“Yes.” She laughs.
“I’m going to ask him to sleep in your room, just for tonight… and not in the bed with you, Ella, but on a cot next to you. I’m probably overreacting but I need to know you’re safe. Okay?”
“Are you nuts, Ian? That’s insane.”
“No. It’s not. In fact, I might have him take you to a hotel. Listen to me: the threat is at an extremely high level right now. It will be removed within the next 48 hours but until then, Ella, you are not safe. Do you hear me?”
Whispering now, she answers in a small voice. “Yes, Ian.”
“Good. I’m going to phone Mason now. He’ll let you know what we decide. Good night, baby. I love you very much.”
“Me, too. Hurry home.”
Chapter 44
Today marks the third day Ian is gone and I’m getting more than antsy stuck in Ian’s home: I desperately need to get out into the fresh air, or should I say fresh rain? The damn wet stuff is always coming down in Portland. I gave Mason a heads-up last night while we were lying in bed (that sounds so wrong)—albeit, he on his army cot and I on the king-size mattress—that I needed to leave these walls today and he said he’d check with Ian. If Ian says no, I don’t know what I’ll do but I’m going batshit stir crazy in this place already.
I don’t know what’s holding up Ian in New York and I’m not sure I want to know, but he swears that he’ll be home by tomorrow afternoon. I’m keeping my fingers and toes crossed—not easy or comfortable, frankly—that he keeps his word. I’ve come to realize that I can face just about anything as long as I’m holding his big, capable hand when it comes. I should add that I am fully cognizant of the fact that I’m beginning to spout the kind of purple prose of those awful romance novels whenever I speak of (or wax poetic about) Ian. Hey, maybe there’s an idea for my next novel: Mo has been badgering me for months to start writing it.
In fact, Mariah and I had once upon a time even developed a game utilizing the purple prose of romance books. We were especially tickled by these authors’ attempts to use adjectives and verbs in new and exciting ways. We gave each other challenges straight from the novels. For example, she’d ask me to “purse my lips in a straight line in a show of blatant annoyance.”
It was impossible to pull off. I would try my hardest to accomplish it but, looking in the mirror, would quickly dissolve into hysterical giggles, the expression on my face ridiculous.
I’d give her a challenge: “His face radiates fiery anger, unabridged lust, and unbridled pride in having gotten her into his bedroom.” Mariah gives it a go and I snap her picture. “Well?” she asks.
“Um, you look homicidal… but also a bit constipated.”
Cackling in delight, we then would post the photos on Facebook under the banner of “Faces of Romance.” It was a fun way to pass the time for two pathetic women who found themselves dateless on a Saturday evening.
When Mariah calls and says she’s downstairs, my first thought is, why didn’t she phone me before she left her house? I absolutely hate when people just unexpectedly drop by just because they feel like it, and Mariah has to know that about me by now. Tailgating that thought, however, are the possibilities that begin to seep into my sluggish brain: we can go out and do stuff! ‘Course we’ll have to take Mason along, like a big, ole German Shepherd, but it’s all good. It might even be fun having him around like one of the girls, a girl with massive biceps and a stern looking crew cut. Imagining him in drag, complete with five o’clock shadow, starts me giggling as I pad over barefoot to the door and swing it open to let Mariah in.
Fuck. It takes a few seconds for my brain to make sense of the two-person tableau arranged in front of me: Mariah stands there, terror etched into her face. A blond woman next to her has one arm around Mariah’s shoulders, and with her other she holds something against Mariah’s ribs. As my brain kicks into gear, I comprehend that the blond woman is Natasha and she’s responsible for Mariah’s unexpected visit. I step back to allow them entrance into the apartment.
I don’t have to say a word to Mason when he sees us enter the room. His face pales but he shows no other reaction whatsoever, a well-trained special ops dude to his core.
Natasha looks at him and says two words, and two words only: “Call Ian.”
He silently gestures for us to sit as he pulls his cellphone out of his jacket pocket.
In seconds the calls connects to Ian and Mason puts the phone on speaker. As soon as Ian’s voice fills the room, Mason speaks up.