camera that focuses on the gate, and even though I blew him off almost two hours ago, Frank’s car is still parked just off the driveway, close enough for him to hear me over the intercom if I change my mind.
I feel a little twinge in my gut. Would someone who’s guilty try so damn hard to make a case for his innocence?
Or maybe he’s too clever by half and trying to lull me in?
Or maybe I should never have opened the app in the first place, because now I have yet another scenario playing in my head.
Well, damn
.
I’m actually considering getting on the intercom and begging him to please drive away when my phone rings. This time, it’s not a call forwarded from the gate, but from Jackson.
“Hey,” I say, happy to have someone to talk to in order to drown out my own voice in my head. “What’s up?”
“She went into early labor.” His voice is rushed, hard with an edge of fear, and I immediately tense. “The baby’s cord is around its neck, but she’s too far along for a C-section.”
“Oh, Jackson.” I sit down, cold with fear. “I’ll be right there.”
“I can’t get ahold of Damien.” He sounds lost, and Jackson never sounds lost. Like Damien, he’s a man who is always in control. My fear ratchets up a notch as I realize that he’s afraid of losing the baby. Or, god forbid, of losing Sylvia.
“I’ll tell him. Just go be with her. I’m on my way.”
I hear a nurse approach, letting him know that Sylvia was calling for him, and then the click of the phone as he hangs up, obviously overwhelmed. I get that. I feel overwhelmed, too.
I bend over and take a deep breath to ward off rising fear, then hit the speed-dial for Damien. It rolls to voicemail, which means he must be somewhere without a signal, because I’m damn sure he’d take my calls today, even if he was negotiating a billion dollar contract.
I leave a message, then follow up with a text. I call Rachel, too, but she tells me that she’s already spoken to Jackson and is trying to reach Damien, as well.
Since I can’t do more on that front, I grab my purse and hurry down to the garage. I’d left Coop at Wyatt’s studio and driven home with Damien, and I don’t want to waste time calling Edward. I need to get to the hospital as fast as I can, and since the Bugatti has some serious speed, that’s the car I choose from Damien’s vehicular menagerie.
I’m in it and heading through the exit tunnel in less than three minutes. It opens on the road just past the driveway gate, and soon I’m racing toward the Pacific Coast Highway, a litany of
faster, faster
running through my head.
When the car suddenly shimmies and bounces and starts pulling to the right, I’m so focused on just getting to the hospital that it takes me a moment to realize that a tire has blown out and that I have no choice but to pull over.
Damn, shit, fuck.
I get out, stare at the tire, and then kick the damn thing out of pique. Theoretically, I know how to change a tire. In practice, though, it would take me the rest of the day.
I open my phone and pull up my Uber app, figuring I’ll get a ride and then text Gregory and ask him to deal with the car, and then I’ll try to get through to Damien again.
But just as I’m about to enter my request, a familiar blue Buick pulls up behind me. Familiar, because I was just looking at it on my security camera. The door opens, and Frank steps out.
“Need help changing the tire?”
I shake my head, then take the plunge. “No,” I say. “But I need a ride to the hospital.”
Frank doesn’t ask questions and he drives fast. As far as I’m concerned, those are more points in his favor.
“My sister-in-law,” I explain once I’m certain that he understands the urgency and is driving accordingly. “And my friend.” I tell him what Jackson told me, and he nods grimly.
“Try not to worry. She’s at a hospital in good hands.” But I see his hands tighten on the steering wheel as he accelerates through
I feel a little twinge in my gut. Would someone who’s guilty try so damn hard to make a case for his innocence?
Or maybe he’s too clever by half and trying to lull me in?
Or maybe I should never have opened the app in the first place, because now I have yet another scenario playing in my head.
Well, damn
.
I’m actually considering getting on the intercom and begging him to please drive away when my phone rings. This time, it’s not a call forwarded from the gate, but from Jackson.
“Hey,” I say, happy to have someone to talk to in order to drown out my own voice in my head. “What’s up?”
“She went into early labor.” His voice is rushed, hard with an edge of fear, and I immediately tense. “The baby’s cord is around its neck, but she’s too far along for a C-section.”
“Oh, Jackson.” I sit down, cold with fear. “I’ll be right there.”
“I can’t get ahold of Damien.” He sounds lost, and Jackson never sounds lost. Like Damien, he’s a man who is always in control. My fear ratchets up a notch as I realize that he’s afraid of losing the baby. Or, god forbid, of losing Sylvia.
“I’ll tell him. Just go be with her. I’m on my way.”
I hear a nurse approach, letting him know that Sylvia was calling for him, and then the click of the phone as he hangs up, obviously overwhelmed. I get that. I feel overwhelmed, too.
I bend over and take a deep breath to ward off rising fear, then hit the speed-dial for Damien. It rolls to voicemail, which means he must be somewhere without a signal, because I’m damn sure he’d take my calls today, even if he was negotiating a billion dollar contract.
I leave a message, then follow up with a text. I call Rachel, too, but she tells me that she’s already spoken to Jackson and is trying to reach Damien, as well.
Since I can’t do more on that front, I grab my purse and hurry down to the garage. I’d left Coop at Wyatt’s studio and driven home with Damien, and I don’t want to waste time calling Edward. I need to get to the hospital as fast as I can, and since the Bugatti has some serious speed, that’s the car I choose from Damien’s vehicular menagerie.
I’m in it and heading through the exit tunnel in less than three minutes. It opens on the road just past the driveway gate, and soon I’m racing toward the Pacific Coast Highway, a litany of
faster, faster
running through my head.
When the car suddenly shimmies and bounces and starts pulling to the right, I’m so focused on just getting to the hospital that it takes me a moment to realize that a tire has blown out and that I have no choice but to pull over.
Damn, shit, fuck.
I get out, stare at the tire, and then kick the damn thing out of pique. Theoretically, I know how to change a tire. In practice, though, it would take me the rest of the day.
I open my phone and pull up my Uber app, figuring I’ll get a ride and then text Gregory and ask him to deal with the car, and then I’ll try to get through to Damien again.
But just as I’m about to enter my request, a familiar blue Buick pulls up behind me. Familiar, because I was just looking at it on my security camera. The door opens, and Frank steps out.
“Need help changing the tire?”
I shake my head, then take the plunge. “No,” I say. “But I need a ride to the hospital.”
Frank doesn’t ask questions and he drives fast. As far as I’m concerned, those are more points in his favor.
“My sister-in-law,” I explain once I’m certain that he understands the urgency and is driving accordingly. “And my friend.” I tell him what Jackson told me, and he nods grimly.
“Try not to worry. She’s at a hospital in good hands.” But I see his hands tighten on the steering wheel as he accelerates through
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