Chapter 63
Chapter Sixty-Three
Whoever is trying to bring you down is already below you.
—I’m borrowing one of Remy’s Affirmations for a Badass
Bash
CUNT! WHORE! SLUT!
HE’S MINE!!!!!
“Jesus,” Bash breathed out, running a shaking hand through his hair.
He and Arabella had boarded their midday flight at LAX the day after his premiere, with a scheduled arrival on the East Coast just before eight in the evening.
She’d accepted missing Thursday for travel, but insisted on having Friday for surgeries.
Everything went smoothly with that plan…
until it didn’t. And in a very public, very violating way.
Just after their private security agent whisked them from the airport for the drive home, their phones started exploding with texts and calls. Slash. Melody. Brinder. Honor. Truly. Lila.
Now police cruiser lights flashed against a sunset that would have been gorgeous, if not for the horrifying words spraypainted in bright red on the white wood siding of Arabella’s house. Their house.
Lookie-loos had already gathered and the throng was growing, joined by local news crews jockeying for position. And paps. Of course, the paps were there. Bash saw Jerome perched in a tree, for fuck’s sake.
He turned to Arabella, who was frozen in her seat staring out the town car’s deeply tinted window. Her face had paled to a ghostly white that scared him more than anything he’d experienced in a long time.
“Angel, let’s get you to my sister’s place. I’ll sort this.” Bash was proud his voice didn’t shake. Because he was quite sure this was about him, and—by the transitive property—he’d put his queen at risk.
“No, I—I have to check on Chicane.” Unlike his, Arabella’s voice shook, her hand trembling hard as she reached for the door handle.
“Wait, please?” Bash put a staying hand on her knee as he eyed the chaos. “We need to think through the right way to handle this. I’ll get Chicane to you, but I don’t want you out there in that mess.”
The passenger front door suddenly opened, making both Arabella and him jump. His sister’s longtime lead security agent, and the co-owner of the firm currently protecting him and Arabella, grimaced.
“Apologies.” The man who went only by Grayton scrubbed a hand down his face as he slid into the seat and closed the door with a hard tug.
Was Grayton the retired Army Ranger’s first name or last?
Also, dude was jacked, even more than Bash could ever be, although they were probably of an age—and now is not the time to chase squirrels, Bash!
Sometimes—no, strike that—often, his brain was an asshole. He fought to refocus.
Grayton twisted to face them. “Here’s the situation.
Your housesitter—Truly Howes?” Bash nodded.
He wasn’t sure if Arabella was even paying attention, her unblinking gaze fixed on the house.
“She received an alert on her home security system early this evening. Our agent who was watching your house this shift drove her to her place. Ms. Howes was shaken up because a neighbor also reported some suspicious activity, and Agent Lewis didn’t want her driving herself, even though it’s only a few blocks away. For obvious safety reasons.”
“Of course,” Bash murmured, casting a worried glance at Arabella, who hadn’t said a word since her initial attempt to leave the car. Her skin was a chalky whitish gray and her breathing was erratic. Was she going to pass out?
Bash fought to recall what he’d learned about that when immersing himself in character development for the doctor-hostage role that had made him countless millions. Well, maybe his financial advisor counted. And the IRS.
Focus! Focusing was so much harder for him when he was stressed. And he was really fucking stressed.
“Unfortunately that left your home unprotected for about thirty minutes, until Lewis could determine there was no threat to Ms. Howes’s home.
When they returned here, your home had already been vandalized.
” Grayton paused. “Sir, ma’am, I am deeply sorry for this breach.
Our firm is fully accountable and we will make this right. ”
“You did try to talk me into moving to a more secure location.” Bash closed his eyes, hating himself for being lulled into a false sense of security in this small town, happily ensconced in his Arabella bubble.
“I should’ve pushed harder, sir.”
Bash waved a hand. “Can’t change the past. What do we do now?”
“We don’t know the threat level. Was this simple vandalism or is there more behind it. We’re reviewing camera footage now.”
Bash swallowed past a massive knot in his throat, made more difficult by the onset of the worst arid, dry mouth ever. “I—I had a stalker for years. She’s been in and out of treatment facilities. She’s brilliant, but essentially harmless.”
Grayton nodded, a tiny frown between his eyes.
“Yes, your assistant divulged that in your intake form. We completed an assessment and Maddy Hitchings has been a resident of a long-term care psychiatric facility for several years. As of a few days ago—we check on a regular cadence—she was still there.”
Bash wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or not.
Maddie Hitchings, who had to be in her mid-forties by now, had stalked him beginning with his first lead role.
Initially, it was benign and mostly annoying.
Later, it escalated. She’d been arrested numerous times for trying to breach his various homes and—once—after crashing the red carpet and almost making it to him.
In fact, his premieres were often triggering for her and they’d learned to expect an uptick of stalkerish behavior after.
However, things had been quiet for a couple years because, as Bash well knew, she’d been safely in place at the best of care facilities in rural Pennsylvania, near her elderly parents.
He knew…because he’d personally paid for it. Anonymously of course—
“Sir?”
Grayton intruded on his thought ramble.
“Sorry. I just—I keep tabs on her. She’s not a bad person. And I truly don’t believe her to be dangerous.” He hoped. He fucking hoped. “She struggles with chronic mental illness. And when things are bad, she thinks we’re married and fixates on that delusion. It’s sad more than anything.”
