Hunter's Heart (20 page)

Stupid woman. No one could protect her. But she could protect Hunter and the people around him.

When she was able, she went into the laundry room and cut all but a couple of inches of her hair. Then showered, lathering and rinsing repeatedly long after the hot water was gone unsuccessfully willing her hurt to circle the drain along with his scent. Shivering, she stood beside her bed considering if she could sleep there without him.
No
. She opened a new package of sheets, then paused, fingering the warped torn edges of the plastic wrapper. This was her. Torn and warped. She wrapped a sheet around her and slept on her closet floor.

First thing she did in the morning was look for another place to live. No matter what she’d told him, Hunter would be back demanding to talk. There was no way she wanted…could put herself through that again. Talking to him that way last night and seeing the look on his face was the worst thing she’d ever experienced. From a file on her personal laptop she retrieved a list of preferred apartment complexes and townhomes in DC. Staying in the Virginia Beach area was out. Period. End. She’d moved here because it was convenient. Not only were most interviews here but it was the middle of her interview range—DC to Ft Bragg. But it wasn’t worth the risk of running into Hunter or any of the people she’d met the day before.

The first condo on the list had nothing available for two months. The woman asked if she wanted to be put on the waiting list. No, she did not. She called the next one. The rental manager said there were two. One a studio, the other a two-level, two bedroom. Both were being painted and appliances in the two bedroom were being replaced. Move in was a week away, for each. She made an appointment to view the two bedroom. As in her current place, the second room would serve as her office. It would also indicate to the manager and neighbors there could be visitors. Single women who lived in studios advertised they were alone. She made a backup appointment at two less-desirable complexes.

Before heading to DC she removed the Virginia plates from the car, replacing them with New York plates. She dressed in an old, rather worn suit, brown wig, brown contacts, more makeup and jewelry than she normally wore—and she was almost unrecognizable. Then she went to retrieve her new identity documents from the safety deposit box at Bank of Virginia.

The helpful assistant bank manager led her into the vault where the deposit boxes were kept then politely left her alone. Quickly, she emptied the contents, replacing them with a bag of rice to keep the weight similar. The box was paid in full for another eight years and they’d never see her again. She used the drive time to immerse herself in the identities she’d use today. Even a tiny slip could create a problem.

In DC, the complex’s on-site manager, a neat middle-aged woman, led her along a walkway though well-kept grounds to the townhouse. The moment she stepped inside, she knew it was perfect.
Expensive,
but perfect. It was a preferred corner unit with the same floor plan as the one she was leaving.

“You like to cook?” the woman asked.

Celia nodded. “Love to,” she lied, not wanting the woman to know a damn thing about her.

“This unit has a lovely kitchen,” the woman said, leading her into the space. The kitchen eating area had more windows with a view of a small pond and there was a tiny patio. “New appliances are in and it has granite countertops. A half bath down here. The laundry room and the garage entrance beyond.”

“Wonderful.” Celia nodded thoughtfully and let the woman lead her through the two bedrooms and a full bath upstairs even though she’d already decided to take it. It had all the requirements and no memories of Hunter.

“I have to tell you, units like this don’t last long so don’t think about—”

“I’ll take it,” she blurted. The woman blinked but didn’t miss a beat.

“Wonderful. Come to the office and we’ll get you all signed up.”

She signed a year lease, paid the first and last, and security deposit with Carla Singer’s credit card. Once she was in, she’d pay the property management company for the full year.

“Here’s the key to your storage space. You can start moving things over right away.”

“Thank you,” she said politely. She wouldn’t be putting anything in there. She wasn’t about to give anyone with a master key the chance to snoop.

The woman handed her a business card. “If there’s anything I can do to help, give me a call.”

“Thank you. I will,” she said, tucking the card, and the lease copies into her purse. To reduce the chance of anyone noting the make of her car or jotting down the numbers on the stolen plates, she’d parked two blocks away, next to a small park with a running track. Another plus for this location.

As she walked, she powered on her phone to locate a new bank. Once she left Virginia Beach and transferred money around she’d get another account and a car. Something to fit in here. On the home screen the green and white phone icon had a red circle with the number eleven inside. She tapped the icon. Eleven missed calls and seven new messages, all from Hunter.

She started to delete without listening but changed her mind. Six were apologies, requests to come over, meet him. Listening was a mistake. Hearing his voice was more difficult than she imagined. The last one said, ‘Soon I won’t be able to call. Please let me talk to you.
’
He was going away.

Training or a deployment?

It didn’t matter. This would make the move so much easier. Paranoia yanked her up short. With his connections, it was possible Hunter could ping her location from her cell. She powered off the phone, dismantled it then drove to find a phone store in the mall she’d passed. Before she got out of the car, she removed the wig and her makeup. Rubbed what was left of her hair until it stood up and slipped on black, chunky, plastic-rimmed glasses. The glass was clear but no one would look past the ugly rims.

The phone store associate showed her a variety of devices. She chose the newest, most powerful model. He asked for her old number to transfer her contacts, emails, etc. and was skeptical when she said it was her very first cell phone.

“You’ve
never
had a cell phone before?” The condescending jerk snickered. “Have you been on the moon or something?”

“Almost.” She beamed. “I was a nun, until last week. I’ve been living in a convent since I was fifteen. I’m now free of my vows of silence, poverty and chastity.” She put special emphasis on the chastity. His eyes flicked side to side like he was at a tennis match. She could almost smell his discomfort. He quickly began explaining the phone’s many features.

