Inescapable

Chapter 20

Open season on Iris Hughes.

The five words rattled around in Trystan’s brain for the rest of the day. He couldn’t get it out of his mind. Along with the fucking horror he felt at the knowledge of everything she’d been subjected to these past few weeks.

Chance had clammed up after that last statement, going back to his usual monosyllabic, taciturn self. Although Trystan was starting to believe that the usual that Chance showed Trystan was not the usual he presented to everyone else.

The other man had politely deferred from answering any further questions about Iris and had excused himself to take a quick shower. The rest of the day he’d spent lurking and hovering, occasionally playing with Luna, and vetting any of Trystan’s unscheduled drop-ins—from the pizza-delivery guy to Trystan’s PA. He’d left at six-thirty, when Caleb had arrived to take over babysitting/bodyguarding duties.

After picking at the pepperoni pizza he’d ordered for dinner, Trystan eventually retreated to his den with Luna, leaving Caleb in the living room with a thick book. Trystan didn’t usually have a round-the-clock in-house protective detail, but Sam felt the extra precautionary measure was necessary for the next few months or weeks, at least. And Trystan found it easier to acquiesce than argue with the man.

Luna settled down on the sofa next to him and immediately fell asleep. Trystan envied her that easy descent into oblivion. He scratched behind her ears, and she moaned in contentment without opening her eyes.

He reached for his laptop on the coffee table, hiked an ankle onto the opposite knee and rested the lightweight device on his thigh. He stared at the closed computer for a second before swallowing thickly and opening it.

He hadn’t looked her up. Hadn’t asked anyone for any information about her. Had shied away from following up on what had happened to her after that last day. Instead, he’d read that initial fucked-up article in the car en route from the airport—after his security team had so unceremoniously hustled her into the other car—and had resented her. Fucking loathed her. The seething sense of betrayal had fueled his fury and he’d clung to it. Had needed it because without the betrayal, without the fury, all he had was his overwhelming grief.

He ran a search on her name and read—with increasing horror—the articles, the social media clips showing her literally fleeing from journalists, the outraged rants on his behalf calling her a psycho stalker, a bitch, an ugly whore, a greedy slut…

It went on and on, every damned—sometimes blatantly libelous—article making outrageous accusations against her.

Then, just before his ill-fated interview with Mike Holmes five days ago, more excerpts from her journal had found their way online. Divulging painfully personal details about her phobias, her anxiety, her coping mechanisms, and the therapy she needed to keep it under control.

It was hard to read, and the mocking responses to those revelations from an unsympathetic public which added #teamtrystan to every repulsive, nearly-impossible-to-watch social media clip… That they would use his name to fucking torment her sickened him. And why wouldn’t they?

Chance was right. Trystan had thrown her to the wolves. He had abandoned her. And that very abandonment had validated this cruel, relentless public haranguing. Trystan had left Iris to face this hatred and vitriol alone, without even the physical comfort and support of her family. Despite that article being the death knell to their short-lived relationship, he should’ve protected her from this. Should’ve kept a security detail on her. But he’d wanted her to hurt, wanted her to suffer. And now… faced with the proof of that torment he found himself unable to stomach the reality of it.

He opened up the original article—wanting to remind himself of what she had done, of why he’d left her exposed to all of this invective—then sucked in a deep breath and released it on a slow, controlled exhalation. He then forced himself to reread the article she’d coauthored with her friend.

A quick scan at first, like ripping off a Band-Aid, then slower and with more consideration. After the fifth time, his horror and outrage—which had intensified with each consecutive reread—had him so choked up he found it hard to breathe.

His motor functions felt sluggish, his brain foggy… and—after he once again forced himself to read those leaked excerpts from her journal—he knew exactly what to do.

He needed a moment to curb his fury, desperation and panic, before picking up his phone to call Bee. He anticipated resistance, but this was a matter of life and death and he would not be swayed from his current course of action.

“Thankyou so much for this, Chance.” Iris was emotionally and physically exhausted and on the verge of tears. All of which could be heard in her quavering voice as she effusively thanked Chance while he led her into the guest room of the quaint house that he shared with a—as-yet-unknown—coworker.

“Don’t mention it. I wish you’d called me sooner,” he said, placing her suitcases beside the bed.

“It won’t be for long. Just until they lose my scent and I can sneak home.”

