Chapter 7 #4
Ellen found that she could stand. The support of his hands felt good, too good, and she took a small step back, away from his grasp. “I hope you’re not thinking of staying here while I use the bathroom.”
She was painfully aware that she was in the presence of an amazingly attractive man, dressed only in a wrinkled gown, even if it was silk, with bed head and probably moss growing on her teeth.
Being on the run meant many things, including a loss of dignity.
Those golden eyes saw too much, understood too much.
“I won’t stay if you don’t need me.” His golden gaze was keen, he searched her eyes, took a moment to answer.
“But I’m going to be right outside. If you need my help, all you need to do is call, I’ll hear you.
” He nodded to the sink. “There’s an unused toothbrush and a travel-sized tube of toothpaste there. Soap and a towel are on the counter.”
“No moisturizer?” she teased.
“Sorry. Whoa.” He shook his head, surprised. “Not even a hint of moisturizer. But I’ll buy some later. Nicole can tell me what to buy and where. Or better yet, I’ll have her buy it.” He stepped back out of the bathroom. “Remember, I’m right outside,” he said, and closed the door.
Ellen used the toilet, then walked to the sink. The bathroom was very large and very spare. All the fixtures were white and the walls were tiled in white. There were white glass fronted shelves on the left hand side and a huge shower on the right.
There was no trace of a woman. Ellen told herself that it was absolutely no business of hers if a woman lived here or if even a battalion of women trooped through his bedroom and bathroom nightly, but she was whistling in the wind because the spurt of relief she felt at seeing his toiletry items—one comb, one brush, one toothbrush, one half-squeezed tube of toothpaste, an electric shaver—on the sink was unmistakeable.
The brand-new plastic-wrapped toothbrush and travel-size tube of toothpaste had Compliments of the Hilton Hotel on them.
She eyed the shower, tested her knees, and thought—what the hell. A second later the nightgown was on the floor and she was under the shower.
Bliss.
She’d lived in such miserable hovels over this past year. They had reminded her of the places she’d lived in during her childhood and that she had worked so very very hard to put behind her.
Hard work, intense study, focused like a laser beam to get her degree while holding down two jobs, all that hard work at her first big job and yet this past year had brought her back full circle to what she’d fought so hard to escape.
The dirt cheap motels as she made her way west, with the rust stains in the toilets and the pubic hairs in the shower. The rented rooms with a grudging trickle of hot water. She knew those kinds of places intimately.
She’d made a lot of money on Eve’s records, but it had all gone to the company she’d set up to receive the monies. She hadn’t figured a way to draw on the money without drawing attention to herself. Her money might as well have been on the moon.
So this shower was pure luxury.
Harry Bolt seemed to have no-frills tastes in décor, but that seemed to be more a reflection of his taste rather than his pocketbook.
He sure hadn’t stinted on the bathroom. The shower stall was ten times larger than her last shower in her rented studio apartment and had six shower heads.
She stood under the pounding hot water and let herself go.
In one of her under the table waitressing jobs she took for a few days in a small town near Denver, another waitress had taken a shine to her.
The waitress was flaky New Ager, but had been kind and warm-hearted.
She had a bunch of theories about water—that flowing water takes trouble and bad karma away.
Maybe. Maybe not. But she was sure feeling better.
Ellen hummed. She always sang in the shower. She sang when she was happy, to celebrate. When she was sad, to cheer herself up. When she was frightened, for bravery.
Such a mixed blessing her voice and music had been to her, all her life. Her mother had been a lost soul, living on the fringes of the music world, dreaming of making it big while drinking too much and smoking too much and failing at holding down jobs.
The irony was that her mom hadn’t had much of a voice.
There might have been something there when she was young but by the time Ellen was ten, it had long gone.
Cindy hadn’t taken care of herself, in any way.
What little voice she had had succumbed to the cigarettes and the liquor and the unhappiness.
First her voice had gone and then her life, when Ellen was seventeen.
And her mother had been so angry that Ellen had been given all the talent in the family.
When she was little, her mom dragged her around fairs and open mike bars.
Ellen could sing harmony with a wild boar.