She decided not to have the old number deactivated. If Hunter found it to be disconnected, he would begin searching for her in different ways. She used her laptop to email her supervisor and report she was changing phone numbers. It wasn’t unusual. She’d done it a few times before, for security. Then she moved to her next task. The bank. Once again, she used the nun story to cover the suspicious nature of a three-thousand-dollar cash deposit to open the account.

“Seed money from my daddy. He’s so sweet to help me get started in my new life,” she said as the woman looked from her to the passport and driver’s license photos.

“As you can see those pictures were taken some time ago. I didn’t wear glasses then.” She removed the ugly things and blinked as if attempting to focus. The woman glanced to the docs again and made her decision.

“So glad to have you with us, Ms. Singer.”

Those documents were damn well worth every cent of the fifteen grand they cost her.

“This is my first checking account. Can you explain all this to me?” she asked, staying in character.

The woman was more than happy to explain paper checks and the online process. The account she selected came with a free, standard-size safety deposit box and notary services. Celia upgraded and paid for the largest box available.

Everything took far less time than estimated and she decided not to spend the night in DC. It was early enough to beat the evening traffic and she headed home.
Home.
Not home anymore. Simply another place to wipe from her memory. She was acutely aware of the fact this was pure insanity. She was running from two people now.

Hunter, because it would kill her to see him again and from her father because he would kill her if he saw her again. She reached to turn on her tunes and her hand hovered above the knob. Every song on those damned CDs would bring memories of him. She flipped on the radio and John Legend told her ‘
to open her eyes and see the light. There are times when you need someone by your side.’
Hunter liked to play that album when they had sex.
Fuck.
She couldn’t even listen to music because it was a reminder of him.

A throbbing pain clobbered the back of her head. A zigzag pattern flashed across her eyes and her peripheral vision blurred. Tremors in her belly turned to quakes. She ended Legend’s offending words and jammed her foot down, pushing the Nissan’s six cylinders to the limit.

A chorus of horns blasted as she whipped across two lanes to take the exit. By the time she made the parking lot of a fast-food place, her eyes watered from bright flashes of light. The knotted muscles in her neck hurt like hell. Three years, three fucking years since she’d had a migraine.

She closed her eyes searching the passenger seat for a bottle of water and with as little movement as possible, gulped the whole thing.
Calm yourself. Clear you mind.
Her shrink had helped her understand the head pounders came when her mind filled with painful memories. Meds were no help. Only meditation and clearing her head of the lousy memories did any good. Wiping her memory of Santino “Hunter” Lozano was going to be difficult—if not impossible.

She took deep breaths and rested her head on the steering wheel.
Why had she let him in her life?
No matter what Legend said, she didn’t need Hunter. Before she met him, she’d never conceived of sharing her life with another person. She’d been reconciled to that way of life. If she knew anything, it was never let anyone close.

She’d dropped her guard and now she was screwed. Never, never, never again. She took in deep slow breaths and imagined being underwater in the Caribbean. Surrounded by warm water. Caressed by a gentle current. The only sound her own heartbeat and breath. No one there. No one.

“Ma’am?” a far away voice said. “Ma’am?”

She lurched awake.

A nice-looking man rapped the window with a knuckle. “Ma’am. You okay?” His voice held genuine concern.

She buzzed down the window and cool air filtered in. “Yes.” She sat back. Mercifully, the pain had been replaced with a manageable dull ache. “Thank you for checking.” She wiped the drool from the corner of her mouth. “I was tired, dozed off.”

“You sure, hon?” A woman, with a toddler riding her hip, stood beside him. “It must be hot in there.” She leaned to look in the window.

“Yes.” She ran a hand over the side of her head and soaked hair, momentarily startled when her fingers touched the cropped hair. “I’m sure,” she said.

The man straightened. “Let’s leave the lady alone.” He curled long fingers over the door, exposing a tat on the inside of his left forearm—USMC over a skull with
, you order we mortar, free delivery,
underneath—then bent again to look in the window. “Be safe ma’am.”

Clearly he was military or had been, reminding her of Hunter. “Thanks,” she managed to get out around the lump of emotion rising in her throat. She watched them in the side-view mirror until they pulled away.

Could she go on like this?
She glanced at the passenger seat. The phone was right there. Her hand hovered over it.
You cannot let him be a part of
your life.
The voice, deep inside her head, warned.
He will destroy you and worse…you will destroy him.
She withdrew her hand, drank down another bottle of water and scanned radio stations until she found a baseball game to keep her company on the ride to her townhouse.

The next day she began the inventory of her possessions, going through the rooms, deciding what to keep, what to trash and what to donate. It was time for a change anyway. Living room? Everything went. She wouldn’t be able to sit any place without remembering him lounging, his warmth, his arm around her. See him reach to turn off a lamp. Pick up the TV remote.

The flat screen would go also. Bedroom? Everything. Sheets and towels also. Hell, it would be easier to decide what she was keeping. Her clothes, shoes. Even those held a memory of him. The suit she’d worn the day she first saw him. The dress he took off her the first time they had sex, the clothes she wore the last time she saw him. Those items were ruthlessly shoved into a black plastic bag. The perfume he loved went down the laundry room sink, followed with bleach. The scorched earth policy applied.

Her office was okay. She’d asked him to stay out. As far as she knew, he’d honored that request. Nonetheless, she’d get new office furniture and a laptop. She removed the paintings from the walls. The art would move with her. She loved it too much to give it up. Especially the piece he bought for her. It could stay in the back of a closet until her feelings weren’t so raw.
In ten or fifteen years….

Her stomach and grumbled and churned and she felt lightheaded. She couldn’t remember when she ate last.
Sunday?
There was nothing in the fridge she could eat without cooking and she didn’t want to use the cookware he’d used either.