Chapter 6
-Kira Carter-Wells-
I’m on edge as I follow Dylan and Maureen into the stage wings, eavesdropping on their mundane conversation for any suggestions of a threat.
Though he won’t admit to it, I can sense Dylan’s tension.
Something at this event has him rattled.
I don’t know if that thing is a threat I need to be troubled by, or if he’s merely caught wind of some deal or rumour that he’s pissed off by.
Either way, I make doubly sure I’m familiar with three different exit strategies from off the stage, should a situation arise that necessitates extracting him.
“Stick tight to him, Kira.” I hear Howard Falchard, as if he’s still talking to me through the coms.
Yeah, I’m sticking. I’m sticking.
It’s funny. At the start of this evening, I was sure I hated him for breaking my heart, but the more time I spend in his presence, the more difficult I find it to hold a grudge, and the more obvious it becomes that I have no right to accuse him of anything.
Dylan Drake didn’t break my heart; I did that to myself, by assuming something I had no right to assume.
The guy’s gay. He doesn’t owe me any sort of apology for that.
And as much as I might wish him otherwise, I’m going to have to accept that things are what they are, unless I want to wind up being a Rosie Kleen clone.
The kiss was my way of sealing that deal with myself.
It was a way of saying “Yup, farewell. I loved you. I could still love you, but it’s over.
” We’re never going to be, so there’s no point wasting my time.
It is a shame he’s only prepared to see me as a secret agent though.
I think it could be fun to be his friend.
Well, if I ignored all the irritating stuff I know he does that I consider foolish, like sleeping around and not taking threats to his life seriously, and imagining the company he’s working with wants to wrap him in sticky tape.
It’s a long wait in the wings. What I do find interesting, listening as I am with half-an-ear to his conversation with the usher and the other bods from the Harris Peppard Trust, is how often Dylan feels it necessary to mention his orientation.
It’s like he’s reaffirming it to himself, every time he tells someone he’s gay. It kind of suggests he has doubts.
Then again, I’ve never really understood the necessity to ‘come out’ and announce your preferences to the world. A person’s sexuality is nobody’s business but their own. I’ve never felt the need to inform anyone I’m straight.
Dylan would likely tell me that’s because the general assumption is that everyone is straight by default, but personally I think there’s more to it than that.
Just as I know there’s more to his constantly labelling himself than he’s letting on?
Maybe he’s not skewed so far to one end of the Kinsey scale as he’d like everyone to believe.
Yeah, and maybe that’s wishful thinking on my part.
That kiss was nice, but it was a goodbye, not a hello.
Seriously, girl, he’s not going to suddenly go gooey-eyed over you. The flirting early was just due to him playing along with the notion you’re his date, and him being a shameless charmer. It was not because he has any intention of taking you home tonight.
Nope, it’ll be business me escorting him to bed, and making sure he’s safely tucked in with no suspect parties present.
When Dylan takes to the stage, I remain in the wings.
That puts me further from his side than I’d ideally like to be, but it’s as close as possible without causing a stir, and even though the view isn’t so great, it beats returning to the dining table, which is once again full of his co-stars, colleagues and admirers.
I endeavour to keep half-an-eye trained on Rosie and Adam, while I watch Dylan’s back, and the rest of the room.
Dylan talks at length about the Harris Peppard Trust and the charitable work they’re doing with young LGBT etcetera adults, about his shitty personal experiences growing up and how the TV and film industry must continue to do their part by portraying the whole spectrum of human experiences, not just a tight, straight, white-centric viewpoint.
He’s interrupted by numerous rounds of applause.
By the end, I’m feeling a little tingly about the nose and I’m obviously having some sort of allergic reaction to the clouds of perfume because my eyes are watering.
A couple of representatives from the Harris Peppard Trust push past me carrying an oversized cheque showing the figure raised by this evening so far. One of them says a few words and thanks Dylan for his patronage. He turns to exchange air kisses with him, only for all the lights to blink out.
Gasps of surprise from the audience quickly transform into exasperated sighs, when the situation doesn’t immediately resolve itself.
