CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE #2
An earsplitting clang threatens to crack me in half, and it takes a moment to realize what it is—metal on metal.
Not a death strike, but a blow deflected.
I squint through one eye and see Alistair frozen in surprise.
Grant rolls his shoulders, standing the slightest bit taller.
Alistair jabs his sword forward, and again, Grant blocks it—easily, like swatting a fly. Confusion clouds Alistair’s face.
There’s not a trace of apprehension in Grant’s eyes now, only unshakable focus.
“These aren’t longswords, by the way,” he says casually. “They’re rapiers.”
With an indignant roar, Alistair unleashes his wrath.
They are a blur of clashing metal and darting limbs as they alternately advance and retreat, and I’m stuck on the sidelines in a gobsmacked daze.
Well, then.
I guess this solves the mystery of Grant’s weird hidden talent.
He moves with purpose, angling his sword this way and that to deflect and slash at Alistair.
He’s the picture of concentration, his forearms flexing beneath his rolled-up sleeves, his eyes sharp with intent.
It’s like his world has narrowed to this one goal, just the movement of his body and the weapon in his hand.
And more than that—he is loving it. There’s a spark in his eyes, the hint of a smile at his mouth. Something has ignited in him, and he looks more alive than ever before.
It is the hottest thing I have ever seen.
Alistair doesn’t seem to agree, his face warped with disgust and fury. “What are you, the secret fourth musketeer?”
“There already are four musketeers,” Grant grits out between strikes, then blocks Alistair’s sword again with a grunt. “The title …” (CLANG) “is …” (CLASH) “… a misnomer!”
In a seething rage, Alistair swings his sword like a baseball bat at the antique chair he dragged over earlier, sending a shower of wooden splinters toward Grant’s head. Grant swiftly ducks, then slashes at Alistair’s legs.
Alistair leaps up, avoiding the blade, and brings his own sword down with a vengeance. Grant meets it just in time to save his neck in the most literal sense, using both hands on his sword to push Alistair off.
Stumbling back, Alistair stares daggers at Grant.
“How?” he snarls.
“It’s called a hobby,” Grant says, flipping his sword around with an unbelievably cool flourish. “You should try one that isn’t evil sometime.”
At this point, it’s dawning on me that I probably could figure out how to free myself from these ropes, but I can’t tear my attention away from Grant.
This cannot be the same man who once shrieked his personal details at me from the back of a stolen Kia Rio.
I’m a professor! I have a cat! Yet not even a whisper of I’m New England’s answer to Zorro!
There’s more dodging and clashing, more zinging and clanging and probably lots of other sword fighting terminology I don’t know. Alistair is nearly growling with the effort to defeat Grant. Both of them are sweating with exertion and the oppressive heat of the fire.
But Grant has the upper hand now, and his relentless offense is slowly backing Alistair toward the fireplace.
“You can fight all you want,” grits out Alistair. “I will never say touché.”
“You just did,” says Grant.
And with a grunt of effort and one flawlessly executed kick to the wrist, he sends Alistair’s sword flying, then seizes him by the collar and plunges his own blade through the fabric and into the fireplace mantel.
Pinned through his shirt and jacket, Alistair dances awkwardly to avoid the lick of flames at his feet. Grant runs to me. I can only stare at him, slack-jawed.
His face creases with concern as he lightly touches my cheek, his eyes lingering on the spot I know is already bruising.
“Are you okay?”
I nod in a dumbstruck haze, and he turns to pick up the other sword.
Alistair still twists and squirms in front of the fire, struggling to free himself.
Grant returns to me and carefully cuts through the ropes that hold me to the chair.
As he starts on the ones binding my legs, he grins up at me a little breathlessly.
“Did you see the kick?”
“Uh, yeah, Grant, I saw the kick,” I say, my voice coming out high and reedy. I can’t even begin to make sense of what I’ve seen or what it’s done to me. “I don’t understand … You said you didn’t know how …”
“Yeah,” he says, freeing my arms. “Like you said. Maintain the element of surprise. Come on.” Tossing the sword aside, he holds out a hand, and I take it without hesitation, stumbling to my feet.
“Wait,” I say, stopping short. I turn back and march toward the knockoff Bond villain shish-kebabed to the mantel. Without a word, I haul off and punch him in the nose. Bone crunches under my fist and I gag.
