Chapter 13
CHARLIE
I knew I shouldn’t have stopped for a little cry in the bathroom.
I’m so mad, so of course my tear ducts are betraying me.
But I fixed my face, told myself to toughen up.
On Monday, I’m telling Oliver everything.
Declan’s numbers. His trip to Mexico City when our competitor had an event there.
Oliver thinks someone is giving our business details to another race operator. It has to be Declan.
And then he rides the elevator down with me.
No apology. No explanation. Just that smug face of his, handsome and haughty.
And he was wearing some cologne that smells like sandalwood and leather, and his big broad body is distracting me from the fact that I find him odious.
It took every fiber of my being to not resume our argument.
To not tell him exactly what I think is going on.
To push my index finger into his chest and call him out.
Declan’s footsteps are close behind me as I walk through the parking lot. Where are my keys?! I’m too distracted, still thinking about this man.
My keys rattle at the bottom of my bag.
Somewhere in the garage, a motorcycle revs its engine.
It sounds like it is a few floors away. I remind myself not to let my anger get the best of me.
I still need to use basic common sense and look both ways before I cross to the stairs.
I parked on the far side of the garage this morning, so I have to go up a half-level to get to my car.
Please, please, please, let Declan have parked far, far away from me.
My fingers close round the keys. Declan is now two feet behind me. I’m so ready to get more distance from this guy. The motorcycle revs again, only this time it is much louder, much closer.
I look up to see it rushing down the middle lane of the parking garage, speeding toward the exit.
The motorcyclist’s leather outfit is striking, with an all-black full-face helmet and tinted visor.
The overhead lights reflect off the helmet.
But what really catches my attention is the swift motion they use to draw a gun from inside their jacket and point it at me.
I take a half-step back, but my body moves much further. As I register this, I assume I tripped over my own heels. But, no, it is something else. I’m falling, being pulled down.
A symphony of fear blares through the garage.
A shower of tempered glass rains down, some of the bullets striking car windows.
The ping of a bullet on steel or aluminum.
A resounding thud of pierced cement. Loud pops echo off the pillars and few remaining cars.
Lights flash as the motorcycle passes by, speeding away. I land, hard, on top of Declan.
His arm is round my waist, pinning me to him, down and away from the bullets that whizzed overhead.
I fall against his body, hard and warm. Before I can take a breath, I am on the ground.
Declan’s body covers mine, protective, as the last bullet echoes through the garage.
He is shielding me, putting himself at the most risk of being shot.
To protect me. Coworker from hell to human shield in an instant.
His breath is all I can hear now; his cologne is all I can smell.
We’re in the narrow space between two indistinguishable sedans, one tan and the other a faded red.
There is no space between us, his body completely covering mine.
Even though we were just shot at, even though the gunman could be coming back this very instant to finish us off, I feel safe.
I know, deep down – I know – Declan will keep me safe.
“Charlie?” Declan’s voice is calm, trying to get my attention.
My mind catches up. Someone shot at us. At me. At Declan. I see a perfect hole in the cement pillar above us. A bullet hole.
I’m too shocked to scream, to call out. And Declan, of all people, is above me.
“Charlie, are you hit? Are you OK?” The urgency in his voice intensifies; that’s what startles me the most.
My eyes finally focus on Declan, whose eyebrows are gathered with worry.
His eyes scan my face, reading me for some kind of sign.
I don’t feel any pain, just the cold of the cement below me and the heat of Declan’s hand cradling my head.
His face is so close to mine, only an inch or two above me.
In another context, the way he is holding me would be a lover’s embrace.
It feels like the most natural alignment of our bodies.
The closeness. The way he thought nothing of his own safety and protected me instinctively.
The end-of-day stubble on his chin is so close I could reach my face to his and nuzzle into it. I could close the gap between us and press my mouth to his. I guess life-and-death situations make you think senseless thoughts.
“No, I’m not OK,” is all I can say before I actually and truly faint.