Liberty Begins (The Liberty Series) (8 page)

The silly smile was long gone from my face as I trudged back into work. So I could confront him with it, I’d brought the back pack. I had shoved my glasses, ruler, stilettos and clean work underwear into it. There wasn’t much room left because of all the other items John had packed.

“Hey girl,” said Tracey, as I started listlessly pulling my outfit out of my locker.

“Hey,” I mumbled.

“Aw, Liberty! What’s the matter?” she asked, and plopped down in the chair beside me. Tonight Tracey was wearing her “Charlie’s Angels” look. Feathered bangs, hair parted down the middle, frosted lipstick, pink satin shorts with glitter hearts on the back pockets and a tube top so tiny that it looked like she would pop out of it. Which of course was the point.

“You look cute,” I said, and sniffled as I started to put some foundation on.

“Is this about that hot guy in the suit who’s been here hounding you every night?” Tracey asked sympathetically. She took out a pot of my disco-pink cream eyeshadow and started absentmindedly rubbing it over her already done-up eyes. I nodded and she frowned at me in commiseration.

“Honey,” she said, “you can’t let them get to you. You can’t get attached. The suit’s going home to his wife or his girlfriend at some point, and you just have to take what you have with him at face value. He wants to get his whore on — his
boarding school
whore on,” she said, looking at my outfit. “You know how this works, honey. You’re gonna get his freaky shit that’s too good for his wife. At some point, he’s gonna get tired of you, find someone prettier than you and younger than you. There’s always a new crop coming up. You gotta just take it at face value, like I said. And wallet value. Don’t forget the wallet value!”

I smiled weakly at her and nodded. “You’re right, you’re right. I know you’re right.”

“You’re a good girl. Too good to be sitting back here with the rest of us,” she said, returning the pot of eyeshadow to my makeup bag. “If you get out of here, maybe you could land somebody like that. Somebody who’d take care of you. But you gotta get out of here, first.” She rubbed my arm as she got up to fluff her hair. “I gotta go pee....but think about it. Get out of here before you get too old and jiggly!” She raised her hands above her head and shook her arms for emphasis, so the tops of them quivered.

I was still half laughing about Tracey and half crying about John when Alex showed up at my chair.

“Don’t you ever take a night off?” he asked, slouching into the chair that Tracey had left not that long ago.

“Don’t you?” I asked, looking up at him from under my eyelash curler.

He was picking at his cuticles, distracted. “Prince Charming’s here again,” he said, not looking at me. “He wants to see you.”

“Lucky me,” I said, and tossed my eyelash curler towards the mirror.

“Cruz expects you to be nice to him,” Alex said, looking up from his nails.

I stood up and started putting my makeup bag away. I took a look at the backpack, stuffed into my locker. “And you?” I asked.

“I expect you to be you,” he said and stood up. “He seems to like that, so you’ll be fine. And you’re back in the sweet spot in the lineup. Nice job last night.” He wagged his eyebrows at me in typical Alex fashion and I put my backside against the row of lockers in case he wanted to slap it. I liked Alex, but I didn’t have much patience tonight.

It was good news about the lineup, but it was bad news about John. It was time to face him, to end the craziness. The craziness of my longing, the craziness of our brief connection. All the crazy shit he’d stuffed into that backpack. I was going to have to be a big girl and say goodbye.

I grabbed the bag, careful to take out my heels and underwear. He could have the ruler and alas, the glasses, though I would miss them both. I took a deep breath and looked at myself in the mirror. Oxford shirt, plaid skirt, tennis shoes. Alex would probably be mad if I went out on the floor in my sneakers, but I needed to be able to move fast, just in case. Just in case I started crying saying goodbye to the crazy guy I thought I was falling for, who I crazily thought had come for me. Or in case I had to run because he really
was
crazy, and I would have to run away from him and his entourage and his weird backpack.

I squared my shoulders and shook my hair out, so my ringlets sprung up and cascaded down my shoulders. It was reassuring to see my own eyes in the mirror, but I was not as calmed by them as I normally was. I hoped I would go back to normal after this, relying on myself and not needing anything else. I hoped I didn’t feel like I was missing something.

I carried the pack out onto the floor and looked for John. It was easier for me being in flats; most of the crowd paid no attention to me because I was now 5’7” compared to my usual towering self in three-inch stilettos. I saw John and his group in the far corner by the bar, and I made my way over towards them through the sea of men and the occasional couple. Sunday night was “Industry Night” in Vegas, which meant that all the locals who’d been working in the bars and clubs all weekend were off and had no cover charges at most places. People came in to see their friends, to catch up, to relax. The atmosphere in the Treasure Chest was always at its best on Sundays, when women were in the crowd and everyone there was supportive, not predatory. There weren’t guys trying to justify that fifteen dollar drink, expensive hotel and pricey plane ticket. It was just mostly people who worked in the business who wanted to have cocktails and relax.

I usually liked Sundays. This one? Not so much.

John saw me from across the room. I waved lamely and moved towards him, a pit in my stomach. Then someone grabbed my wrist. “Hello gorgeous,” said an unfriendly voice. It was a youngish guy, with gelled hair, a big nose, olive skin and a strong grip.

“Hiiiii,” I said, fake smiling at him. I lifted my arm up and tried to pry his fingers off of me. I couldn’t get them to budge.