Grayton gave a noncommittal hum. “We have a contact verifying with her care facility now. In the meantime, we need to get you both somewhere secure.”
Now Arabella turned her head—almost in slow motion—to face Grayton. “Chicane?”
“He and Ms. Howes are at your neighbor’s house right now. The police are still interviewing Ms. Howes, so your neighbor offered the privacy of her home.”
“Lila Somerville?” Bash had met her several times, and she was a member of Arabella’s terrifying, intriguing wine group of badass women.
“Affirmative. Listen, I’ve talked with Brinder Desai.
He still owns the condo where he lived prior to his marriage to your sister.
It’s currently vacant. I can attest to its security and we are bringing in more of the team for that location and for this house.
As soon as the police collect their evidence—it’s a crime scene right now—we’ll ensure the wood siding is quickly replaced.
But,” Grayton halted, steel in eyes that reminded Bash of the color of bourbon, “I strongly advise you don’t return to this place for the foreseeable future. It’s very difficult to protect.”
“Leave my house?” Arabella’s affect was flat, her lips colorless and barely moving when she spoke.
Grayton pursed his lips and Bash watched him visually assess his queen then quickly meet his eyes with a small frown before returning a sharp but kind gaze on Arabella. “Ma’am, how are you feeling?”
Arabella didn’t answer, just blinked a few times, a far-off look in her eyes.
But she was shaking, and her breathing remained erratic and labored. Bash reached for her hand. “Her skin is clammy.” His heart plummeted into his stomach. “And she’s shaking like a leaf.”
“I feel woozy,” she whispered, her lips barely moving.
Grayton turned to the agent who’d driven them, barking, “Blanket?”
“Trunk, sir.”
Grayton leapt out. Through the sealed doors, Bash heard the trunk rapidly open and close—along with a cacophony of increased sound from paps, bystanders, and media.
The ex-Ranger jumped back in the front seat, addressing the driver first. “Get us to Dr. Desai’s condo. Now.” Then he turned to Bash, tossing him the blanket. “Lie her flat and elevate her feet. Loosen any restrictive clothing. Try to have the seatbelt just around her hips and not too tight.”
The car lurched forward and, now unbuckled to assist his queen, Bash almost fell into the footwell.
He stabilized himself, following the sharply issued instructions.
Arabella put up no fight as he eased her back on the long leather seat, covered her, and lifted her legs over his lap.
Bash got the sense that she’d slipped somewhere far away.
“I—I think we need to get her to the hospital.”
“I don’t think so. We’ll be able to help her without that. Do you know how to take a pulse?”
He’d also learned that as part of that same doctor role from years ago, but how much of his brain was truly on-line to make it matter? “I—I think so?”
“Put your index and middle finger on her wrist like this”—Grayton demonstrated—“and count the beats until I tell you to stop.”
Bash closed his eyes and counted, stating the number aloud on Grayton’s cue.
“High nineties. Not great, but not horrible. Just keep doing what you’re doing.” Grayton texted a message. “Keep her calm and try to encourage her to take deep breaths. We’ll be there soon.”
Time stood still and flew by.
Minutes and hours later, they pulled into the underground garage of the old factory, now converted to condos. This was where Honor had lived with Brinder until their home had been built.
The back door opened to admit a stream of LED light from the garage’s canopy fixtures. “Dr. Remington, I’m going to carry you, ok?” Grayton’s voice was soft and calm as he reached for Arabella, but Bash tightened his hold on her legs, his other hand laced with her clammy one.
“I’ll do it.” No fucking way was anyone carrying his queen but her liege man.
Following more instructions from the agent, Bash moved them toward the service elevator, careful not to jostle her.
In moments, they were in the condo and Arabella was stretched out on the king bed of what was clearly the primary bedroom.
She was still deathly pale and sweat-dampened tendrils of hair coiled at her temples.
Minutes later, Brinder came rushing in, followed by Honor holding little Jude, her large brown eyes even wider with worry. Before Bash could even sort himself mentally, Brinder had checked Arabella’s vitals, then pressed Bash into a chair he’d pulled up next to the bed.
“Remy, have you ever had an anxiety or panic attack before?” Brinder scanned her, concern lining his body.
“It’s been a while,” she mumbled.
“I have a prescription for you for a benzodiazepine with me. Any allergies to meds? May I give it to you?”
“No.” Once again, her lips barely moved.
“No allergies?” Brinder clarified.
“No benzos,” she said, sounding faint but firm. “No. This will pass. Just need to breathe through it.”
Brinder shot Bash a glance, nodding. “Ok, Remy. Just rest for a bit. Keep focusing on deep, steady breaths. Do you know how to do a grounding exercise?” Remy nodded, her eyes drifting closed. “Bash is right next to you.”
Her hand slid out from under the blanket, seeking. Bash twined their fingers gently, his heart so damn full of love for this woman. He wished he had a magic wand to take away her pain. And a time machine to go back and build a fortress around her.
Arabella lay quietly, her breathing easier than earlier.
Which was good, right? The room was painfully silent.
Bash darted looks between Arabella and his watch, while Honor and Brinder stood at the bottom of the bed—moral support he realized he needed and deeply appreciated.
About ten minutes into keeping vigil, Arabella seemed to rouse, her eyes fluttering but remaining closed.
Her color had returned from the ghostly gray and her lips pinked to their natural color.
Bash exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
Fuck. He’d done the one thing he’d vowed to never do.
He’d hurt his queen.