CHAPTER NINE
Grace
Grace wasn’t certain what Dorian had meant by bad behavior, but his definition probably didn’t match hers. Even more likely, it wasn’t a good idea with a bunch of paparazzi still casing out the complex.
Yet, cabin fever had started to set in. She’d been imprisoned in her apartment all day—then his—harassed by photographers, and not to mention her privacy obliterated on the news and social media.
When he disguised her in a long, blond wig and beat up cowboy hat, she had more than a few questions.
“What in the world are you doing with a blond wig?”
Dorian chuckled. “Costume contest last Halloween. A group of us went as Motley Crue. Obviously, I was Vince Neil.” He fixed the hair under the hat.
Grace snorted. “Did you have the leather jacket to go with it?”
He nodded. “Do you want to wear the black, fishnet tank top?”
“Pass.” She couldn’t hide a smile.
He stepped back and grinned. “Gorgeous.”
“Since when does a cowboy hat fit into the eighties rock band image?”
Dorian chuckled again. “It doesn’t. But we’re in Texas. It was only a matter of time before a client asked to go horse riding or line dancing.”
Her mind stalled at that comment, remembering his purpose behind these getups. Still not a lifestyle she understood, but now wasn’t the time to dwell on that. She pulled the rim of the hat down over her eyes. Everything was still too visible. “How about some sunglasses, to complete the charade?”
He shook his head. “With a cowboy hat, that’ll be too suspicious. But don’t worry, Grace. No one will recognize you.” He took her hand. “Ready for some fun?”
A sigh made her whole body tremble. “Why am I even more nervous when you say that?”
Dorian sneaked her down the staircase, all nine floors, which led them out a side door to the private parking garage.
Only then did he let go of her hand, to drape his arm over her shoulders to keep up the ruse of a couple. Just in case a few overzealous paparazzi sneaked in to the gated garage for residents only.
He opened the door to his Charger, letting her climb into the passenger seat. When he started the car and pulled out to the front gate, he took a deep breath that filled her own lungs. “Keep your head turned, act like your pulling up a map on your phone.”
Grace obeyed. The notifications blared from the screen; forty-one missed calls. Twelve voicemails. She scowled. “Parasites.”
The gate opened slowly. Several people were crowded around the exit, clearly anticipating her to run. She didn’t lift her eyes as Dorian eased forward. Her heart skipped, and her neck chilled.
Nothing flashed, no bright lights, or people pounding on the window.
So far so good.
Dorian pulled onto the street, and turned the wheel.
Grace dared to lift her eyes.
Her gaze connected with a young, Hispanic photographer three feet from the window.
He stared into her face, and then frowned. He glanced at a paper in his hand.
She let a hint of a smile pull at her lips. Only to have it wiped off when the photographer dropped the paper, and picked up the camera dangling around his neck. By the time it registered in her head that she was made, the flash went off.
“It’s her!” he yelled.
“Shit,” she muttered. “Go, Dorian! Go!”
He slammed on the accelerator. The tires screamed through the rest of the turn. He sped down the street and turned the corner at the light. “Determined little suckers, aren’t they?”
Grace buried her face in her hands. If the media was hounding her this badly, she could only imagine the harassment Ruben and Julia were getting. She’d tried calling them a dozen times today, only they hadn’t answered.
Much like I’m doing with the rest of the world.
Occasional glances at the side mirror didn’t quell her anxiety. Although it didn’t appear as though anyone could catch up, at some point, she’d have to return home. The current disguise was blown.
Dorian steered the car onto the highway, and her angst escalated to a whole new level.
Her knuckles turned white gripping the side handle, and her head was glued to the seat. The false hair stuck to the back of her neck, itchy as hell.
“It’s all right, Grace. We’ve lost them.”
She forced a deep breath in her nose, and a long exhale through her lips. The routine didn’t help her heart rate over the next few miles.
“You look like you’re about to puke. Do you need me to pull over?”
Grace cleared the chokehold on her throat. “Wherever we’re going, do you mind taking the side roads?”
His silence was partly welcome.
Probably judgmental as well, but she didn’t care.
“Sure,” he finally replied. He guided the car towards the off-ramp.
When they were finally off the freeway, she pulled the cowboy hat and wig off her head.
Dorian switched on the A/C, and the cool air hit her face like a mid-summer blizzard.
Several miles later—and probably three times longer than anticipated with all the traffic lights—her pulse had calmed and she opened her eyes.
The dark amber sun peeked between the buildings on the skyline to the west, turning the horizon a brilliant azure and pink. Outside her window toward the east, a faint thumbnail moon rose above the high rises. It had been a long time since Grace had noticed the sunset. The last few years, she’d worked holed up in her office well past twilight every day.
Just to keep her mind from remembering.
“Where are we headed?” she asked.
“You’ll see.” He grinned. “A great place to release a lot of angst.”
She cringed. “If it’s a gun range, I’d rather face the paparazzi.”
Dorian chuckled. “I don’t shoot on the first date. We have to work our way up to that very personal experience.”
The urge to correct him this wasn’t a real date was hard to bite back.
He turned into a massive complex with an easily visible golfing range, all lit up with spotlights.
“Golf?”
“Driving range. Ever been?”
Grace shook her head.