Someone wolf whistles, another makes a crude joke, and someone else calls out not to panic, and “if everyone could please remain calm and in their seats then the presentations will continue momentarily once the power is restored. It shouldn’t take more than a few minutes, and at least we have candlelight. ”
Everyone is staring at the little dancing flames in the centres of each table when the first gunshot rings out.
Panic erupts. More shots are fired. It’s impossible to figure out more than a general direction from which the danger is coming. I don’t recall racing onto the stage, but I’m there in front of Dylan blocking his body from harm as I guide him into the wings.
“What’s going on?”
The two charity reps follow us backstage into the web of corridors. Thank God I made a recon of the area earlier.
“I’m not sure, but there’s a security team in place.
They’ll handle it. I need to get you out of here.
” I grasp hold of his hand in order to make sure I don’t lose him in the chaos.
People are running back and forth, and colliding with one another in the dark.
Squeals of shock and I suspect pain, make it difficult to determine what’s occurring and how significant the danger level remains.
“I need to get you out of the building.”
“You think I’m the target?” Dylan asks. Even when I’ve got us away from the pool of backstage staff he continues to cling on tight to my hand. It makes it difficult to function.
“Until there’s evidence to the contrary, that’s exactly what I’m assuming.
” It would also seem to be the most likely explanation given the notes he’s received and my assignment.
I don’t get why he has such trouble wrapping his head around that possibility.
There are certainly people amongst the guests tonight that have a far from healthy interest in his person.
“I can’t run and leave everyone behind, Kira.”
“Yes,” I insist, “you can, and you will. You’re no use to anyone if you wind up dead. Don’t fuck with me, Dylan. Now isn’t the time for you to be a hero. Keep right on moving.”
I find the exit onto the stairwell and push him through it. There’s a sign on the wall visible thanks to the illumination from the streetlights outside. The parking level is three flights down.
We still have the two charity reps muddling along behind us, the foremost one of whom is still carrying the oversized cheque that was being presented. It makes a soft wafting sound whenever he takes a step.
“Drop that,” I tell him. “It’s only for show.
You can’t cash it at the bank.” Then, “Wait!” as he crouches to put it down.
There’s a hole straight through the centre of the second R in Harris.
I catch and hold Dylan’s gaze. Now will you believe me you’re the intended target?
It’s a miracle he’s not wounded or worse.
He remains stoically resilient.
The charity reps look scared. They don’t understand why this is happening to them. Tonight was supposed to be an evening of celebration, now potentially their donors and major supporters are being injured or worse thanks to their generosity.
I kick off my preposterously cumbersome heels before leading the procession down to sub-level one.
At the bottom, I get the three of them to hang tight together as I scope out the situation in the car park.
I don’t like leaving Dylan unattended, but I don’t want to walk him straight into danger either.
There’s no light down here, only inky darkness. Even the emergency lighting is out. Judging by the crunch of glass on the tarmac, someone came down here with a baseball bat.
I have no fucking clue where in this hanger to find Johns and our ride out of here.
That’s assuming my All Stars colleague is still in his post. An alarming series of snapshot images of the blond guy slumped over the wheel of the sedan flashes through my mind.
I wonder about Howard Falchard and the rest of the team too.
How did the shooter get past them all? I get that we were maintaining a low profile, but, right now, as a team we look incompetent.
I spin sharply at the sound of approaching footsteps from my rear. “Oof!” Dylan gets his arse knocked against the wall for his effort.
“I told you to stay back.”
“Yeah, but I know where I feel safer, and it isn’t with two people I know fuck all about.”
He knows fuck all about me either, but maybe this isn’t the time to point that out.
“Also, I have this. Thought it might be of use given I can barely see my hands down here.” He produces a tiny LED key fob that illuminates our immediate surroundings with an eerie green glow.
It’s not great, but it’ll allow us to pick our way along the rows of cars without crashing into them and setting off a chorus of alarms. “Added bonus, if I’m with you, you won’t have to double back to collect me when you figure out where the car is. What’s the plate number again?”