“Stay as long as you like. I don’t mind. Colby won’t either.”

“And your friend knows I’ll be staying, right?”

“I haven’t had the opportunity to tell her yet, but she’s not one to turn her back on someone in need.”

It was truly grating to be described as someone in need. Iris was usually ferociously independent, and she hated being reliant on relative strangers at a time like this. She’d never felt more alone…

“Are you sure?”

“Definitely. Don’t worry about it. And make yourself at home. You’ll have the house to yourself during the day. I’m on days at the moment, leave at four-thirty am, usually home after seven, unless, uh, he needs me to accompany him somewhere, or I go out with my mates. Colby leaves at seven and is home by five-thirty. She doesn’t go out too much. But she may have some friends over occasionally.”

Iris nodded politely, but doubted that she’d be here long enough to get too familiar with their patterns. She did briefly allow her mind to linger over Chance’s hours. He was still Trystan’s primary close-protection office and she wondered why Trystan would need Chance that early in the morning. He hadn’t struck her as an extreme early bird… then again, he’d practically been on vacation. No schedule, no responsibilities, and a fake little holiday romance to help him pass the time.

She shoved aside that last thought. It was getting harder and harder to keep her anger and bitterness toward him at bay. The worse things got for her, the more she found herself resenting Trystan. She’d known her life would change once her relationship with him became public knowledge, but she would’ve been able to handle anything with him by her side. Without his support, she was left with nothing but chaos and loneliness. She missed her quiet old life, missed being anonymous, missed spending time with her parents and brother. God, she even missed lending a hand at their catering events a couple of times a month.

But right now, she was stuck in this colorless, featureless purgatory, with no end in sight. An easy target for some truly unhinged and frightening people to mock and threaten. Her anxiety levels were through the roof. She was hypervigilant, paranoid and jumping at her own shadow. She’d already had several panic attacks—one so severe it had actually felt like she was dying.

“Iris?” Chance’s voice interrupted her churning thoughts, thankfully dragging her back into the present. He was still standing beside her luggage, his hands on his hips as his concerned green gaze ran over her face. “You okay?”

“I’m—yes—I’m fine.” Her voice was weak and scratchy and she sounded far from fine, but he nodded, taking her words at face value.

“I have to go. I’m on duty this morning.”

“Oh?” Her eyes drifted to the quaint cuckoo clock on the wall—everything about this room was a little twee, not at all what she’d expected from Chance’s home—it was a little after eight in the morning. He’d collected her from her flat at seven-thirty, and strong-armed their way through the ever-present crowd of reporters already lurking outside her building. There were always a few milling about on the sidewalk, no matter what the hour. One could almost admire their dedication.

“A bit of a late start for you this morning then, isn’t it?” she observed, not wanting to look like she was fishing for information.

Chance made a noncommittal sound before lifting his big shoulders. “I asked the night guy, Caleb, to stay a few hours longer so that I could help you move. But he’ll be pissed if I don’t relieve him soon.”

“Yes, of course. You should go. I’ll be fine.”

“Right. See you this evening then.” He strode toward the bedroom door, throwing words back over his shoulder on his way out. “The fridge and pantry are fully stocked. Help yourself. But stay well away from the chocolate chip ice cream, and—if you value your life—do not touch any Jaffa cakes or custard creams you may find lurking in the pantry. Colby has a sweet tooth and she can be irrationally mean if any of her snacks disappear.”

He was definitely speaking from experience if the pained expression on his handsome face was any indication.

“Noted,” Iris said with a weak smile. “Thanks for the warning.”

“See ya later.”

He was gone moments later, leaving Iris alone with a sinking feeling of dread settling in the pit of her stomach. She poked around her—incongruously—pretty and frilly temporary room.

It wasn’t to her taste, all delicate pinks and lace and doilies. And it made her wonder about Chance’s housemate. Despite the expensive, tailored suits he wore on the job, Chance couldn’t quite disguise the roughness beneath his urbane exterior. He seemed wholly out of place in this pretty little dollhouse overly adorned with fragile knickknacks and keepsakes.

The pale pink, cream, and white quilt on the guest bed alone appeared to be a family heirloom and—afraid of somehow ruining it—Iris carefully stripped it from the bed and folded it neatly. She placed it in the large antique cedar kist at the foot of the bed.

Iris called her mother first, needing to reassure her parents that she was fine.

