphantly. From her
fist dangles a clear glass bottle with blue lettering.

She motions me over and
pulls me down beside her. We sit on the carpet with our legs tucked
under us. I try to read the label on the bottle but Taylor uncaps
and upends it before I can make out anything beyond the word
vodka
. She takes a quick
swig, grins, and holds it out for me. I take it, trying to seem
sure, like I’ve done this a million times.

I wrap my lips around the opening and
tip it back. The moment the liquid hits my mouth, it burns. I
wrench the bottle away and squeeze my eyes shut to block out the
fire ripping a trail down my insides. I swallow and then cough hard
enough to rack my shoulders.

Taylor laughs. “Damn, Rav. Did hitting
your head affect your ability to hold your liquor?”

I grunt something that isn’t really an
answer. She grabs the bottle and takes another swig. All too soon
it is my turn again. Like before, I cough and sputter as the liquid
cuts a molten path down my esophagus. By the third swallow, the
burning lessens and I feel … looser. Taylor is laughing, though
neither one of us has said anything remotely funny. For some
reason, this makes me laugh too.

When the door opens, we fall abruptly
silent, but that just makes the whole thing funnier and sound
erupts around my closed lips.

I recognize Linc’s shoes before I see
his face and I manage to shut up, although I can’t help the
brilliant smile that remains. This relaxed version of me is elated
to see him again. He appears around the aisle of coats, glaring
when he spots Taylor beside me—and the bottle between us. Only then
do I realize neither of us bothered to try and hide it.

“
Your father is looking
for you,” Linc says.

His voice is low and deeper than
usual. His brows are drawn and I can’t tell if he’s angry because I
don’t feel the least bit disturbed by his expression. Or by
anything else, thanks to the drink. Then I realize who he means by
“father” and the image of Titus wipes the smile from my face in an
instant.

I jump up and mumble something to
Taylor about seeing her later.

“
Call me!” Taylor says as
I hurry out. I can tell by the sound of her voice she is not the
least bit disturbed by the interruption and has every intention of
continuing the party on her own.

I follow Linc out the door and he
whirls on me before I can leave the shadowy alcove that shields us
from the rest of the party. “That was monumentally stupid
disappearing like that,” he says.

“
I didn’t—I thought you
were watching,” I say, stumbling over words that feel thick in my
mouth.

“
It doesn’t matter. You
should be more careful. You can’t rely on me to be everywhere, to
see everything.”

“
Why not?” I ask, cocking
my head in genuine puzzlement. “You’ll protect me. And it was just
Taylor.”

“
How do you know? There
could’ve been someone waiting for you in that room, and I wouldn’t
have gotten there in time.”

I hadn’t thought of that. Now that I
have, I am afraid—and angry with myself for being so stupid. I try
to think of some flippant remark, some quick comeback to hide my
fear or the fact that he is right, but my thoughts are
cloudy.

“
And to top it off, you’re
drinking?” He throws up his hands. “Do you
want
to die?”

“
No,” I whisper, but he
ignores me and keeps on.

“
How am I supposed to
protect you if you won’t even protect yourself? I can’t save an
idiot. You’re already dead if you keep this up.”

I step back, feeling as if I’ve been
struck.

Before I can answer, Gus appears. He
seems oblivious to the tension between Linc and me as he says,
“We’re leaving. Meet us downstairs in five.”

I reach for the door behind me but
Linc shakes his head and steps around me. “Wait here. I’ll get your
things.”

He disappears inside the coatroom
before I can argue. The sound of his voice lingers in my ears, an
accusing loop of his harsh words. Somehow I know that if Linc has
given up protecting me, I don’t stand a chance. But more than that,
I hate that I will never, ever earn his respect.

It takes me all of three seconds to
come to a decision. I head for the elevator with quick steps and a
fixed stare. I hope my expression is determined and detached enough
that no one will question me. And that I don’t run into Titus or
Gus. I am sure there are other security officers here watching but
none have approached me. I’m counting on them remaining far enough
back they won’t notice my intention until it is too
late.

When I reach the foyer, I push the
button that will call the elevator and glance around. A few
partygoers wander this way but they are wrapped up in their own
conversations. I sidestep and slip out the door into the stairwell.
It is seventeen flights down but I do not go that way.

