Escape (Part Two) Read online

  Escape

  Part Two

  By

  Zelda Reed

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  Copyright

  First Original Edition, September 2014

  Copyright © 2014 by Zelda Reed

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without written consent from the author.

  Other Works by Zelda Reed

  The Kids Who Were

  Volume One

  Volume Two

  Escape

  Part One

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  One

  Chace pressed his mouth against mine. The smell of him invaded my nostrils as my eyes slipped closed. I could barely move, trapped between his body and the bedroom door, his hips pressed hard against mine.

  My stomach filled with relief as his tongue snaked passed my lips. He knew I was Veronica and the thought excited him, his cock hardening between his legs.

  I wanted him closer.

  My hands trailed up his arms, finding their place on his broad shoulders as my fingertips curled into his shirt. Chace tilted his head to the side, his mouth carefully tugging my bottom lip between his teeth.

  I expected gentle nips but Chace bit down hard. My mouth fell open and my hands gripped his shirt as a painful gasp ripped from my throat. A sick wave of pleasure stirred in my stomach and poured a hot wet heat between my legs as he refused to let up but bit down harder, splitting the skin. Droplets of blood poured into his mouth and mine.

  My hands turned to fists. The second he removed his teeth from my lip, I pushed him away. Chace drunkenly stumbled back with a laugh, the sound of it bouncing off the bedroom walls, disrupting the calm silence of the night.

  Chace stared as I licked the blood from my lip. “What the fuck was that?” I asked.

  My blood was on his tongue. He flicked it across the roof of his mouth before his signature smirk tugged at the corners of his lips. “Don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy it.”

  “I didn’t,” I snapped, pressing my hand against my bottom lip. He stepped towards me. Quickly, I opened the bedroom door. “You need to leave.”

  He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “You don’t want me to go.”

  “Yes, I really do.”

  Chace’s eyes narrowed.

  “Please get out,” I said.

  Another smirk spread across his mouth. He moved towards the door, stopping when he was centimeters away from me. “Make up your fucking mind,” he said, stepping out of the room.

  The second his foot crossed the threshold, I closed and locked the door behind him.

  My forehead rested against the wood, bottom lip pulled in my mouth as I nursed the wound with my tongue.

  He bit me. He drew my blood. And there was no denying that I liked it.

  Two

  By morning I had yet to “make up my fucking mind”.

  I hated myself for it but I’d never wanted anyone as much as I wanted Chace. However now that he knew I was Veronica, I felt too exposed to act on my desires. What if I was terrible in bed? Would he fire me for being unable to satisfy him? Would I quit out of the sheer humiliation of having to face him every day? Would he phone Jonah and call me inadequate? Would my poor attempt at sex lead him running back to Jennifer?

  No man made me this nervous but I was desperate to please Chace, inside the bedroom and out of it.

  The smell of breakfast wafted through the vents – eggs, toast, bacon, sausage, hash browns – but I couldn’t pull myself from the bed. I couldn’t face Chace, not with millions of conflicting thoughts racing through my head.

  Everything would’ve been easier if brownsfan6 existed. If his small start-up was nestled somewhere in Brooklyn, next door to his apartment that was too small to hold all his furniture from San Francisco. If he ran his fingers through his thick curly hair when he was stressed, if he knocked back too many cups of chamomile tea to lull himself to sleep.

  I know I told Chace, through brownsfan6, that I wasn’t looking for anything serious, but there was always a spark of hope buzzing in the back of my chest.

  Maybe brownsfan6 and I would meet and the date would go so well neither of us wanted it to end. Maybe we would spend the weekend at his apartment, sprawled on the floor and the couch, in-between rolling beneath the light colored sheets on his bed. Maybe on Sunday night, when it was time for me to head home, he would beg me to stay and I would know, this is the start of something new.

  As much as I tried to beat them into submission, fantasies of weekend trips away, meeting his parents, falling in love, plagued me like a sickness. I kept telling myself I wasn’t looking for anything serious but like any girl, if the right guy fell into my lap, I wasn’t going to push him away.

  I turned over, laying on my back, eyes fixed on the ceiling until I pressed my pillow against my face.

  Who was I kidding? Aside from my job nothing in my life was going to plan. My sister and I still lived in our shitty apartment and not the Harlem brownstone we dreamed of renovating. Neither of us had enough money, or time, to visit our mother’s grave in Philadelphia or send the twins to a good school in the city; and I was too busy worrying about Chace’s novel to find time to work on my own.

  I flipped over on my stomach, burying my nose into my pillow as I pulled the sheets over my head.

  But I could have Chace. I could have his body for as long as I could put up with his attitude, or as long as he was willing to put up with me. But was he worth risking my job for?

  My brain was telling me, hell no, but everything else was telling me, yes, yes, yes.

  Three

  Around one I made my way to the kitchen and fixed a plate full of leftovers from lunch: finger sandwiches, potato salad, and a small bowl of fruit. The cooks bustled around me, smiling as they threw dishes into the dishwasher and packed away the remaining food in plastic containers.

