"Please, Ethan. Sit." Maybe he heard the desperation in her voice. Maybe he, too, noticed the captive audience they were engaging. Or maybe he retained enough of his upbringing to realize he couldn't deck a woman-an older woman at that. Either way, he lowered into his chair, encasing Greer's hand in a firm grip. Greer returned her attention to her ex-fiancé's mother. "Karen, once again, I'm sorry about Gavin. You'll never know how much."
"Save it," she hissed. "If you were really sorry, you'd confess to killing him and give his father and me at least a little peace. But instead you're out here, free, getting away with the murder of my son." She edged closer, nudging Aubrey aside. "God, I'm so glad he found a few moments of happiness before he died. But not with you. With Aubrey. You took him away from all of us, because he'd finally found joy in his life, didn't you, you selfish bitch?" she spat.
"Karen, please," Aubrey pleaded.
"Oh, and your mother told Gregory and me about your pregnancy." She emitted a hard, brittle crack of laughter. "As if we would ever accept whatever it is you're breeding. This"-she wound an arm around Aubrey's waist, tugging her forward and into her side-"is the mother of our grandchild. I have no clue what that is." She stabbed a finger in the direction of Greer's stomach. "Or who fathered it. But it wasn't our Gavin."
"You're right," Greer said quietly, interrupting her vitriolic diatribe. "Gavin is not the father of my baby. And I'm happy for you that even though he's gone you will still have a piece of him with Aubrey's child."
Karen's eyes narrowed, her fingers curled until the pale-pink fingertips resembled claws. "You're nothing but a whore-"
"Aubrey, get her out of here now," Ethan snapped. Ice unlike anything she'd ever heard infiltrated his tone, and for a moment, she feared for Karen's safety. "Now, damn it."
Aubrey nodded, hooked an arm around the older woman's back, and guided her from the restaurant with hushed whispers. Silence followed them out, the noise level in the room having dropped until the tinkle of a fork scraping over a plate could be heard. For several awkward moments, Greer focused her gaze on the unappetizing bowl of soup in front of her. Soft whispers and uncomfortable coughs filled the deafening quiet. Gradually, the area filled with conversation again, and she breathed a sigh of relief.
But the relief was short-lived. Shame, humiliation, and helpless fury bombarded her, and she almost broke under the deluge.
"Greer, honey," Ethan rasped. "I'm so sorry. You shouldn't have had to endure that shit." He scrubbed a palm down his face. "Damn you, Mom. I can't believe she told Karen about the baby. How could she even have anything to do with them? Unbelievable-"
She shot from her chair and clutched the edge of the table, granting her trembling legs a moment of reprieve to settle. But only a moment. She had to get out of there. Just … get away. "Don't worry about it, Ethan. If you will excuse me."
She tried to ignore the furtive glances and outright stares as she wended a path through the tables toward the rear of the restaurant. Each pair of eyes pricked her skin like visual pinches. Only once she entered the woman's restroom and closed the bathroom stall door behind her did she allow her composure to wilt. Her shoulders slumped as she flipped the toilet lid down and sank to the top of it. She covered her face with her hands, and finally, finally, surrendered to the emotional typhoon wrecking her apart inside.
Hoarse sobs ripped free. Minutes later when the restroom door squeaked open and the hinges on a stall farther down the row squealed in protest, she muffled the seemingly endless sobs by pressing the heel of her hand to her mouth. With every breath she drew, every cry she loosed, her throat, her ribs, her heart-her spirit-ached. No bruises darkened her skin and limbs, but her insides throbbed with the blows from Karen's attack.
Shit, the need to smash something vibrated beneath her skin. To kick, scream, have the mother of tantrums at the injustice of it all. To plead her innocence to Karen. But what would it have served except to throw gas on the almost fanatical fire burning in Karen's gaze? And she wouldn't have believed Greer anyway. Nothing Greer could've said-or could say-would change her mind about her role in the death of her son.
So instead she remained in the bathroom stall scrambling to scrape together the scattered shreds of her pride after Karen's attack. Eventually she would have to emerge. And when she did so, it would be with her head held high, cloaked in a composure that was one fat lie.
Sighing, she stood and exited the relative haven of the stall. As much as she longed to curl into a ball and tend to her wounds, she couldn't-she wouldn't. These past months had educated her in the art of survival. She'd encountered and faced belligerent cops, voracious press, a faceless stalker, and an unexpected pregnancy. And she was still here, still moving forward-sometimes plodding, but still moving. One confrontation with an angry Karen Wells wouldn't wreck her.
And besides, the bathroom floor didn't look all that comfortable or clean to collapse on.
She washed her hands, and as she turned the water off, a stall door opened behind her. Great. The person who'd overheard her momentary emotional breakdown. Awk-ward.
She glanced up.
The automatic polite smile froze on her lips.
A face in a black ski mask stared back at her from the mirror's reflection.
Chapter Seventeen
Shock slammed into Greer, rendered her motionless.
Her muscles locked, but her heart raced in her rib cage like a bucking horse.
She whimpered-it was all she could manage. The sound seemed to galvanize the figure behind her. Suddenly, the muzzle of an ugly black handgun pressed to her temple. He snaked an arm around her neck, wrenching her backward and off-balance until she grabbed on to his forearm, her tiptoes tap-dancing against the white tiled floor to remain upright. She dug her fingernails into the black jacket covering his skin, scrabbling for purchase.
"Cut it out, damn it," he ordered, tightening the imprisoning band around her neck. The rough gravel of his voice scraped her eardrums, jacked her pulse past scared-shitless to coronary. The pressure of the gun muzzle bruised her skin.
The face of the red-and-black joker on the back of his hand leered at her, seeming to grow in size the longer she stared. That tattoo is nothing like Raphael's.
She stilled, the random thought grounding her like a reality slap across the cheek. What would Raphael do? WWRD? He'd survive. He'd fight. Stop fighting. Cheat or trick. Anything to live.
Me, too.
Their loud, harsh breathing bounced off the white walls of the bathroom. Again the din of her heart crowded her ears. With a will born of primal fear, she shoved the noise back, forced her brain to function past animal instinct.
Make it to the door. Just make it to the door.
When she entered the restroom, the distance from the entrance to the sink had been negligible. Now it seemed cavernous.
"That's better," he whispered, grazing the gun over her cheekbone before returning it to her temple. His grip across her neck loosened a fraction, permitting the soles of her feet to touch the floor. "Much better- Bitch!"
His snarl blasted her ear as she slammed her heel on the instep of his foot and ground down. Hard.
She burst forward, breaking free and hurtling across the room. A sob ripped past her throat, and a desperate hope churned in her roiling gut as her fingernails scrabbled against the door above the handle. She grabbed it. Shoved it down …
A heavy weight crashed against her back. Her cheek smashed into the wood. Pain radiated from her face, throbbing like a homing beacon as the coppery flavor of blood stained her tongue.
"Stupid whore." He seized her wrist, jerked it up and behind her back until her shoulder screamed in red-hot pain. He jammed the gun into her spine so hard she arched under the punch of it. "Try something like that again, and you won't make it out of this bathroom. You get me?"
"Yes," she gasped. "Won't make it out of this bathroom." What did that mean? Did he plan on taking her out of here? The restaurant? Acid razed a path up her esophagus to the back of her throat. Black and gold dots swarmed in her peripheral vision, closing in. Jesus, I can't faint. I'm dead if I black out. Me and my baby. Please, God …
She dragged in a deep, ragged breath, and the spots receded a fraction of an inch. Then another.