“Fuck yeah,” says Grant, giving me a celebratory shoulder squeeze as we make for the door.
When we’re both out, I slam the door closed, then curse its lack of dead bolt. Without the keys, it’s unlockable. There’s a tearing of fabric from within the room, then the loud thump of Alistair falling free.
“Run,” I say.
We turn and scramble up the stairs and into a dim corridor, tripping over the moth-eaten carpet as the door bangs open below us.
We race from the thudding footsteps, through a decrepit foyer.
I hoick my dress up to my thighs, the better to run with, and am thrilled to find my phone still strapped to my leg.
I dial Lesley as we careen down the front steps and onto the sidewalk, and Lissa answers.
“Omigod, are you two o—”
“I’m sharing our location,” I fire off, struggling to run and tap the screen simultaneously. “We’re running and he’s after us. Hurry.”
I end the call, hazard a glance behind us to see that Alistair hasn’t emerged yet, and then turn to Grant.
“Swords?” I screech as we tear down the street. “Your secret hobby was swords? And you didn’t think to mention it?”
He huffs out a breath. “I didn’t think it would come up!”
“SWORDS?!” I shriek again.
“Could we maybe talk about this later?”
I have no intention of letting him off the hook that easily, but a sound from down the street steals our attention. Not a front door slamming, but the mechanical drone of a garage door. Alistair peels out onto the street in a weathered black Mercedes and speeds toward us.
“Shit.” I whip around the corner alongside Grant and grab him by the arm, hauling him into an alley I’m hoping the car can’t fit through.
No such luck, judging by the screech of tires that follows.
I don’t have to look behind me to know Alistair is plowing down garbage bins and parked bicycles in hot pursuit.
“Lesley and Lissa are on their way,” I yell to Grant over the noise. “If we can just lead Alistair somewhere they can trap him …”
“Got it,” he shouts, pointing to a side street ahead.
It’s an endurance game as we lead Alistair on a wild-goose chase, making sure he doesn’t lose us but can’t fully catch up, either.
There’s a fire building in my chest, singeing my throat, and I’m not sure how much longer I can keep this up when, finally, I hear the signature AHOOGA of Lesley’s car horn.
He and Lissa turn onto the road, a block behind Alistair. Never have I seen a more welcome sight.
Grant and I race onto the main road, dodging construction barricades and brIDGE CLOSURE—DETOUR signs, hunting for a place to trap Alistair.
We duck into another alley, taking advantage of a precious few moments when Alistair is blocked by crossing traffic, laying on his horn.
I glance across the street toward the river, where a line of bright orange traffic cones warns motorists away. I have an idea.
“Stay here,” I tell Grant, stashing my phone again. “I’m going to lead him to the bridge.”
“What? He’ll catch up in no time.”
“Not if I jump.”
His eyes go wide. “You can’t—”
“I’ve bungee jumped a million times,” I say. “This is just like that. Minus ropes.”
“Important ropes!”
“I’ll be okay,” I say decisively. I’m hoping he understands the rest. The locale, the signage—it all seems like a glaring hint of what I’m supposed to do.
I can hazard a guess that, as the protagonist of this story, I’ll survive the fall into the river.
But I can’t promise the same for Grant, love interest or not.
I’ll be damned if I let Anna showcase her new edginess by killing him off.
With the traffic beginning to move, I take my chance to dart back out onto the street in plain view of Alistair, leaving Grant behind. I dodge cars and passersby as I dash across the road and onto the closed-off bridge. Alistair’s car growls close behind.
I charge past the traffic cones until a set of concrete barricades blocks the way. I can hear Alistair speeding toward me, crunching over the cones. I don’t look back. I hurdle over the barrier to the pedestrian walkway and climb the rail, looking down into the dark.
It’s impossible to tell how far below the water is. Adrenaline shoots through me at the idea of throwing myself into the abyss. I’m about to jump when someone grabs my hand.
I whip around to see Grant, looking exceptionally pale under the streetlights and breathing hard, pulling himself up alongside me. He straightens tentatively, staring with dread toward the water, then his eyes lock onto mine.
“Together,” he says.