“I’m busy. I have to go now,” I said, in my fake-nice voice, trying to yank my arm out of his grasp.

He pulled me closer and whispered in my ear. “I’m a friend of Cruz’s. You should be nicer,” he said, and released his hold. His breath smelled like mints and not like booze, which surprised me.

“Lovely to meet you,” I said sarcastically
over my shoulder as I headed towards the comparative safety of John. What was it with Cruz’s taste in friends? Really, he needed to screen people a little more closely.

John pulled me to him when I got there, and because I knew it was the last time, I didn’t resist. “What did he say?” he whispered urgently into my ear. It was more of a command than it was a question.

“He said he was a friend of Cruz’s and that I should be nicer,” I said. But for a second I wasn’t thinking about the scary guy, the scary backpack, the fact that I had to say goodbye to John tonight. It just felt so good to be in his arms. I let myself close my eyes and rest against his strong chest, careful not to smudge my makeup on him. Then I put my face against his neck and inhaled. He smelled like the outdoors, like sunshine, like clean, white towels. The opposite of stripping, of crazy, of trouble. I let myself stay for a moment there so I would remember it always. They say that smell is the strongest of all the memory senses. I wanted to be sure that I would still have him with me after this was all over, whether he was crazy or not.

“Your backpack,” John said. He pushed me back so he could hold me at arm’s length and look into my eyes.

“About that,” I said, willing myself back to reality. “A taser? Really? And a smartphone? I just met you three days ago. I can’t —”

“Put it on,” John growled into my ear. “Now! We can argue about the contents later.” He looked back over his shoulder at one of his men who was standing there, waiting. “We need to move. Keep her safe — that’s the most important thing.” I saw him take a gun out from a holster hidden under his jacket. My whole body turned to ice. This was it — he really was crazy.

“John, don’t!” I screamed, but then all I could hear was loud bangs, like fireworks, as the young guy behind me jumped on me, knocking me to the ground.

“John!” I screamed again, and I saw him run towards someone or something with his gun out. There was smoke in the club, and people were screaming and running. The guy on me slid off and pulled me by the backpack towards the bar so we wouldn’t be trampled. “Let go of me!” I yelled, and turned around to beat him off me. I had to go warn the girls. I had to go get John. We had to get out of here. But I might as well have been beating a mountain, because that’s what his chest felt like. He didn’t budge.

“Easy, Liberty,” he said. He seemed pretty unfazed given the chaos that surrounded us. He was in his late twenties, with thick blond hair and a nice suit that now had wet, black smudges all over it from the floor.

“Let me go — they’re shooting! I have to tell my friends! We have to get John!” I tried to wrench myself away from him but he took both my hands and held them behind my back so I couldn’t move.

“John will be fine,” he said and laughed. “Trust me. He loves this! And your friends will be fine. This will all be over in a minute.”

“You’re hurting me,” I whimpered, and he relaxed his grip a little. Just what I needed. I wrenched my arms free and ran for it, into the smoke and the sounds of shouting.

“Dammit! Get back here!” Blondie yelled, but I ignored him, ducking when he reached out for me, and booking it towards the center of the room.

“John! John!” I yelled. I couldn’t see anything. There was smoke and people were everywhere, running for the exit, huddled on the ground. It was like a war zone. I heard more shots and I ducked again.

“John, PLEASE!” I yelled again, this time huddled on the floor.

A pair of big strong arms lifted me up and threw me over a huge shoulder. Unfortunately, it was the wrong shoulder. “Are you trying to get me fired?” asked Blondie, obviously annoyed.

“Matthew!” yelled another voice. “Get her to the car! NOW!”

I looked up and saw John sitting in the middle of the floor, tying up the guy who had grabbed me earlier. The grabber’s mouth was taped shut.

“See you in a minute,” John called to me, cheerfully. I didn’t pass out then, like I wanted to, but I did close my eyes and stop thinking. I needed to. Today had to stop. It had been the craziest day of my life, and that was saying something.

This is no car,
I was thinking, looking through the window at the early morning sky, where there were still a few stars fading into the gray light.
This is a tour bus.
I was on tour with a group of suits with guns — and a kidnapping victim with olive skin, a firm grip, and a taped-over mouth. Darius was lucky in one respect: at least he knew where he stood.
I
had no idea if I’d just been saved or if I’d been hijacked.

John was next to me, sleeping. His hand was on my thigh, which felt wonderful. I was torn between being thrilled that he had survived and that his hand was on me, and being petrified that he carried a concealed weapon, took prisoners cheerfully and had his hand on me — and that I liked it.

I had no idea what had happened to Alex or the girls.

Matthew was driving the bus. We were in the second row of seats behind him, where he had put me when we left the club. I had kept my eyes closed and ignored him when he put me down; I hadn’t been able to talk anymore. Maybe I was a little in shock.

I estimated that there were ten other men on the bus, not including the prisoner, which one of the other guys had carried, fireman’s carry style, onto the bus. That was how Matthew had carried me out of the club. It must have been their signature move. I didn’t look at the prisoner when they carried him past me, struggling; I just looked through half-closed lids at his reflection in the window. His eyes were wild, searching.

I didn’t know what to make of any of this.

When everyone else had gotten settled on the bus John went up to Matthew. I was still pretending to be asleep so no one tried to talk to me or ask me to duck and cover. “Don’t
ever
let that happen again,” John said. He sounded angry. I knew he was talking about me.