Her voice held her mother’s voice up. But then, as she got older, the owners of the bars started wanting just Ellen.
But by that time, Ellen had seen enough of the underside of the music world and had discovered math.
Cool, rational math. So perfect. So shiny and sublime.
Always dependable, always. Two plus two always made four.
Everything else in her life was unstable, transient, unpredictable.
But once she discovered math, there was no going back.
She finished high school a year early and in college simply dove into her studies.
Music was no longer necessary to eat. It became her private joy. In the shower, driving, on walks. A private joy and solace.
Like now. Stressed and uncertain, scared and without a future, the music poured out of her like the water from the showerheads and both cleansed her.
Out of the shower, it took her only a few minutes to be ready. She couldn’t find a hair dryer, so she simply towelled her hair as hard as she could and combed it. No moisturizer so once she was dry, she put the nightgown back on, and that was it.
She placed her hand on the door and hesitated. The shower and the singing had taken her out of herself for a little while, but behind that door was reality, waiting to take a big bite out of her.
A man who’d saved her life, a man she found almost insanely attractive, was waiting there. For the moment, he’d spread a mantle of protection over her but she couldn’t huddle there forever.
Apparently, what RBK did was place women under threat in a new life. Harry Bolt hadn’t managed so far because she’d been wounded. But Ellen could only imagine that he was hoping she’d hurry up and get better so he could get back to his life.
In a day, two, three maybe, she’d be on her way. Maybe he’d wait till the stitches were completely absorbed. So maybe she could have as much as a week, feeling the lack of fear like a gentle, warm wind on her face.
But sooner or later, she’d be out in the cold. Relocated to somewhere improbable, like North Dakota or Wyoming, though if they gave her a choice, she’d choose mild winters and sunshine over snow any time. But still. This, as in so many things over this past year, was out of her control.
So she’d find herself in some strange town, with a new identity and a new name to get used to. Scared of making friends, working low-level jobs. Keeping her head down. And now, never singing, ever again.
Her heart beat painfully at the thought.
This moment, this precise moment, she thought. Remember it. Feeling warm and unrushed, with a paladin behind the door, safe.
Remember because it won’t last.
She pushed the door open.
There she was!
Harry nearly dropped to his knees. The sounds coming from his bathroom had been so heavenly, he had to pinch himself to make sure they were real.
The music coming out of her mouth had been amazing. If a Martian had to find out what humans were like, all he had to do was listen to Eve. Ellen.
And on top of it, she was herself a beauty, a sort of extravagance of talent. You’d think that having that voice, that ability, would be enough, but no. Who could possibly imagine that a voice like that came out of the luscious mouth of a beauty like Eve? Ellen.
It was hard to think of her as Ellen. Though maybe not, now that he thought of it. If Eve was going to be a beauty, then you’d think she’d be this big in-your-face beauty.
Instead Ellen had a fresh, quiet loveliness.
Unobtrusive and hidden. You had to look twice to see it, though after you did, you couldn’t look away, ever again.
Clear, pale poreless skin, large, uptilted green eyes with heavy lashes, small straight nose, slightly oversized mouth that made you think of music and, well, sex.
She was small, slender, with a narrow ribcage, which was strange because when she sang jazz, she could belt it out like a smokin’ mamma.
She came out of the bathroom hesitantly, first sticking her head out, as if waiting to see if danger lurked, then pushing the door wide open. The movements of a woman who was still afraid, who’d been on the run for a year.
She was right to be afraid because that fucker Montez was still after her and would be for the rest of her life unless Harry stopped him. Preferably dead.
Her running days were over, though. Harry would stand for her.
Part of the hesitation was over him, he knew that. He’d done everything possible to reassure her, but it was clear that her last memory had been him running toward her at breakneck speed with a gun, and then she’d woken up in a strange place with a gun wound.
The human mind works on all sorts of levels. It was capable of fine sentiments and refined thinking, which was very good while drinking tea and discussing the politics of the day and the latest movies.
But what saved your life was the primitive part of your brain. The one that took signals from the world as it is, not as you’d like it to be. The part of your head that pinged and sent up smoke flares when dangerous men are around.
Harry was a dangerous man.