  I was tired of staring at my bedroom walls and decided to sit at the kitchen island, stuffing my face while I listened to the pair of cooks chat amongst themselves and listened out for the sound of Chace’s footsteps sliding across the wooden floor.

  The doorbell rang when I was heading upstairs. Bonnie opened the door.

  The foyer filled with voices, three masculine and two feminine, all of them speaking at once. I wandered to the living room archway, as Bonnie closed the door behind the crew of people. Three of them were around my age, the girl with short white-blonde hair, the men sporting matching goatees. Leading the group was a woman around Bonnie’s age with short grey hair and a stylish black suit.

  She surveyed the estate with a pleased glance. “Your home is always so spotless,” she said to Bonnie.

  “You know how Harold is. He hates to see a speck of dust,” said Bonnie.

  “Do you mind if Jeff takes a photo?”

  Bonnie shook her head.

  They all waited patiently as one of the men removed a black bag from his shoulder. From it, he pulled the body of a large camera, mirroring the ones shouldered by the paparazzi in New York. Attaching a lens and a flash, he snapped away, covering every
inch of foyer.

  The woman stepped close to Bonnie. “I’m glad to see you’re keeping it up,” she said. “Despite everything.”

  Bonnie tried to keep her smile from falling but the corners of her mouth pulled downward, along with her head. I knew that feeling, the sudden shift of emotion, the great weight weighing down on your shoulders as you remembered, no everything is not all right today, someone I love is dying.

  She collected herself with squared shoulders, clearing her throat as Jeff put away the camera. “Why don’t we head upstairs?”

  The group followed Bonnie to the second floor, camera equipment bumping into their sides and legs, the woman carefully drinking in the wallpaper, the wooden railing, and the paintings surrounding them.

  The front door opened. Evie jogged inside, sweat pooling at her hairline and dripping down the sides of her face. Dressed in her neon pink workout gear, she wiped the sweat away with her hand and spotted me immediately.

  “Megra’s here isn’t she?” she asked, walking towards me.

  “Who?”

  “Megra Jones. The world renowned journalist.”

  I shrugged.

  Evie tossed a look over her shoulder. “I think that’s her car outside.”

  “Your mom just brought a bunch of people upstairs but what’s a journalist doing here?”

  Evie settled back against the wall, her sweat staining the wallpaper. “You know my father owns one of the biggest media management companies in the country, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, the whole company’s built on this philosophy that they’re a family, not just a group of people who are forced to work together. They put out a weekly magazine where employees can talk about the children they’re about to have, who got married to who, a cool vacation spot, a bunch of random and sometimes important shit. My dad’s wish, before the coma, was if he ever fell deathly ill, there would be an article about his last days in the magazine.”

  She swiped another pool of sweat from her forehead.

  I pulled the inside of my cheek between my teeth. “You really think your dad is dying?”

  Evie nodded. “That’s what the doctor’s say and I don’t have enough knowledge to dispute them.”

  My eyes softened at the corners. “I’m sorry.”

  Evie sadly smiled. “It’s alright.” She took in a deep breath. “You wanna help me pick out something to wear for the pictures?”

  I smiled. “Okay.”

  ***

  Evie and I picked out a floral orange dress and white wedged sandals for her to wear.

  They were keeping Mr. Evans in the west wing, his room across from the closed door of the master suite, oak walls surrounding four large windows that let in gulps of light. The head of his bed was set up against the left wall, tubes running out of his nose, mouth and arms, hooked up to multiple, beeping machines.

  Bonnie stood beside him, his hand in hers as her thumb massaged his. The crew moved around her, setting up lights and tripods, ignoring the nurse who floated around them.

  Megra stood at the foot of the bed, watching Mr. Evans intently.

  Comatose, his skin was pale and grey, wrinkles heavy across his eyes and mouth. I would never say this to any of them, but he already looked like a corpse. Eerily still aside from the wave of breaths that heightened and lowered his chest.

  Evie and I stood a good foot away from the bed, her hands clasped nervously in front of her as she stared down at her father. There was a glaze in her eyes, tears threatening to spill if she moved an inch.

  The other woman opened a black box full of make-up. Lipsticks and eye shadows and foundation clamored together, ripping Bonnie’s attention from her husband. She lifted her head, surprised to see us, her hand wiping away tears as she softly smiled.

  “Afternoon, Amy. We missed you at breakfast.”

  “It’s Alice, mom,” Evie said.

  Bonnie shook her head in apology.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I wasn’t hungry this morning but I grabbed some lunch.”

  “Good,” Bonnie said with a nod. “Very good.” She sniffed and glanced down at her husband, his hand still in hers. “Do you think you could run and get Chace for me?”

  My stomach jumped in my throat. I knew I would have to face him eventually, but I wasn’t ready just yet.

