Chapter 7 AVERY
AVERY
My hands haven't stopped trembling since I left the studio.
I've been gripping the steering wheel so tight my knuckles ache, checking the rearview mirror every few seconds like the photographers might materialize behind me on the highway.
They didn't. The drive was quiet, almost eerie in its normalcy, and I've spent every mile of it trying to slow my breathing the way Nick taught me—in for four, hold for four, out for four.
Almost home. Almost safe. Nick said he'd be right behind me.
The barrier rises and I pull into the garage, relief flooding through me so fast my shoulders drop from where they've been hunched near my ears. Three seconds of that relief. Maybe less. Then I glance in the rearview mirror and everything tilts.
Bodies rushing through the gap before the barrier descends.
Several of them—I count five people scrambling after me—sprinting after my car, cameras already raised.
They must have been positioned right at the entrance, hiding.
Waiting for me. The barrier catches the last one's jacket as it closes, and he yanks free and keeps running.
They're inside now. Following me down into the parking level.
My hands tighten on the steering wheel and something cold settles in my chest. The fluorescent lights overhead are too bright, making everything stark and exposed, washing out shadows until there's nowhere to hide.
The concrete walls seem to close in as I accelerate toward my reserved spot near the elevator.
Their footsteps echo behind me, amplified and getting closer.
Panic clutches at me as I pull into my space. I reach for the door handle, but my brain catches up to what's happening and my hand freezes.
Oh, God. They're already surrounding the car.
Three on my side, the other two circling to the passenger door, cameras raised and faces pressed against the tinted glass. Their mouths are moving, shouting things I can't hear clearly yet, and my fingers slide off the door handle and wrap back around the steering wheel instead.
Maybe if I just wait. Maybe if I don't engage, they'll realize this is pointless and leave.
But I know they won't.
The pounding starts—fists hammering against my windows—and the shouts get louder, clearer. My palms slick with sweat against the leather wheel.
"Avery! Avery Ross!"
Then the questions come and my whole body goes rigid.
"Can you give us a statement on your mother's interview?"
"Did you witness your stepfather's murder?"
The words hit me square in the chest, knocking something loose I've spent years learning to keep locked down. The shame. The memories. The teenage girl I once was, standing in a police station while everyone stared and whispered.
"How does Nick feel about marrying into a criminal family?"
"Why did your mother murder your stepfather in cold blood?"
I flinch hard, my shoulder hitting the seat, and suddenly I can't get enough air.
Each question lands like a physical blow, demanding pieces of myself I don't know how to give.
How do they know about the shooting? How much of the article have they read?
The pounding intensifies and camera flashes start bursting against the glass, white light stabbing through even with the tint, and I squeeze my eyes shut but it doesn't help because I can still hear them, still feel them pressing closer and closer.
"What kind of abuse did you suffer as a child?"
"Does Nick Baine know about your past?"
"Are you using him to escape your background?"
The questions layer over each other faster than I can process, voices competing and overlapping until they're just noise demanding things I've spent years trying to protect.
My chest starts to tighten, squeezing like someone's wrapping bands around my ribs and pulling them tighter with every breath I try to take.
Another flash explodes against the window and suddenly I'm sixteen again, standing in that police station hallway with cameras everywhere and white light burning so bright I couldn't see anything else.
The detective's hand heavy on my shoulder, his voice rough when he asked me what really happened, if I was telling the truth.
The reporters pushing in with their microphones, everyone staring and speculating on what Martin Coyle had done to me, on where I was and what I might have done that day he ended up dead, how far my mother might go to protect me.
The pounding on the glass pulls me back to the garage but the past won't let go completely. I'm here and I'm there, sixteen and twenty-eight, equally trapped. Is this ever going to stop? Will I ever outrun it?
I can't pull in a full breath no matter how hard I try.
My chest is locked, frozen, refusing to expand.
My heart slams against my ribs so hard it hurts and everything spins even though I'm sitting perfectly still.
The trembling in my hands spreads through my whole body until I can't grip anything, can't control anything, and bile burns up the back of my throat.