“I don’t see why you couldn’t stay with us, Iris. We can’t let these horrible people dictate how we live our lives.”

“I know that, Mum. But it’s too hard right now… They’ve already targeted you. If they knew I was there, it would be much worse.”

“Iris…”

“Mum,” she interrupted quickly, not wanting to hear another variation of the same plea. “Chance and his housemate both work for one of the biggest security firms in the world. I’m safe as houses here. Better, nobody knows I’m here, which makes me breathe easier. I can actually go outside, sit in the garden, get some fresh air without people constantly vying for my attention, asking me intrusive questions, or straight up screaming insults at me.”

“I’m so angry at that man for dragging you into this mess. And for then up and leaving you high and dry to deal with it alone.”

“Evan did this, Mum. Not Trystan. He’s protecting himself.”

“You’re allowed to be angry with him, Iris. God knows, your father and I am. I will never ever watch one of his films again!”

Oh, Iris was angry. She was a seething mass of fury, but there wasn’t any point in rehashing all of those negative emotions with her mother. It wouldn’t achieve anything. She didn’t even think it would be particularly cathartic. The best thing for Iris right now would be to just forget any of this ever happened. Which was difficult when everybody was so determined to remind her of it.

“I’d prefer to just forget I ever knew him, Mum. And move on with my life. I’ll work through the negative emotions in therapy.” Just add it to the long list of other shit she needed to work through.

It was hard not to curl up into a ball of self-pitying misery. Not to howl why me at the unsympathetic sky. She’d been a target for bullies her entire life. And to discover that even her best friend had been subtly bullying and manipulating her for years, and then she’d gone and fallen in love with one too.

She felt like a fool and like the years-long progress she’d made in dealing with her anxiety and self-doubt had all been lost beneath this landslide of betrayal from two people in whom she’d mistakenly placed so much trust.

Her mother wisely dropped the subject and after talking for a few more minutes, they rang off with heartfelt I love yous.

Iris was unpacking an hour later when she heard the front door open. Startled and a little concerned at the unexpected sound, she cautiously poked her head around the bedroom door, just in time to see a small, curvy woman wearily trudge into the hallway.

The woman looked up, and her eyes widened in shock.

“Oh.”

“Hi,” Iris greeted, her voice tentative as she stepped fully into the hallway, and walked toward where the woman was still standing staring at her in confusion. She held out her hand. “You must be Colby. I’m Iris Hughes. I’m not sure if Chance had the opportunity to tell you that I’d be staying here for a few days. Uh… only if you’re okay with that, of course.”

“I know who you are.” The other woman said, not reaching for her hand, and Iris let it drop limply to her side. “Chance didn’t tell me about you being here.”

“Oh…” Iris swallowed thickly, trying to keep her breathing steady and her anxiety under control. What would she do now? Where would she go? “I’m sorry. I thought… I’ll just get my stuff and call an Uber. I?—”

“No.” The woman, who was wearing a blue pencil skirt, crisp white blouse and a matching blue jacket, shook her head. “I’m sorry. You must think I’m terribly rude. I just wasn’t expecting to find anyone here. Least of all someone who’s been dominating the entertainment news lately. Not that I’m really that interested in gossip, mind you. I just need to stay abreast of things because of our client list, you know?”

Iris nodded automatically. Not at all sure what to make of this pretty woman with the Betty Boop figure, the doll-like face and the earnest wide, round blue eyes. She was cute as a button, while simultaneously appearing to be as serious as a heart attack.

“I’m Colby Campbell, Chance’s housemate. And, of course you’re welcome to stay for as long as you need to. What’s happening to you is very unfair, and I’m sorry.”

The sincerity in her voice brought tears to Iris’s eyes, and the other woman’s already large eyes widened even further at the sight of them.

“Oh God, please don’t cry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I’m not upset. It’s just that… people haven’t been very kind recently.”

“I can imagine.” Colby placed her briefcase neatly—in a slot obviously for that exact purpose—next to the shoe rack in the entrance hall, and kicked up her heels one at a time to unbuckle and peel off her neat black and white Mary Jane pumps. The shoes also very tidily went into an empty spot on the shoe rack.

Without the heels she was a good four inches shorter than Iris. Probably only barely scraping in at five-foot-one.

“Have you settled in yet?” she asked Iris, as she padded past her on stockinged feet.

