8 Jack
Jack
The next morning, I found a fresh copy of the Las Vegas Sun outside my door, neatly folded and banded. I picked it up but didn’t open it until I was downstairs at the lobby café, seated at a table with a cappuccino in front of me.
Only then did I open the newspaper, excited as I always was on such occasions.
Scanning the first page left me disappointed.
It wasn’t there. Something or another about a Supreme Court ruling had taken the spotlight.
A local judge by the name of Antunez had sentenced a nineteen-year-old defendant to life without parole for a murder committed in self-defense.
The case had stirred up a storm of local controversy, painting Antunez as a stringent figure who wielded his gavel with an iron fist, unyielding even in the face of mitigating circumstances.
The article captured my attention, and I frowned while reading it, unwillingly seeing myself in the teenage defendant he’d so harshly sentenced.
But as soon as I turned the page, I saw what I was looking for and smiled—a crooked little smile I reserved only for myself—forgetting everything I’d just read about Antunez and that hapless teenager.
The title read Elusive Socialite Returns.
The photo I’d chosen the day before was large and printed in color.
I looked good in it, partially hiding my face but letting enough of it be seen, my sunglasses still on my head, my facial expression one of self-assured intent.
It was a half profile that would make me recognizable to many people once they’d seen the article.
Not to any facial-recognition software, though.
It was perfect.
I skimmed through the lengthy piece, learning that Olivia Taylor had returned to her hometown after being gone for a few years, a possible—albeit partial—heiress to a gambling conglomerate on the other side of the Strip.
Not much was said about where she’d lived before returning home, but there were several mentions about her charitable contributions of the six- and seven-figure order of magnitude, as well as her advocacy for several renewable-energy, environmental, and social issues, and her volunteering time for certain initiatives that aligned with her interests.
I couldn’t help a smile. Well, if they said so in the paper, then it must be true.
Slowing the pace of my reading, I flinched at the embellished wording of the last few paragraphs. It sounded a bit cheesy and over the top, but then again, written media often had to be, to keep eyeballs glued to paper instead of phone screens.
While her exact plans for the future remain under wraps, those close to Taylor hint at several high-profile clean-energy projects in the pipeline.
“Olivia is just getting started,” says another insider.
“Her vision for Las Vegas communities is bold and transformative. We can expect great things from her.”
The stunning 27-year-old Taylor, known for her impeccable fashion sense and gracious demeanor, was recently spotted at the luxurious ARIA hotel, where sources say she will reside until her new home is ready. Her family refused to comment.
Families always did.
Tony had earned his bonus. He had a way with words and no shame whatsoever. Best money I’d spent in Vegas yet.
Folding the paper, I set it on the table and smiled.
Soon enough, the hotel receptionist was going to be taking down messages for me and handing them over in neat little stacks of yellow notes.
Invitations to charity galas, art exhibitions, fashion shows, and movie premieres.
Private parties and high-stakes card games.
Interviews and talk shows, too, but I couldn’t do that.
The extent of my exposure had to stay local, as much as that was possible.
The last thing I needed was some syndicated interview to pop up on Seattle channels on the one night Avery Sinclair had nothing better to do than watch TV.
Finishing my cappuccino, I sent Tony the promised amount with a thank-you note. Within seconds, he replied, “Call anytime, Princess.”
It made me laugh.
That laugh died the moment I lifted my eyes from the phone screen, however.
From a few tables away, a dark-haired man stared at me with cold, piercing eyes.
Both his hands were wrapped around a venti paper cup.
The simple gold wedding band on his finger glinted in the filtered sunlight.
He was dressed plainly in a black T-shirt and jeans.
When he realized I’d noticed him, his eyes didn’t veer away, as the casual onlooker’s would’ve.
And he didn’t smile like a man looking for a hookup would’ve smiled.
No . . . he held my gaze firmly, the silent menace in his stare chilling my blood.
Just like a cop would’ve done.
Letting me know he was there to watch every move I made.
Abandoning the newspaper on the table, I stood and started walking quickly toward the exit, keeping my head lowered. The article was bound to draw out some freaks, too; it had happened a few times before.
I rushed across the hotel lobby, glad I’d had the sense to wear sneakers instead of heels, and stepped outside into the bright sun. I turned left and walked past The Shops at Crystals mall, whose large reflective windows helped me see behind me without turning my head.
He was coming after me with a steady, determined gait, closing the distance between us. Out of options, I entered the shopping center and went into the Dolce&Gabbana store, trying to lose myself in the thin morning crowd. Hoping he’d get bored and move on.
He didn’t.
He stood outside the shop and conspicuously waited for me, his arms crossed at his muscular chest. Leaving Dolce&Gabbana, I walked straight past him and into Louis Vuitton.
He followed me inside this time, knowing quite well that I knew he was there and not giving a damn.
I felt him breathing down my neck, although he kept about ten feet away. I was scared . . . and hated it.