The noise builds and builds. Pounding. Shouting.
Flashing lights. But it's starting to sound muffled, as if I'm sinking underwater and can't reach the surface.
All I know is that I can't breathe and everyone can see me and there's nowhere to hide from what I am, where I came from, what happened to me.
I slump forward with my arms wrapped tight around myself, eyes squeezed shut, trying to hold the pieces together and just survive this.
Then his voice cuts through everything.
"Get the fuck away from her!"
Nick. My body recognizes him before my mind catches up, and the relief that crashes through me is so overwhelming my knees would buckle if I were standing.
The noise shifts as photographers argue back, but Nick’s deep voice drowns them all out as he shoves his way to my door.
"I said move!"
I startle at the electronic chirp of my locks releasing. He has a key fob for my car.
The door opens and air rushes in. Then his dark, spicy scent reaches me, and it's so warm and familiar my chest loosens just fractionally.
Nick crouches beside the open door with one hand braced on the frame and the other reaching for me.
The harsh fluorescent light cuts sharp angles across his face.
His jaw is clenched so tight the tendon jumps, his eyes blazing with something that would terrify me if I didn't know it was all in defense of me, never at me.
But when his gaze finds mine, something in his expression shifts. The lines around his eyes soften. His mouth loses that brutal edge.
"I've got you." His voice drops low, the fury banking down to something tender meant only for me. "Come on, baby."
His hand closes around mine. Warm and steady, he pulls gently while his other arm slides around my shoulders. My legs wobble just a bit, so the second I'm upright he pulls me against his side, his body becoming a wall between me and every camera still pointed our direction.
I bury my face against his chest and just breathe him in. His heartbeat pounds strong and steady under my ear, the rhythm I've fallen asleep to so many times I could find it in the dark. My body knows how to take comfort from it even when my panic is climbing and my mind is still spinning.
He starts walking with me. I focus on keeping my feet under me, letting him take most of my weight because after everything we've been through I know he can hold me up.
The photographers are still shouting, but all I can really process is Nick's arm around me and the solid warmth of his body anchoring me to something real.
"Back up. All of you. Now."
His voice has gone quiet, which is somehow worse than the shouting. The kind of quiet that precedes devastation. I feel the shift in the air as people respond to it.
One photographer doesn't move fast enough. A microphone is thrust toward my face, too close, and Nick's free hand shoots out. The shove sends the man stumbling backward hard enough he nearly falls.
"Touch her again and I'll break your fucking hand."
He means it. Every word. And everyone here knows it.
The others step back, creating space, and we keep moving toward the elevator. From behind us, Gabriel Noble's voice cuts through the chaos, joined by other men as his team forms a barrier and begins helping drive back the shouting throng.
I don't turn to look. I just keep walking with Nick, one foot in front of the other, my face pressed against the warmth of his chest.
The elevator doors open and he walks me inside. They close behind us, sealing out the noise, and the silence is so sudden it rings in my ears.
I exhale then, a shaky, uneven sound. But my body doesn't unknot.
My hands are still trembling against his back.
Nick doesn't let go as the lift ascends.
One hand cradles the back of my head, fingers threaded through my hair.
The other bands around my waist, holding me close enough that I can feel each heavy thud of his heart.
"You're safe now, angel. I've got you." He presses a kiss to the top of my head, his lips warm through my hair. "I'm sorry I wasn't here sooner."
The panic is receding in slow stages as the elevator carries us toward the penthouse floor. First the spinning stops. Then my legs feel like they might hold me. But my hands won't stop shaking, and there's still a tight ball lodged beneath my sternum.
"I'm okay," I manage.
Nick doesn’t say anything, just holds me closer.
The doors open silently to our foyer and Nick guides me inside, his arm still secure around me. He walks me through to the living area and stops in the center of the room, still holding me like he's not ready to let go yet. I'm not ready either.
My phone begins to ring in my purse, jolting me. His phone starts buzzing too. The sound scrapes against my raw nerves. We may be home, but this awful day isn't through with us yet.