The savior thing, it turned out, wasn’t entirely one-way. He helped put me on the map and I gave him the kind of gravitas his career had been missing.
“You know Zion, I wish—” Snapping out of my memory of that night, I flounder, unsure of what I’m even about to say to him, but it’s probably unwise and embarrassing. It’ll probably make me cry.
Whatever it is, I don’t get a chance to say it because that’s when the front window smashes in with a deafening crash and the tinkling shatter of glass. Right behind it, the confused ruckus from the street outside comes rushing in and it’sloud.
“Brick!” Zion has to yell through the noise. “Shit! They got over the wall.”
I don’t understand. There’s police out front, holding people back. How did someone get through? It’s a numbers thing, I realize as the screaming pulses in through the gash in the window. Too many people, too much hysteria to keep out. Under pressure, the dam broke.
Fear swoops in. Before it can engulf me, Zion grabs my purse and computer bag, leaving my suitcase on the floor. “Come on,” he says, leading the way to the back door.
Our surroundings blur as we race out into the small, walled courtyard behind the house.
Without hesitation, Zion grabs my hand and sprints to the far wall, bends to give me a leg up, then follows me over. Through a garden, left, then over another wall. A manicured yard, green and pristine. Another wall into a wilder, more tropical garden. Everything smells like grass and exhaust and chlorine from a pool we barely miss falling into.
It’s a scene from a million movies, only there’s no musical soundtrack to make it exciting and every single fence is a struggle I’m not sure I’ll get over.
Another wall and we drop down to the terrifying sound of barking.
Only, when we turn to look, it’s one of those fluffy little white dogs that looks more bunny that canine, with a black face and long ears. It squeals up a storm until Zion picks it up and whispers into its ear and sets it down again, upon which the tiny thing follows him around like he’s a god. No different from everyone else, I suppose. As soon as we clear the gate, it starts yapping again, more annoyed with our departure than our arrival.
Just one more being on this earth who’s instantly obsessed with Zion Mason. Whatever.
By the time we run out onto a smaller side street, the crowd’s roar from our place has faded, my lungs are pure fire, and my sandals have rubbed my feet raw.
Zion puts a hand out to stop me. “You okay?”
“Fine,” I just manage to gulp out between breaths. Sweat’s streaming down my face.
We’ve walked maybe a dozen feet up the road when Zion’s phone buzzes. He answers, gives our location, and then pulls me back into the shadow of an overgrown azalea. “We’ve gotta wait,” he says. “He’s around the corner.”
I nod in acceptance, watching every car that passes, frightened that they’ll see us, recognize us—or Zion, at least—and start the whole nightmare over again.
It takes a while for me to catch my breath and stop shaking from the adrenaline rush and, sad sack that I am, I can’t help but wish he’d put his arm around me, because I’m cold and I’m tired and scared. At the same time, I hate myself for wanting that from him. Wanting anything at all.
“What can I do? What do you need?” nice guy Zion asks, looking caring and concerned. Looking like he means it.
“Just get me outta here.” I don’t trust my voice not to break, so rather than tell him how betrayed I feel, I wave him back and step farther into the shadows.
Maybe two minutes go by, maybe five, while I stand hunched, only a couple feet away from Zion, but somehow as far from each other as two humans can get. He barely looks at me and doesn’t talk and I can’t help but feel remorse for pushing him away.
Although I didn’t have to try that hard. The deeper we get into this nightmare, the more convinced I am that I imagined the closeness between us.
Isn’t that pathetic?
When a huge, dirty pickup turns onto the road, it’s so different from every other car that’s passed that it sends my nerves rocketing again and even Zion’s arm slipping around my shoulders doesn’t help. I wish he wouldn’t touch me. I wish my body didn’t enjoy it quite so much.
Finally, the truck comes to a stop directly in front of us. The passenger door creaks open. “Get in,” comes a deep voice from the dark interior.
Zion grabs my hand. “Come on.”
4
Zion
We’re quiet as Liev King—one of very few people in this world I give a shit about—calmly negotiates Friday night Georgetown traffic, avoiding the massive mess around our place, and gets us the hell out of DC.
Once on the highway, Liev relaxes back in his seat and glances at Twyla. “Evening.”
