Chapter twelve

GRACE CHAMBERS

I’m walking around the market with a goofy smirk on my face.

I can’t help it even though I know I must look ridiculous.

The amount of mind-blowing sex I’ve been having lately would have any woman on cloud nine.

My muscles are wonderfully sore from our antics when I squat to grab a bag of rice.

When my phone rings in my purse, I pull out the device fully expecting to see Jameson’s name displayed on the screen.

My mother’s number brings me back down to earth.

“Mom?”

A wheezing smoker’s cough fills the line before she says a word.

“Gracie? Oh, thank God you answered.”

She sounds relieved and I’m not sure why.

“What’s going on, Mom?”

“How are you, sweetheart?” She attempts small talk and I roll my eyes.

“I’m fine, Mom. What do you need?”

My mom and I have no pretenses of a pleasant relationship.

She wasn’t exactly nurturing when I was growing up and I haven’t exactly forgiven her for it. Still, she is the only mother I have.

Whenever she calls, she usually needs something or has bad news to deliver.

I sigh deeply, wondering what she has in store for me today.

So much for my giddy mood.

“I hear Brick is looking for you and he’s hired a professional to do the job.”

Ice chills the blood in my veins.

“What?” I ask incredulously, my brain refusing to let her words sink in.

“Brick,” she repeats emphatically. “Martha from the bakery says she found out from his assistant when the girl came in to order a cake last Wednesday.”

Fear traps the words in my throat and my knees weaken.

With white knuckles, I grip the handle of the shopping cart before me, using it to support myself.

“Mom, I’m sure it’s just a silly rumor,” I say regaining my ability to speak.

“I don’t know,” she says uncertainly.

“Trust me. Brick isn’t thinking about me anymore. Everything happened so long ago,” I speak trying to convince her as well as myself.

“Even though I suspect you’ll never tell me the full story, I know the man is dangerous. Gracie, you didn’t just skip town for no reason.”

“I know, Mom,” I say, stealing glances at my surroundings. I want to insure that no one overhears our conversation.

“Gracie, I need you to promise me that you’ll be careful.”

“I always am.” My words are placating but hold zero confidence.

“Be careful of who you trust in that town,” she warns. “I don’t know what I’ll do if anything happens to you because of that man.”

She sounds disgusted whenever she mentions Brick and I’m slightly comforted to have her allegiance on this.

“I promise to be careful.”

My mom takes the time to stress her earlier point about being trusting no one and tells me to call her if I need anything.

As soon as I disconnect the call, I abandon my cart of groceries and flee the store. Beating a hasty pace to my car, I survey the parking lot even more paranoid than I usually am.

Then I notice a completely blacked-out SUV in a far corner of the parking lot and my heart stills.

Is it the professional my mom claims Brick hired?

I’m being silly, I tell myself even as I draw a fearful breath. Brick and I have both moved on from that shitty time.

I have nothing to be worried about.

Right?

Still, the bile is rising in my stomach at the thought of him tracking me down.

After all the work I did to disappear. He could be lurking and I know my pepper spray won’t be a match for whatever he has planned.

I drive home, frequently checking my rear-view mirror to see if the SUV is following me.

I’m pleased to see no signs of it during my ten-minute commute home.

Swimming in unpleasant thoughts, I trudge upstairs and come to a clear realization: it’s time to formulate a better plan.

* * *

Stephania raps lightly on my closed door, calling out to me.

“Gracie, I made your favorite. Seafood mac and cheese. Open up and I’ll give it to you,” she tries tempting me.

Stephania is a great cook and she knows I usually can’t resist whatever she prepares. But tonight is different.

“I’m not hungry, Stephania.”

I’ve been locked in my room since I returned from the market three hours ago. Trying to digest what my mother said and formulate a plan in the event that Brick really does track me down.

It’s possible that I’m overreacting but I’ve always preferred to err on the side of caution.

“Grace, please.”

Lost in my thoughts, I almost forgot that Stephania is at my door.

“Will you save it for me in the oven, please?” I ask, infusing my voice with kindness.

I’m irritated but she doesn’t deserve my foul mood.

She’s been nothing but great since I’ve known her.

“Fine,” she huffs dejectedly. “Does this have anything to do with Jameson? I’ll kick his ass,” she promises darkly.

My smile returns for the first time since earlier this afternoon.

“Jameson didn’t do anything,” I reassure her.

“Okay. I’ll put your food in the oven.”

“Thanks,” I call back.

I hear a light thud against the door and I imagine she’s dropped her hand to rest there as she says her next words.

“I’m here if you need me, Grace. You can tell me anything,” she emphasizes. “You know that, don’t you?”

Emotion fills my heart at her sweet words.

“I know, Steph. Some other time. I just need time to think.”

I want to tell her everything but trepidation steals my courage to do so.

When I hear footsteps retreat down the hall, I exhale.

The relief is fleeting.

My phone vibrates, rattling on my nightstand and I know without looking that it’s Jameson.

He’s called me twice already and sent three times as many texts.

It’s not like me to go without answering my phone and I know he must be worried. We’re usually in contact throughout the day, exchanging flirty texts and making plans for our next meeting.

But I can’t entertain those thoughts while my ex is somewhere plotting to exact his revenge.

I can’t think about anything but running again.

* * *

Pounding against my bedroom door wake me from a fitful sleep.

The aggressive knocks are much more brutal than before and I know it’s not Stephania on the other side offering food and conversation.

These knocks are heavy and violent, leading me to think the worst.

Had someone gotten into our apartment?

My bleary eyes read the time on my cell phone and I learn that it is 7:28 a.m.

Twelve missed calls.

Twenty unread texts.

The notifications widen my tired eyes.

“Grace, open up! I know you’re in there, sweetheart.”

Holy shit.

It’s Jameson.

I leave my bed and pad over to my bedroom window, which overlooks the street below.

His bike is parked near the curb in a haphazard manner as if he’d been in a rush.

I turn back to my door just as his fist makes contact again.

“Grace, please. You’re freaking me the fuck out.”

A pang of guilt hits me at the tortured sound of his voice.

He really is worried about me and my reclusive actions aren’t helping the matter.

I inhale a deep breath and pull open the door to face him.