Singer

Ethan is struggling. I see it, though he’s trying to remain calm. I know some of it is because I suck at driving a stick, but most of it is guilt. I refuse to let him do that. He’s had a year of hardships and enough loss to last five lifetimes. He needs a break. He needs to smile. He needs to find happiness, and that’s what I intend to help him do.

It’s just after nine at night and the streets are way too packed to let this baby loose. I’m really not good with a manual transmission in traffic. “Sorry,” I say, sneaking a peek at him.

“Don’t be.” I feel joyful when I see him smile for the first time today.

“It’s been awhile since I’ve driven a stick shift.”

“By the way you’re torturing this innocent car, I’m surprised you know how to drive one at all.”

“Dang, man,” I tease, “don’t go easy on me or anything.” We stop at a light. I had pumped the brake when we went through the last intersection. I’m not willing to risk this car on last-minute slipups. “Maybe you should drive.”

“If you wanted me to take you for a ride, all you had to do was ask.” He winks, but his heart isn’t in it. I start to wonder if we’re putting on a front for each other.

“Will you take me for a ride, Mr. Everest?”

“Take the next right.”

Several blocks down, I pull into a hotel roundabout, and we swap seats. Reaching into the back, he pulls out a baseball hat and puts it on as if he’s missed it as much as the car. He’s at home behind the wheel, which makes me curious how often he gets to drive it. “When was the last time you drove this car?”

“It’s been a few months.”

My lips part. “Really? Such a waste.”

“Brace yourself.” He punches the pedal when all the lanes are clear, zipping us across four and taking a right. The horsepower sends my back to the seat and my hands out to hold on to the door and dash. But his words remind me of last night, our connection a constant in this maddening world. I’m bracing, holding on for my life, not from his driving or the danger of the speed limit that’s currently being broken. I’m bracing myself for the plummet that’s surely circling outside my consciousness.

Once we’re across the Henry Hudson Bridge, I realize where we are and break my own rules. “We’re leaving the city?”

“First, there’s no destination. Second, no questions. You made me promise, baby. I’m holding you to the same.”

I see the smirk tempting the corners of his lush lips. I love their fullness, their pressure, the way they possess mine with each kiss. And damn do I want a kiss. “Very funny.”

“Those are the rules if you want to go on an adventure, Ms. Davis.”

His phone lights up, a text filling up a portion of the screen. I lean in, out of habit, to read it, which makes him laugh. “Nosy much?”

Sitting back, I laugh. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. I have nothing to hide from you, Singer. Do you mind reading it to me?”

“It has a bunch of question marks. That’s it.” I look to him for the explanation.

“Thanks.”

“Thanks? That’s it? No, I need more. We’re sharing here, so share.”

“He’s wondering where I am. It’s not safe, so he’s checking in.”

Resting my head on the seat, I watch him behind the wheel commanding the car like he commands my body—owning every last inch of it. “When I’m with you, I forget about your money. Do you ever forget?”

“I’m reminded every damn minute of every damn day, except when I’m with you.” He lifts my hand to his lips and kisses gently. “You’re a nice escape, Ms. Davis.”

I bring his to my lips and kiss with the same affection. Sitting back, I admire the scenery. I like the lack of skyscrapers and enjoy seeing all the trees. They’re hard to see at night, but knowing they’re there, reminds me of home. Home. Melanie.

My heart hurts, so I try to push that pain aside again for just a little while. “With all your money, I would have thought Lars would have a tracker on this baby.”

“He does.” Ethan laughs. “He was tailing us in the city, but I lost him a few blocks before the bridge when I turned off the tracking device. I think he got the message.”

Smiling that Ethan is now the rebel, I ask, “What message was that?”

“That I wanted to be alone with you.”

His hand returns to the steering wheel, but I wish I could hold it longer, Reality is always on standby ready to smack me right back into it. I say, “As much as I love the thought of us escaping the city for a while, it’s not safe to do so. I don’t want anyone hurting you.”

“They’re trying, Singer.” He looks at me before his gaze shifts back to the road again. “It’s you I’m worried about, not me.”

“Then why did you agree to this?”

“Because you needed to get out. I could tell you were restless.” Reaching forward he presses a button. “The tracker is back on. For our safety.”

It feels so final to know that our little bubble has burst once again, but I’m starting to realize this is it. If I want to be with him, this is how our life will be—busted bubbles and tracking devices.

* * *

Just outside Yonkers is a little old-timey roadside diner. The parking lot is gravel and the lights stay on twenty-four hours a day. There aren’t any other Lamborghinis in the parking lot, but there are a few Mercedes and a BMW. Also a few trucks that have seen better days, and a few cars similar to the one I had in Boulder before I sold it to move to New York.

