3. EASTON #2
My phone buzzes again on the dashboard. I flip it face down before I have fully registered that I'm doing it.
“You really don't like that phone,” she says, conversationally, not looking at me.
“Let’s just say, I’m not a fan of the notifications.”
“You might as well turn them off,” she offers.
“Yeah, I should. But then I’d miss all of my mom’s texts and probably never have a use for the device without those.”
I finish the sentence before I realize I’ve given too much. Thankfully, she lets it go.
I pull around the back of the boutique into the small private lot. Cut the engine.
“Okay,” I start. “The owner is going to come out and meet us at the door. She knows we are coming. She's going to walk us straight in through the back. You don't have to interact with anyone you don't want to interact with. If at any point you want to leave, we leave. No questions.”
She's looking at me. Her hands are very still on the travel mug.
“You do this a lot?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know how to do this?”
“Educated guess. And one previous experience, helping a friend.”
“Hm.”
I open my door. I come around to her side but her door is already open. I take her hand instinctively, scan the area, before I lead her away, after closing the door behind.
When I realize I’m holding her, I let her go, but the warmth… I immediately miss it. Her small fingers wrapped around mine, and her figure so close to mine.
Stop it, Easton. I don’t need to hear that twice to get my head out of my ass.
We start across the small lot toward the boutique’s back door.
But then, her hand finds my forearm.
It's so fast I almost miss it. A small grip just above my wrist, fingertips, not the whole hand. I stop and look at her. That’s when I notice it. They’re trembling again.
“E-Easton...”
I follow her eyeline.
Across the street, on the corner, there is a man with a camera. Not a phone. An actual long-lens camera, slung at his hip but not pointed at us yet, the body of it angled in the half-position that says he's waiting to decide if we are worth lifting it for.
There is also a second one further down. Same posture. Similar camera.
“Hey…” I turn to look at her face, angling my body to fully conceal her as best as I can.
“He found us.”
“No.” I keep my voice flat. “He did not find us. The photos found us. There is a difference, and I will explain it to you in the car. Right now, we are going to walk to that door.”
“Easton, I-I can’t.”
“Come on, sweetheart, you can.” The endearment slips past my lips without permission.
Her fingers tighten on my arm, and my chest swells.
I feel the barely controlled rage rising to the surface. The way she looks so small suddenly, her body almost merging into mine without her registering it, as though she’s hoping to disappear. I place a hand on her shoulder, and she flinches.
I immediately drop my hand, and I see the apology in her eyes.
“Hey… it’s okay. They’re not here for you, and I won’t let them see you,” I promise her like it’s my sole duty.
“I'm going to be in front of you. They will get my back and a piece of hoodie. They won’t get a clean shot of your face.
We walk normally. We don't run. Running will tip them off.”
She's breathing too fast, and her eyes are everywhere.
“Riley. Hey.” I shift again, so my body is between her and the street for better coverage. “Eyes on me.” She looks. “Walk.”
She walks.
The first one lifts his camera. I hear the shutter before I see the motion. The second one lifts his a beat later. They are calling now, both of them, voices pitched to carry across the street.
“Is that Riley Brooks? Or is it Riley Sinclair now?”
“Riley, is it true you are unwell?”
“Is this your new man? He looks familiar. Easton?”
“Riley, did you leave Preston for him?”
I feel her flinch against my back at the third one. Her fist tightens in the fabric of my shirt, and she follows me on pure adrenaline, like she’s one wrong move away from coming apart.
I don’t think she’s even registered that they know my name.
The boutique’s back door opens. The owner is there, calm, already gesturing us in.
Three more steps.
I get her through the door and pull it shut behind us, and the moment the latch clicks, she sags against the wall with both hands over her mouth, eyes huge, breath catching in her chest like she can't quite remember how to use it.
“Hey. Hey. Look at me.”
She doesn't look at me.
“Riley.” I put a hand on the wall beside her head, not touching her. “You did that. You walked through it. They got nothing.”
“They knew my name,” she whispers.
“I know.”
“Easton…” Her voice breaks. “He isn't going to stop.”
I look at her. Bare-faced, in my hoodie, in the back hallway of a boutique that smells like fresh mint notes, and her eyes are wet, her hands are shaking, and she looks torn, like her newly found world has been ripped from her, and her freedom gone forever.
The part of me that has been running quiet calculations on how to keep her safe goes very still.
“No,” I say. “He's not.”
I hold her gaze.
“But neither am I.” The words are out before I can think better of them, and I don’t have the slightest urge to take them back.
This woman deserves her life back, and Lord knows, if I have to tear through the world to get it for her, I will.