“I’m unpacking now. I only arrived about an hour ago. Chance dropped me off, but I wasn’t expecting either of you back for hours.”

“I have a migraine coming on,” Colby murmured, heading toward the kitchen. “Nothing I can do to stop it really.”

“Oh gosh, I’m so sorry.”

“I sometimes get them when I have my period. Like women don’t suffer enough, right? I need a cup of chamomile tea, some ibuprofen, my heated beanbag, and a dark room.”

“Of course. Why don’t you get changed, and I’ll sort out the tea and beanbag?” Iris offered, happy to be of some use to the woman who was being so kind despite the shock of finding an unexpected intruder in her home.

“Do you mind terribly?” Colby asked, looking pale and strained. “The beanbag is in my knitting basket in the living room. You’ll find the tea in the cupboard above the kettle.”

“Not at all.”

The other woman gave Iris a weak smile “Thank you so much. I’m going to be useless soon. I’ve been seeing bright spots for half an hour already, which is why I left the office. I didn’t sleep well last night. That’s usually a sign of an imminent migraine for me, but it’s such a vague symptom staying home felt like overkill, especially considering how rarely I get migraines.”

“How long does it usually last?”

“It varies, but my average is seven hours. I try to sleep through it, but that doesn’t always help.”

“You go on up to bed. I’ll be there shortly with your tea and beanbag.”

“We’ll talk later, okay?” Colby muttered apologetically, her words slurring ever so slightly. She stumbled a little as she turned and headed toward the staircase.

Colby and Chance’s bedrooms were upstairs. Chance had taken Iris on a quick tour of the place when they’d first arrived. The two larger upstairs bedrooms shared a Jack and Jill bathroom, which now seemed odd to Iris since they clearly weren’t a couple and neither appeared to be using the smaller downstairs bathroom. Which had to mean they shared the one upstairs. It was an intimate arrangement for two people who barely communicated enough for one to convey to the other that he’d invited a guest to stay at their house.

Oh well. It felt rude to speculate when these two strangers had been so kind to her already.

She got busy with the tea and the beanbag and took the items upstairs less than ten minutes later. Iris found Colby curled up in a king-sized four-poster bed—one of those romantic ones with a gauzy canopy. The bed dominated the medium-sized room, and the rest of the oversized pieces of furniture looked stuffed in, with barely any room for movement between them.

“Colby?” Iris whispered, as she stepped into the darkened room. “I have your tea. I’ll leave it on the bedside table, okay?”

She did so and placed the beanbag on the bed beside the small huddled figure. Colby gave a pained little grunt of acknowledgement and Iris tiptoed out of the room and shut the door carefully behind her.

“I need to speak with Iris,”Trystan told Chance one morning, four days after his unscheduled meeting with Bee and Quinny. The close-protection officer slanted a narrow-eyed look at Trystan in response to the comment, but his face remained inscrutable while he waited for Trystan to continue. “She’s not taking my calls and her mailbox is full.”

“She probably blocked or deleted your number,” Chance said with a noncommittal shrug. For some reason—despite the guy’s poker face—Trystan had the feeling the big blond bastard relished pointing that out. And he hated that the man was likely correct in that assumption.

“Yes. That’s highly probable. But be that as it may, I still need to have a conversation with her, and I want you to make that happen.”

“How?” Chance asked. He was perched on a barstool in the kitchen, doing a crossword puzzle with a pen, which he lowered to the page of his puzzle book as his gaze intensified on Trystan’s face.

“I don’t fucking know,” Trystan responded, frustration creeping into his voice. “That’s the type of shit you guys do, right?”

“Kidnapping?”

“What? No… what the fuck? Of course not, I meant facilitate safe meetings between parties.”

“I don’t think she’d be amenable to a meeting with you right now, sir. Kidnapping would be the only way to get her in the same room with you. Also, we’re not a dating or matchmaking service. We don’t facilitate meetings between couples.”

Trystan gritted his teeth. Had this guy always been such a smug, arrogant prick? Why was he only noticing it now? Not that Trystan generally minded people speaking their minds around him. He wasn’t one of those assholes who needed to be surrounded by sycophants and yes-men, but he wasn’t used to his bodyguards sounding off with such enthusiasm either.

They usually just stood silently in the background and looked menacing. He and Chance had been chatting more and had even bonded a bit because of their workouts and the fact that they were compatriots.