I should argue, but we don’t have time. I only swallow the lump in my throat and nod. A crash behind us startles me, and I turn to see Alistair, red-faced and spitting mad as he gets out of his car, crunched where it hit the barricades. Farther down, Lesley is turning onto the empty bridge.
I turn to Grant and squeeze his hand. “Now.”
“Shit.”
And then, a single moment before Alistair can grab us, we leap.
Everything goes silent as we fall through the dark. The air rushes out of my lungs and my stomach flips, and for a moment there’s nothing but me and Grant, our hands clasped together.
Then the water hits. The frigid smack is like concrete—solid when I land, then dissolving to swallow me whole.
The impact and the cold are so disorienting, I don’t know which way is up.
I thrash toward what I hope is the surface, lungs in revolt.
All around me is churning water and blackness, stinging my eyes and biting my skin.
I break through, gasping for air like I’m rising from the dead. My arms and legs move of their own accord, my mind blank of everything but the miracle of oxygen. It takes me a moment to realize.
I’m alone in the water.
I scream his name, my voice raw. All I hear in return is the distant hum of traffic from above and the rippling of the tide all around me. Panic grips me like it never has before—not in this story, not ever. Until I hear a splash behind me and another life-giving, earth-shattering intake of air.
I reach for Grant instinctively and his hand slides along my arm. Neither of us seems able to speak. We can only breathe and stay afloat, seeking out the contours of each other to be sure we’re all right.
We break apart to start for the shore. The current is strong, already dragging us far from the bridge, and the swim takes at least twice as long as it would if it were a straight shot. But we finally make it, sputtering and shivering on the pebbly riverbank, and collapse side by side.
My leg buzzes. My hands shake so badly it’s an effort to pull my phone from its hiding spot. A text from Lissa: GOT HIM!!!
I drop the phone and flop back to the earth, relief coursing through me. Feeling begins to return to my limbs as the chill of the air replaces that of the water. But my heart is still on a rampage, my breath still ragged.
I close my eyes, the entire evening rushing through my mind like a movie in double time. The dancing, the rain, the sword fight. Grant’s eyes on mine, his fingers in my hair, his hand in my hand.
I open my eyes and turn my head to face him. He does the same, his searching gaze dropping from the night sky to me. My heart hammers in my chest, a battering ram against fortress walls that don’t stand a chance.
For the second time tonight, I am on a precipice. The silence is heavy, like the world is holding its breath. Like time has stopped, the page gone blank. Anything or nothing or everything could happen.
“Oh, fuck it,” I breathe.
“Thank God.”
I’m not sure if he grabs me or I throw myself onto him or both, but our lips meet in a fervent crush and I realize I was wrong, it wasn’t oxygen I needed but this.
We’re tangled up in each other, all river-drenched clothes and dripping hair and wandering hands, and I can’t remember why we ever did anything else.
His arms encircle me, pulling me closer as his mouth melts into mine.
I tangle my fingers in his wet hair, thrilling at every place where we touch.
He traces my jaw, my neck, my waist. His hands skate over my hips, mapping my outline in the dark.
Was I really confused about what I wanted earlier tonight?
Now I can’t do anything but want, and all I want is more.
I’m not even really aware that we’ve rolled over until he pulls back, his gaze showering me with sparks, his hands braced on either side of my shoulders.
I reach a hand up to the side of his face, meaning to pull him back down to me.
But I lose myself there for a moment, just looking at him.
And in that quiet moment, with his eyes holding mine, he turns his head ever so slightly to kiss my palm.
It’s so sweet and soft and gentle that my stomach flips again, even more than it did during the free fall into the Thames.
I can feel his mouth tipping up in a smile under my hand.
And then I feel its abrupt frown, his expression folding into a grimace. He plucks something up from beside my arm.
“Oh, God,” he says, recoiling from the hypodermic syringe in his hand. He chucks it away and gets to his feet, helping me up. “What do you say we go somewhere less tetanus-y?”
I bite back a grin. “As long as it’s still a little tetanus-y,” I say. “I wouldn’t want you to get bored.”
His smile returns. “With you? Never.”
We interlace our fingers and he presses another heart-melting kiss to my knuckles. And then we climb up the embankment hand in hand, unable or maybe just unwilling to let go now.