Chapter Eighteen Chase
Chapter Eighteen
Chase
“You’re alive,” I joke, hearing Noah laugh on the other end of the phone.
“I don’t know about alive, but at least we’re on the same soil. Not gonna lie, the Cinnabon in JFK was a sight for sore eyes.”
“Filth. But welcome back anyway, brother. Never leave me again. I had no one to talk to.”
I’m a big fat liar. Huge. Giant.
He chuckles. “Do not bust my balls for not calling. I’m on my honeymoon.”
I stop at a red light as someone with house music blasting pulls up next to me. So I turn my head and yell, “I’m on the phone. A little consideration.”
Maybe it’s my fault for getting a convertible as a rental. But I needed a pick-me-up since it’ll take a month to restore my baby.
“What did I tell you about yelling at strangers while you drive?”
“These fucking kids nowadays . . . and listen, technically, your honeymoon is over. So it’s time to give me attention. What time do you guys land in the a.m.?”
I’m hoping it’s sometime after sunrise, because that’s not the version of our surprise romance Evie was thinking of when she made a plan to spring it on them.
“Well, currently, we’re sitting in a lounge, exhausted and trying not to get too drunk so we don’t fall asleep and miss our flight. But if all goes well, we’ll be home in about six hours. Give or take a tailwind.”
I count on my fingers. It’s eight thirty right now, but he’s East Coast time . . .
“Midnight, dummy,” he shoots out, making me laugh.
“God, it’s nice to have the nerd back. I’ve been doing too much heavy lifting as the personality hire of this group.”
I hear him repeat what I said to Goldie, who laughs, and it makes me think of something Evie said earlier, so without thinking, I say, “Listen, my girl . . .”
Fuck. Oh, I promised I wouldn’t screw up the surprise.
Noah scoffs. “You have to stop calling my girl your girl. She’s my wife, so my girl.”
Saved by my personality. Of course that’s what he thinks.
I roll with it. “Fine. But tell me how many times she complained I wasn’t there to feed her.”
He grumbles. “I’m gonna kill you.”
I laugh too maniacally. “I knew it.”
“Honestly, I’m kind of surprised that I’m talking to you right now. Speaking of Monroe women. I figured Spartacus would’ve killed you by now.”
She’s trying to, but it’s a death I’d take over any other.
“Nah, we figured out a way to get along . . .”
“As long as nothing got broken in my house, I’m glad you worked it out. I’ll call when we land.”
I pull into the back parking lot behind the restaurant, remembering I had something to say.
“Hey . . . hold up. Did you get my text?”
There’s rustling like he’s getting up from a seat, and then I hear him tell Goldie he’ll be right back. I press the button on the car to put the roof on.
The second it’s done, his voice is low, but there’s less noise. “Yeah, I did. I was gonna talk to you about it when I got home because I’m with Golds. But what’s going on?”
I shake my head, staring at the street I’m facing.
“I don’t know . . . it’s just something in my gut. Today, Evie told me the movie’s having some trouble on-site with some weird guy. And she doesn’t know I know, but a couple of weeks ago, Ruth Bader got stolen. And then my car . . .”
I clear my throat, hearing how crazy I sound, before I send him a picture of the damage. Still, no matter how many times Evie cursed the red-paint vigilantes, that fucking pit in my stomach wouldn’t leave.
It’s why I was so worried about her going into work. But if anyone can either talk sense into me or say run, it’s Noah.
“Look at what I sent. I think I’m just being paranoid, dude. It would track, considering . . .”
“Yeah,” Noah says, huffing a laugh. “I fucking get that more than anyone. Damn,” he breathes out when he sees my car.
“And that’s one of the reasons I can’t shake the feeling.
It’s the kind of damage . . .” He knows I mean his old apartment.
“The car threw me. I know Evie thinks it was because of my stupid article, but all I said was that I love a good steak and would never bring myself to embrace a fake. My car was personal . . . and now with the shit on set . . . Something’s off. ”
He grumbles like he hates what I’m saying. “And nothing weird has happened at the house or anything? Like anyone on the property or shit being misplaced?”
I scrub my hands over my stubbled cheeks, briefly thinking about how I tried to shave this a.m., but she all but wrestled the razor from me.
“I mean, nothing unexplainable . . .” I narrow my eyes. “There were rats on the bed . . .”
Noah groans. “Yeah, Goldie said Princess brought in a treat. That cat hates me. At least she isn’t shitting in my shoes again.”
I’m nodding, wanting him to talk me out of this or this out of me. But it’s like there’s something right in front of my face, and I’m missing it.
Noah reads my silence wrong, saying, “You don’t think it was Princess? You think someone was in the house?”
“No . . . no,” I rush out. “I was just thinking that I’m missing something, but, dude, listen to us. We’re two theories away from connecting Princess to the grassy knoll.”
He lets out a breath. “You’re right. We sound crazy.”
“No, as Joyce would say, we sound traumatized.”
“Yeah,” he agrees.
“Nobody broke in,” I say like I’m the one trying to convince the both of us now. “Who’s getting past all your locks to leave rats on her bed? Because if that were true, then the theater wasn’t a prank either. And my apartment was a fucking setup . . .”
I mean it to sound ridiculous. Like lunacy. But I’m gripping the steering wheel as my face darkens. I open my mouth to tell Noah to say I’m being paranoid, but a text comes through.
Evil : They’re serving croissant sandwiches. And they’re not fluffy. You’d be so pissed.