It is three flights to the roof. Even
so, I am winded when I reach the door marked “Exit” in glowing red
letters. I pause to catch my breath—and curse myself for that third
swig of vodka. So far, I’ve heard no sounds behind me, no
indication I am being followed.

I shove the door open. The chilled air
sobers me and the tingly feeling in my fingertips and toes lessens.
I scan side to side and spot a ladder extending up and over the
edge of the roof. My shoes click loudly as I break into a run. For
a fleeting moment, I believe I have escaped and it is exhilarating.
The liquid fire in my belly burns through my veins, charging me
with energy. I increase my speed.

I’ve never actually allowed myself to
imagine something like this. It’s too far-fetched, too impossible.
And too dangerous. If I’m caught trying to leave, I will be
terminated for sure. If I succeed in escaping, I have nowhere to go
and will probably succumb to the elements or starvation anyway. My
plan is crazy, ridiculous. Forbidden. But I don’t stop. I would
much rather die on my own terms than according to the plans of
someone like Titus Rogen.

I am two steps from the edge when a
hand closes over my wrist and wrenches me sideways.

I scream and then my head hits the
brick wall and I am abruptly silent. The pain is instant and
overwhelming and I cannot see past the blackness that closes in
like a widening funnel around my pupils. My knees buckle and the
hand on my wrist is not enough to keep me upright. As I slide to
the ground, the hand releases me. I hear a grunt and am not sure
whether it belongs to me or my assailant.

Someone yells. A door slams. Feet
pound against concrete, the sound coming closer and closer until I
feel someone standing directly over me. I blink but I can no longer
see anything around the blackness.

I hear another grunt—this time I know
it’s not mine—and then the sound of someone gagging. It makes my
stomach roil and I wonder if I’m capable of vomiting since it would
require moving. I cannot make a single muscle work.

A blur of movement enters my sight
line. I blink furiously and through the darkness I see faces.
Blurred, angry, contorted. Bleeding.

Then everything goes black.

When I wake, I am shivering. I blink,
each meeting of my eyelids sending a shooting pain through my
skull. Fabric rustles as someone leans in and drapes my coat over
my shoulders. A familiar face blurs into focus and I relax at the
sight of the hard jaw, the forehead creased with worry.

“
Linc,” I say, putting all
of my relief into that one word so that it comes out on a cry. I
don’t remember much but the little that replays in my mind is full
of terror and the certainty that whoever attacked me meant to kill.
I whip my head side to side, trying to locate the danger my brain
insists still lurks.

“
It’s all right,” Linc
says, scooting closer and putting an arm around me. I go still
under his touch. “He won’t hurt you ever again.” He pulls me into
his chest and rubs my arms and for a moment, I allow myself to
forget about how close I came to dying or how furious Titus will
be. Instead, I enjoy the feel of Linc’s arms around me and the
knowledge that he protected me. I am safe.

“
That’s better. You’ve
stopped shaking,” he says a few moments later. I don’t realize
until he’s released me that the only reason he held me was for
warmth. I bite back my disappointment because there is no room for
affection in this life.

“
What
happened?”

“
I saved your ass, that’s
what happened,” he says, and instantly his concern melts into a
heated glare. Accusing. And I remember the last thing he said to me
before my failed escape attempt. “You have absolutely no concept of
self-preservation, do you?”

Exhaustion threatens, partly from the
alcohol having receded and partly because I realize now how
ill-begotten my plan was. “I wasn’t trying to get killed,” I say
wearily.

“
Then what the hell were
you doing going off alone? You had to know how dangerous it
was.”

Images assault me, broken, jagged,
misshapen through my confused memory of what happened after I hit
my head. I am fairly certain I remember Linc with his hands wrapped
around my attacker’s throat, removing them only when another member
of my security team pried them off, all the while someone in the
background insisting that once the victim’s face turns purple, the
need for pressure is moot.

“
I … I was trying to …” I
stop and start only to stop again. I cannot tell him the full
truth—that I meant to run away from a life that doesn’t belong to
me in the first place. “I wanted to get away, I guess.”

He makes a sound that is a cross
between a snort and a growl and throws up his hands. He doesn’t
argue and I have the sense that he has accepted my recklessness as
par for the course. I don’t like the idea that he thinks I’ve given
up on surviving.