Part of Trystan wanted to put Chance in his place. Another—larger—part found that he didn’t mind the honesty, even though it made him want to punch the guy in the nose. He briefly fantasized about what that would feel like, imagining using the man’s own moves against him. Trystan sighed, as he acknowledged that Chance could likely paint the floor with his face if he chose to. Not that he would. Even more humiliating was the knowledge that Chance would probably simply sidestep any attempt from him and watch him fall on his arse.

“It’s clear that Iris and I aren’t able to simply walk out of our homes to meet somewhere for coffee,” Trystan explained with—what he felt was—the patience of a saint. “I need you or one of your colleagues to arrange a meeting with her in a neutral spot, free from prying eyes and ears.”

“Again,” Chance said, with equally exaggerated patience. “This is not something we would be able to do if Iris is not receptive to the idea. And she’s not likely to be.”

“How the hell would you know that until she’s asked?” Trystan snapped out the question.

Chance took an infuriatingly slow sip from his coffee before replying, “She was just kicked out of her flat. I’m afraid, she’s not going to be feeling particularly charitable toward you… sir.”

Trystan’s stomach dropped to the soles of his feet at the snippet of information. Oh God, this was going to be so much harder than he’d expected. He was desperate to have a conversation with Iris. He’d been calling her nonstop for days, and had been hitting a brick wall. His WhatsApp messages remained unseen and unread, a reliable indicator that she’d blocked his number. Her social media accounts had all been disabled.

The time for neutral meetings and rational discussions had passed. He’d allowed this to go on for longer than it should have. He should have reached out four days ago, after reading that article again. But he’d been a fucking coward. He’d wanted to have all his ducks in a row before he spoke to her. Now this news.

“Where is she staying?” Trystan asked, his voice shaky and low. “Is she with her parents? I need you to take me there, right now.”

“What?” For the first time Chance’s slightly bored, smug demeanor slipped and he went from a relaxed slouch to upright in a second. “Take you where?”

“To Iris. At her parents’ home.”

“That’s not a good idea, sir. We won’t be able to control the environment, not with such short notice.”

“It’s better if I don’t show up with a fucking entire army of bodyguards?—”

“Close-protection officers,” Chance corrected.

“Whatever the fuck! You know what I mean. We can call Quinny, take his car. It’s a gray, ten-year-old Toyota. The most ordinary, nondescript car on the planet. It won’t draw attention.”

“But you will. You forget you’re one of the most instantly recognizable people in the world.”

“People see what they expect to see,” Trystan said, warming to the mad idea. “And nobody expects me to show up to a house in Southfields at random-’o-clock on a Tuesday evening. I’ll wear a hoodie, a baseball cap, something. I can pretend to be the pizza guy. Work with me here, Chance. I need to see her.”

“No,” Chance said, his voice adamant, his expression no-nonsense. “I can’t let you do that.”

“You forget that while I know that it’s in my best interests to follow your instruction for my own safety, I don’t actually have to do so. If I choose to walk out of here right now, you have no recourse but to follow me out that door.”

Chance’s lips tightened and he glared at Trystan.

“I expect this immature diva shit from the newly famous pop boys and girls, not from a seasoned professional who should know better.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, Chance, but I’m out of options here. I have to speak with her. Before my interview on Thursday.”

“Fine. I’ll make a few calls and try to facilitate that meeting between you.”

But that wasn’t good enough for Trystan, not anymore. Not after what he’d learned about Iris being thrown out of her flat. He knew how much she’d enjoyed living there, how she’d prized the relationships with her flatmates. She must have been utterly devastated when they’d kicked her out.

“No. I’m going now. The longer I leave this, the worse it’ll be.”

“Can’t really imagine how much worse it could get,” Chance muttered, and Trystan tried to keep his panic at bay at the veracity in the man’s words. It definitely couldn’t get much worse. Iris wouldn’t want to see him or have anything to do with him. But he had to try.

“I’ll call Quinny for his car and get changed. Be ready to leave in fifteen minutes.”

Chance heaved a long-suffering sigh and the sound gave Trystan pause. “That won’t be necessary. She’s not staying with her parents. I told you before, she didn’t want to dump all of this shit right on their doorstep. She was desperate and felt like she had nowhere else to turn, so she took me up on the offer I made the day you kicked her out of your car. She moved into my spare room two days ago.”