And today, with what I had to do, I didn’t need to be scared.
I couldn’t afford it. Fear clouds people’s minds, breeding more fear, sowing the seeds of bad decisions and missed opportunities and bitter failure.
Fear could drive me away from Vegas before I even had a chance to discover its possibilities.
I wasn’t going to stand for it.
I picked up the pace while walking past some stores, checking window reflections to make sure he was still following me.
I rounded a corner, then stopped short and waited, my right hand propped on my hip.
Unsuspecting when he turned the corner, he nearly bumped into me.
He didn’t skip a beat, though. Under his breath, he uttered, “Excuse me,” and veered to the side, where he stopped to lean against a wall. Staring at me.
The nerve of this man . . .
Yet I’d lost mine. I didn’t dare ask him what he wanted with me.
What if he pulled out a badge and dragged me into some smelly, godforsaken police-precinct interrogation room to question me for a day or two?
What if he was one of those random haters who threw acid in people’s faces just because they could?
I stood there, only ten feet away, and stared at him just as he stared at me, our eyes locked in a silent battle of wills.
I didn’t like what I saw. His demeanor—casual, and yet strong and fearless—was the kind that screamed I got nothing to hide or, perhaps, nothing to lose.
His feet were set firmly on the floor about a foot apart, and his arms remained crossed at his chest, a posture I’d seen many times before in private security professionals guarding high-value assets.
His face, clean shaven, and his hair, buzz-trimmed short, spelled former military.
Who was this man? And what did he want with me?
I decided to call him Jack until he grew the sense to introduce himself, if ever.
He looked like a Jack, reminding me of the two episodes of Reacher I’d watched on the flight over.
The tough type, like in the movies. Perhaps more of a protector than a creep, but someone else’s protector, not mine.
I couldn’t think of a single real-life famous felon named Jack—not since the Ripper, anyway—but I was sure there had been a few.
The man looked dangerous, too. With that acknowledgment, fear rose in me like the tide.
I challenged myself to think about options under his piercing scrutiny.
To find other reasonable explanations that didn’t feed my anxiety or mean I was in trouble.
Perhaps the Taylor family had hired someone to check me out.
Who was this Olivia Taylor who lived at the ARIA, claiming she was related to them and that she was an heiress to their vast fortune?
Yeah, that had to be it.
Well, I’d never claimed anything. Shrugging in a visible manner and shaking my head for his benefit, I left Jack standing there and found the nearest exit.
As I put some distance between us, though, I still worried he might decide to keep following me.
I kept checking store-window reflections, but he was gone.
I was probably right. He’d just delivered a firm warning to not come near the Taylor family with some claim or another. To stay the hell away from their gambling empire.
After a while, when I was sure he wasn’t trailing me anymore, I flagged a cab and climbed in the back, my head on a swivel. I couldn’t see Jack anywhere, but the Strip was busy with hordes of tourists pouring in for spring break. It was hard to tell.
“Where to, miss?” The cabbie had a strong New York accent.
“Drive around for a while. Show me the city,” I said, not willing to show my hand just yet.
“What do you want to see?” An all-knowing smile fluttered on his thin lips.
I looked behind us, registering the cars in my sight. A small truck whose only purpose was to display a mobile ad for some strip joint. A bottled-water delivery van. A white Toyota with the Uber logo lit up on its dash. A couple of sedans, one red and one black, and a motorcycle. No trace of Jack.
“Just up and down the Strip, I guess.”
“You got it.” He swerved expertly to avoid a group of jaywalking teenagers that spilled from the wide sidewalk without looking. “Hey, you’re that girl in the paper this morning, right?” He made eye contact with me through his rearview mirror. “Sorry, I forgot your name.”
“No worries,” I said, smiling and relieved. “Take me all the way to the end of the Strip, then to the DMV on Sahara Avenue.”
“There’s one closer than that. It’s on Charleston, if it’s the same to you.”
“The one on Sahara, please.” My voice had dropped about ten degrees in temperature.
His smile waned. “You got it.”
We spent the rest of the drive in silence, while I steeled my fraught nerves for the DMV appointment.
Fear tingled through me like static electricity, raising my hair on end.
This part was the single most dangerous aspect of what I had to do. I had no way of knowing how it would end.
With a new driver’s license? Or with me behind bars for at least two to five?
District Attorney Mitchell: In what capacity did you interact with the defendant?
Ravi Patel: I work at Hertz, in car rentals. I leased her a red convertible BMW M8 on a monthly deal.
District Attorney Mitchell: Was there anything unusual about her interaction with you?
Ravi Patel: She seemed to be afraid of something, constantly looking over her shoulder. We were concerned, my boss and me. It’s very unusual for someone to lease a high-end car like that on a monthly basis, and she behaved as if she was running from—
Defense Attorney Blake: Objection, Your Honor. Speculation.
Judge Thomas Antunez: Sustained.