I could spend a few hours sitting in a window booth, staring at the highway as cars pass by. It would satisfy the people-watching craving I haven’t fed in a long time. Ethan’s shoulders are stiff, his demeanor intimidating if I didn’t know him better. He’s on high alert. I understand, but it’s the same feeling I wanted to escape when I took the car in the first place. Here it is swallowing us again. He won’t admit he has safety concerns sitting in this restaurant, but I feel it in the way his hand on my back has added pressure as he grips the back of my shirt. I see it when he asks me to sit next to him on the same side of the booth, me tucked on the inside, both of us facing the door.

“Melanie found love. We came to New York in pursuit of our dream careers, but she found love.” I look at Ethan and add, “Like us, which is better than any job could ever be.”

The waitress is nice when she tips the mugs over and fills each with black coffee. I add cream and sugar and am about to take a sip but ask, “Is this our life?”

His eyes are on the door thirty feet or so ahead of us. “What do you mean?”

“Always trying to outrun the tracker.” Lowering my voice, sadness refusing to hide, I add, “Or a killer? Hiding someplace, trying to find a few minutes of peace before we hop back into the fire that is meant to burn us, and eventually will? This can’t be it.”

The width of his hand spans my thigh, curling around between my legs. It’s not sexual, but protective. Rubbing up and down a few times, his nerves transfer to me. “I don’t know how to answer that, Singer.”

“With the truth.”

“I don’t have the answers.”

“We deserve the fairy tale. It took a year-long detour to get here then . . . now it’s just days full of despair.”

Looking at me through the corners of his eyes, he drops his head and shakes it. “I hope not, but I can’t make any promises.” He rubs his temples, and I miss that hand on my body. “We need to be realistic. You’re in danger because someone wants to get to me. It’s working. They’re getting to me.”

Two plates of eggs, soggy bacon, and pancakes are placed before us, abruptly interrupting us. The waitress refills our mugs. The heaviness of this conversation is bigger than this booth allows. I’m sure she felt the weight of it and quickly leaves us be. I’m not hungry, but I pick off a piece of bacon and try to stomach it while trying to swallow his words to digest them. “What are you saying, Ethan?”

The plate is pushed away and he moves, putting space between us. He spins the Astros cap around on his head, the bill at the back as he holds his forehead in his hands.

I don’t take another bite.

I don’t move.

I don’t breathe while watching him struggle with whatever decisions he’s made on his own. He can’t look in my direction, much less at me.

It’s that bad.

I reach out to touch him, but his body bends away. When my hand returns to my lap, he says, “You know what I’m saying, Singer.”

I do.

I know. I want to cry, but instead, I force him to use the words he’s hiding behind. “I want you to say it.” Trying to put distance between us, the molding of the wood paneled wall digs into my shoulder blades. “Look at me and say it.”

Regret comes in many forms. His comes in the murky shade of moss. The bill of the cap comes back around, and he lowers it to shadow those heartbreaking eyes. “We thought we were clever. I thought I could take you to a charity ball right under the nose of the press and get away with it. Just a night out with you. Don’t you see, they saw through the act? They saw through me because I can’t hide how I feel about you, and worse, I never wanted to. So the moment you walked into my life, you became a target. I don’t know who wants to get to me, but it worked. He found my weakness. I am forever responsible for Melanie’s death and Aaron’s wounds, and I will carry that guilt with me to the grave. Don’t make me carry yours.”

I thought I could hold back the tears, the pain, the anger and fear that have been smothering me since yesterday. I can’t. I’m foolish for thinking that was even a possibility. Sliding my plate away, I take a napkin and wipe away the tears that have fallen down my face. Soon enough, this napkin will be in shreds, just like this chance at love I thought I had. I take a sobering deep breath and say, “Move.”

“No.” Strong, firm, not budging.

“Move or I’ll scream.” My voice is controlled and low, but my crying has caught the attention of other customers. I don’t want people staring at me. I just want to cry in peace, under the darkness of night.

Reluctantly, he slides out and stands, becoming an obstacle in my way. I push past and head for the door as he’s reaching for his wallet. I don’t make it far, just to the other side of the car, under the bright neon diner sign.

Headlights flicker from across the street and my heart stops cold in my chest as I fall to the ground. Strong arms embrace me, that deep melody of a voice I had trusted whispers in my ear, “You’re okay. That’s Lars.”

Turning to look above me, Ethan’s expression is one of strength with that defined jaw and focused eyes in control. He’s not broken like Lars thinks. Helping me up from my knees, those same strong arms that didn’t let me fall now hold me up. The reality that I’m ducking to a gravel lot to save myself sinks in. His strength can’t save me if someone wants me dead. So he’s right. I’ll give him that sad credit while I stand on my own two feet again. “I can’t stay.”

“I’ll take you back to the penthouse,” he says, holding me too tight, his fear of losing me taking over.

It’s too late. “I mean with you. I can’t stay with you.” His silence cuts through the night, louder than the cars driving by. I’m freed from his confines and add, “I’m leaving New York.”