She’s so cute, but seeing the text makes me frown because her name in my phone is right above the picture I’m still open to—of the back of my car.
Without a second thought, I screenshot it, sending it to Noah. I’m silent, waiting for the screen to say delivered, because it’s becoming real fucking hard to think this is all just a coincidence.
“Evil will die . . .” I whisper, knowing he’s seeing what I am. “Look at her name, Noah.”
“Fuck . . .” he answers quietly.
“Am I paranoid? Say I’m paranoid.”
My heart’s beating out of my chest. This shit can’t actually be happening again. Lightning doesn’t strike the same place twice.
“I can’t,” he rushes out. “Because I am, too . . . but we don’t know anything, especially who we’re dealing with. If anyone. We could be wrong.”
“We could . . . but if we’re not . . .”
There’s silence, and I know he’s going over a thousand different scenarios just like I am.
“The most important thing is if someone is watching, we can’t let on. So we don’t tell the girls. It’s gotta look like business as usual. We don’t want someone going rogue on us.”
I nod before I say, “Agreed.”
“I’m going back to the lounge to keep an eye on my girl, and I suggest you do the same. Evie’s yours until we get there.”
“She’s mine even when you’re here.”
I don’t care about the fucking surprise anymore.
“Heard. Chase.” He pauses, the gravity of what we’re thinking settling in. “We don’t know what this is, but I believe your fucking gut. Just promise if anything goes sideways, swing first and call the fucking cops second.”
“I got you.”
We both hang up before either of us says goodbye, and I take a deep breath, quickly texting Evie back.
Me: don’t eat that shit. It’ll be in your stomach for years. Here’s an idea . . . when I’m done here, I’m gonna drive up and hang. We’ll drive home together when you’re off with a quick stop at your fave donut place.
Evil : Stop talking dirty to me.
I let out a heavy breath, because if our nightmare is angling for a sequel, I’ve got way more to lose than just my life. I’ve got Evie.
Let’s hope this is nothing, I think as I turn off the car, pushing the door open with my foot before exiting. I’m glancing around the parking lot, noticing there still isn’t another car.
It’s always weird to be here before the opening, because it’s like the calm before the storm, but right now my eyes aren’t just looking for the art guy . . . I can’t shake the idea that I’m not alone.
I stand quietly, taking in the night. A couple’s walking together across the street and there’s a stray cat on the wall. It’s an otherwise normal night.
My eyes narrow as I hear Noah in my mind again. The most important thing is if someone is watching, we can’t let on.
“This guy better hurry the fuck up,” I say to myself, jingling my key chain as I start toward the restaurant door.
I look at my phone for the time as a breeze blows, but I’m fifteen minutes early. We’d said nine because the delivery guys couldn’t be here until after the shop closed. I was happy to oblige, considering it was a rush order.
A heavy exhale leaves me as I stop in front of the door, glancing over my shoulder into the darkness. I’m fiddling with my restaurant keys, looking for the right one before I reach down for the handle.
My hackles rise when I hear a car rev, darting my attention to someone pulling out from a parking spot too quickly.
“Dick,” I whisper, holding the knob as I bring my key to the lock, but when I stick it in to turn, there’s no tension.
What the fuck?
It’s already open.
My heart begins thrumming faster as I quietly shove my keys back into my pocket. I swallow, looking around again as a thousand thoughts war inside my head.
Anyone could be inside . . . I should just call the cops, but . . .
If there’s someone inside who might be trying to hurt us. To hurt my girl. I’m handling it. Tonight.
I glance over my shoulder once more, an ominous feeling settling in my bones before I slip inside.
The kitchen’s pitch black, mainly because the front windows have been papered with a sign about the opening in a few days. So I stand for a moment, letting my eyes acclimate before I cautiously take a step forward, keeping my footsteps quiet while I look around.
But nothing seems out of order.
I glance at my knives, wrapped in their leather casing, still sitting where I left them. And the metal counters gleam even in the darkness as I let my fingers skim the surface while taking one silent step after another.
My head shifts to the wall cutout that’s open to the front of the house. I don’t see anything, especially in the dark, so I squint and stand still, waiting to hear something, anything.
I don’t.
The tension in my shoulders begins to drift away because I’m starting to think that maybe I forgot to lock the fucking door.
I mean, I have been pretty distracted.
And when I left here the other day, my face was buried in my phone, watching a video Evie sent of some phony pretending to be a chef while fingering food.
It was a disturbingly up-close shot of outrageous shit getting done to an orange before he chopped it up to use as a garnish. But the part I liked was the text. It said: Do this to me when you get home?
I was all fucking in. And to her surprise, I made it a fruity threesome. No orange or tangerine was safe. Even a grapefruit had stories to tell. So I can’t really blame myself.
My hand runs through my hair as I let out an audible breath, standing with my hands on my hips for a second as I look around.
It seems I’ve created my own drama.
Which is the kind I prefer, seeing as I’m far too intimately aware of the alternative. I walk to the wall that leads back to where the sinks and baking ovens are, only half thinking that I still haven’t checked there as I flick on the lights.
The fluorescents flicker slowly, turning on as I push through the set of double doors, this time not bothering to be quiet. Because nobody’s here, my paranoia just making me check.
But as I do, my feet skid to a stop as everything happens in slow motion.
A wrench hits the ground, and the sound feels like it’s happening in an echo chamber, pinging and clanging before the world speeds up again and I’m rushed by someone in a black hood holding a hammer.
And the world goes black.