  “Of course,” I said, stumbling over my words. “But I’m not sure where he is.”

  “He’s in his room,” Evie said. “Slaving over that book of his.”

  I nodded. “I guess I’ll be right back.”

  Four

  Chace’s bedroom was around the corner and down the hall from where Mr. Evans was kept.

  The door was cracked open and I peered inside, surveying the white walls, white sheets, white pillowcases, and white carpet. Plain, crisp, and clean, much like his apartment in New York.

  His back was to the door, hunched over the white desk as he typed furiously on his laptop. The windows were open, letting in streams of wind that lightly ruffled the binder set next to him. His thick novel neatly bound in three large rings. Occasionally, Chace glanced at his manuscript, his eyes never straying to his fingers, flying fast across the keyboard, the sound of the clicking keys drumming a harmonious rhythm throughout the room.

  I knocked on the door and he didn’t react, too lost in the world of his story to hear me. I slipped inside.

  “Chace?”

  He held up a rigid finger, quickly going back to his work. He tap, tap, tapped away until he landed that final period and turned around to face me.

  The nerves stirring in my stomach were set alight when our eyes met. He looked as bothered as usual, his jaw setting as he looked me up and down. My legs peeked out of khaki shorts, a breezy white blouse falling just above my waist.

  “What do you want?” he said.

  “There’s a journalist here to interview you and your family.”

  Chace’s shoulders tensed. “Who?”

  “Megra Jones?”

  He pushed himself away from his desk, shooting to his feet before he stormed past me and out the room.

  Chace was barefoot, dressed in nothing but jeans and an expensive white t-shirt, an outfit he wouldn’t be caught dead in, in public, nevertheless in front of a camera crew. I glanced around the room, looking for a jacket or blazer, anything to make him look more presentable, but the pull in my stomach told me he wasn’t going to be posing for any photos.

  I rushed after him, turning the corner as soon as he stormed to the threshold of his father’s room. He made a move to stomp inside, one foot hovering over the carpet, but he pulled it back.

  His arms crossed over his chest as he stood in the hall, voice booming as he said, “Mom? Mom!” He sounded like a child, grabbing for his mother’s attention.

  Bonnie stepped out of the room, her voice gentle and low. “Yes?”

  Chace looked over her shoulder. His eyes narrowed and I knew he was staring down Megra and her crew.

  “I need to talk to you.”

  Bonnie smiled. “What are you doing right now?”

  Chace turned towards me. He stormed down the hall and Bonnie waddled after him, throwing me a confused glance.

  I didn’t move from my place in the middle of the hall, Chace stopping at the end and turning towards his mother. Bonnie wrung her hands in front of her as Chace invaded her space.

  His voice was low, the same volume as when he was whispering to Evie, the conversation trapped between he and Bonnie. He wagged his finger in her face, his teeth grinding against one another as the veins in his arms angrily popped out of his skin, reddening with every word.

  Bonnie’s arms slowly crossed over her chest, her own jaw tightening with every word of her son’s.

  Her voice was louder.

  “You can’t do this one thing for me?” she all but shouted.

  “This isn’t just one thing,” Chace said before returning to a whisper.


  Bonnie angrily shook her head, her gaze falling to the floor. “You’re being selfish,” she said. “You’ve always been so selfish.”

  Chace narrowed his eyes. He said something low and quick, the words spitting out of his mouth. Bonnie’s gaze snapped up from the floor. Her cheeks flushed red before she slapped him across the face, the sound of flesh against flesh echoing throughout the hall.

  “Do whatever you want, you ungrateful little shit,” Bonnie said, turning away from him.

  She breezed past me, making her way back into Mr. Evans’ room.

  Chace stood at the end of the hall, his fingers gingerly grazing across his cheek before he disappeared around the corner, back to his bedroom.

  “Tsk, tsk,” came from behind me. Megra was standing at threshold of the door, her eyebrow raised in amusement. “Familial discord. It always flares up during times like these.”

  Inside the room, Bonnie cleared her throat. I couldn’t see her but her voice projected as she said, “Chace won’t be joining us, after all.”

  I heard Tyler, who must’ve shown up when I was grabbing Chace, sarcastically say, “That’s such a shame.”

  Megra walked into the room and a gravitational pull, the pit growing in my stomach, told me to go after Chace.

  The door to his bedroom was wide open as he paced back and forth, one hand threading through his hair as the other rubbed against his jaw. His anger was palpable and brewing in his narrowed eyes. He was trying not to burst, a wild animal that shouldn’t be provoked and yet that’s exactly what I did.

  “This means a lot to your mom, you know,” I said.

  His head jerked in my direction. He wasn’t aware I’d entered his room. “What?”

  “The interview. I think it means it a lot to her.”

  “You think it does?” he said, spitting out his words. “And where did you hear that from, your new best friend, Evie?”

  My jaw tightened. “Context clues. It’s clear she’s upset that you don’t want to participate.”