He grinned, and pulled into a spot. “It’s amazing how the stress melts away when you whack a bunch of balls into submission down the fairway. Even more effective with copious amounts of beer.”
“The balls seem to fly farther that way, right?” She smirked. When she stepped out of the car, the tangy scent of barbeque made her mouth water.
He peered at her over the roof of his car. “Mine certainly do.” Dorian winked.
Only two steps inside, the noise amplified. A large arcade toward the side drowned out the bar on the other end, full of tables, cocktail chairs, and even several couches. Half of them occupied with people of all ages. A grand, iron staircase climbed either side of the registration desk in the center.
Dorian purchased a two-hour slot for one bay. Although, there was a short wait for their turn.
He guided her toward the bar with his hand on the small of her back.
Casual and gentle, but still an awkward gesture for her. Strangely warm. Tingly.
He ordered two beers and a pitcher to be delivered to their bay. “Unless you want to play a round of Skeeball first?”
Her first instinct was to say no. Games like that were for kids. But when she glanced at the arcade behind them, the familiar tug of her childhood pulled at her. A few kids were there, playing a dance game. They looked to be about nine or ten.
Same age as Meggie.
Grace shook her head, and grabbed her beer from the counter.
“Bay three is ready,” the attendant called.
They climbed the stairs to the second tier. Bright lights blared across the course, a long stretch of green with target baskets and sand traps. Little red flags stuck up from the ground at several holes at various distances. On all sides, large black nets climbed into the sky attached to tall poles. To keep the balls from flying onto the highway beyond.
They each picked out a driver from the rack of clubs available to guests.
Before long, she found herself holding the golf club in an awkward grip, staring at a little white, dimpled ball clearly mocking her as it rested peacefully on a tee.
“Fix your grip.”
She could feel Dorian smiling at her back as he said the words.
“This is supposed to be fun?” she chastised.
“You’ll see.” He moved forward. “Like this.” He adjusted her fingers around the club, lining her thumbs one in front of the other. “Good. Now relax your shoulders.” He gently rested his hands along her arms.
His husky cologne strengthened, mixed with his breath that smelled of beer and honey. The hairs on her neck danced, and settled just as quickly.
Dorian moved his hands to her waist, his grip sure and undemanding. “Bend your knees a bit.”
“This feels ridiculous.”
When he stepped back, she caught a funny grin on his face.
“Trust me. Now just whack the shit out of it.”
Grace blew out a breath, and blocked the negative words in her mind that doubted the entire escapade. She pulled the club back, and swung. The base hit the fake grass, the vibration radiating up her arms. The ball merely tipped off the tee and rolled onto the concrete at Dorian’s feet.
She cocked her head at him.
“Good first try.”
Grace bit her tongue. “Care to get that for me?”
Dorian smiled, and knelt to grab the ball. His thigh muscles bulged from his jeans, and his shirt rippled around his biceps. He looked far too comfortable in his own skin.
Something she secretly envied right now.
He set the ball on the tee. “This time, do one more thing for me.”
She adjusted the sleeves on her shirt to give her more room. “Please don’t give me the cliché of keeping my eye—”
“Picture that photographer’s face on the ball.”
Grace paused.
Dorian’s intent gaze locked on hers, serious brown sugar eyes that sparked a flame in her chest.
The sound from the other golfers around her faded away. Slowly, the white ball turned into a blood-sucking leech with a sickening snarl. Her fingers tightened around the club, and she swung the driver with a force that emerged from her muscles out of nowhere.
Thwack!
The ball sailed in the air, nearly disappearing in the bright lights. The arc curved to the right, and bounced across the green. Watching that puny scum obliterate into nothingness gave her a deep satisfaction she hadn’t felt in too long.
He whistled. “Dead sucker, right there.” His eyes sparkled when he smiled. “Another?”
“Hell yes.”
Dorian laughed, and placed another one on the tee.
The ball morphed into the face of the paparazzi that had climbed her fire escape, and took a picture of her folding laundry.
Thwack!
Shithead’s face went even farther than the first.
Grace grinned.
By the tenth ball, the images had changed. They weren’t faces anymore, but memories. Conversations she’d desperately tried to forget. The first meeting with the police officer that dreadful night. She rolled that dialogue into a tiny, spitball and thwacked it to kingdom come.
Then the lady at the hospital front desk who wouldn’t let her through the doors to see her little girl and husband. Thwack!
Then the doctor who’d informed her the world had incinerated. Then, watching the sheet pulled off to identify her husband’s cold, pale face on the exam table.
Falling to her knees when her daughter’s face was revealed. Black cuts and bruises had covered her perfect angel’s nose and forehead.
A million more moments of complete emptiness since then. Each one attached to a tiny, dimpled ball bashed into the beyond.
Her hands started to ache, and her fingers turned red.
Dorian had never said a word. He just let her keep smashing those infernal memories to hell.
Then the images changed again. Into the faces of those who’d tried to swindle her. Pretended to sympathize, console, and charm their way into her pockets. The pockets of a still-grieving woman that had contained the life insurance policies of the ones she loved most. Each one of those devilish bastards was smacked with extra vigor.
She took a deep breath, and her fingers were so sore, they were almost numb.
Dorian’s smile was warm, satisfying, and silent. “Ready for a beer?”