vnNeSsa1 (3 page)

Chapter 5

“Can I help you?” he says, with the wolf smile that sent me running last night.

“Did you know you look exactly like a wolf when you smile?” I say before I can stop myself. He throws back his head and howls at the night sky, drawing surprisingly little attention. I close my eyes and curse myself in a whisper. His grin broadens. I try again.

“I mean, I like it; it’s just that
—”

“What can I do for you?” His dark eyes glitter. God, this is hard. I take a deep breath and look around.
People are everywhere, into their own thing, not paying attention to me. Even so, when my lips open no words come out, just a sigh mixing with the still air around me. It took all my resolve to drag myself back to this place tonight. No surprise that it was noon before I took the covers off my head, dreading the day, knowing it meant coming back here. Come on, force it out.

“I was wondering if you knew someone who could kind of, I mean…”

“Who could kind of….”

“I need a fake ID
,” I finally say, nearly yelling it in my nervousness.

“Ah, and what makes you think I can help you with that?”

I am deflated. All my hopes had been centered on this wolf guy. The redhead’s friend seemed to know what he was talking about. I feel embarrassed, crushed, even.

“I’m sorry. Some friends said there may be people around here who could help me.” He stares at my face with his intense eyes for an uncomfortably long time. He’s making me feel really
anxious. The motel room, with its safe stench, is calling to me.

He seems to come to a decision, fishes a pen and card out of his pocket, and scribbles something down. “Call this number, ask for Liam, and tell him Wolfman gave it to you.” He must see something on my face because he says, “What? You think you’re the first one who thinks I look like a wolf?” He tips his head back, howls again,
and then, eyes aflame, laughs crazily.

I laugh a bit madly, too, standing there with the Wolfman. In the crowd of Las Vegas partiers, my cackling blends right in. Howling completed, Wolfman smiles benevolently at me, probably amused at my crazed reaction. He just doesn’t understand
what this means to me. My fist is so tightly closed around the card, my nails cut into my palm. Wait. He might change his mind. So, I pivot and run.

I’m euphoric
, almost lightheaded. I feel victorious, strong, courageous, and, above all, relieved. The open casinos beckon. I could walk in, knock back a drink, and sit at a blackjack table all night. No problem. The sidewalk seems to move under my feet, skipping me along. Giggles bubble from my throat, earning me amused looks from people who no doubt think me drunk.

Then my step slows as the full force of what I’m doing crashes in on me.

There’s a small chance I didn’t come by the money illegally. A very small chance. People don’t usually hole up in a sleazy motel with half a million dollars if they’re innocent. But, if by some possibility I haven’t broken the law up to this point, I’m going to break it now. My steps stop dead.

Every time I try to remember who I am, my bra
in shuts down and I feel sick. It seems like my mind will allow me to go
forward
, but not
backward
. There must be something terrible back there, and I’m running—either from something I did or from someone, or both.

The crowd surges suddenly, carrying me forward across the street. It must be a sign. My cackling starts up again.
OK, so, I’ll do what it takes to go forward, stay safe and survive. I make uneasy peace with myself and continue walking, but at a much slower pace.

Back and forth, I’ve worn a groove in the already threadbare carpet. I was barefooted until I noticed how dirty the carpet was making my feet. My sandals slap against my heels in a rhythm that’s driving me insane. The TV and my laptop are off limits until my headache goes away, so I pace and fret, waiting for Wolfman’s friend to return my call. Maybe I should try again. The clock reads 4:07 p.m. Six minutes have passed since the last check. I’m just about to head for the phone when it rings. I leap for it, stubbing my toe on the bedpost in the process and answer with a grunt.

“Hello?”

“Is this Kate?” His voice is—my mind searches—quicksand.

“Yes, thanks for calling me back,” I say, feeling anxiety more than the ache in my toe.

“My pleasure. Would you like to meet?” Again, the voice, seductively smooth on the surface, ready to suck you under.

“When and where?” The quaver in my voice betrays how worried I am about meeting him. We arrange to meet at a Starbucks on Twain in
forty-five minutes. I call a taxi, comb my hair, check myself in the mirror, and begin pacing again, limping, terribly uneasy, wondering what I’ve gotten myself into.

At the coffeehouse
, I try to distract myself from my apprehension by sipping tea and reading the menu on the wall. After twenty minutes, I’ve burned a hole in the door staring at it. Finally, Liam walks in. It’s got to be Liam because he looks exactly like his voice. He doesn’t see me and I don’t wave to him because I’m dazzled for a moment by his appearance, as are others in the room. Conversations break off as people turn to stare.

His face is angular at the jaw and cheekbone and his body is perfectly proportioned, marble come to life. He seems unaware of the attention he’s attracting as he looks around the room and his eyes settle on me. His full lips turn up slightly at the corners. Something flips in my stomach when his eyes look straight at mine. They are such a light blue
, they look otherworldly. He glides into the chair across from me.

“Kate?” The smooth voice
, with the rest of him, is almost too much. I almost forget to respond to my fake name.

“Liam?” The breath that I’ve been holding comes out in a rush. He nods, smiles, and looks straight at my eyes for so long it makes me uncomfortable. I break the stare
and focus on his lips instead. It helps me force the words out.

“Thanks for coming. Would you like some coffee?” Then before he can answer, “I’m going to be honest with you. I don’t know how this works. Do I just ask you if you can get me what I need?”

He tilts his head back slightly and laughs melodically. I can’t help but admire the way his blonde hair falls away from his face and his throat moves when he laughs. I start to wonder what it would be like to reach out and touch his hair and neck when his voice snaps me back to reality.

“Well, you’re straight to the point. I like that, Kate. Coffee, later. Go ahead and tell me what you need.”

Now that he is being direct, all I can do is swallow convulsively. He’s getting me all muddled up with his attractiveness. And there’s something else about him that makes me nervous. But, I think back to all the pacing in the past few days. As much as I need to stay safe, I’ve been going mad alone in my motel room. It’s now or never.

“I’d like an ID and a job,” I say with a firmness that surprises me. He looks at me appraisingly with those disconcerting blue eyes before answering.

“Wolfman said just an ID, but it sounds like you need more. OK, I can do that for you, if you have the money…”

“I have the money,” I say
, looking right into his eyes. This time he breaks off first. He looks up over my head thoughtfully.

“Where do your talents lie?” His lips are curved into a smile and I’m caught off guard.

“What do you mean?”

“As far as a job
—what experience do you have?”

“I don’t, I mean, I don’t know…” Of course, I should have known he would ask me this.

“You don’t know.”

“No.” My apprehension is rising. How much should I tell him? Focusing on his mouth, the words come out carefully
. “I would like a job around other people close to my own age, but something as disguised as possible.”
This sounds ridiculous
. He had been playing with his phone, but his fingers go still and his eyes lift back to my face. He keeps smiling and says nothing. His scrutiny becomes unbearable and my words rush out.

“The truth is, I think someone’s after me. I mean, I don’t know for sure because I can’t remember anything, but
oh! I can’t explain it. I just feel it. I
am
sure! And I want to be around people, but feel safe. I want life to be normal. Or, as normal as it can be without remembering who I am. Oh, I know it sounds weird!” I’m about to ask whether he gets it, but I’m stopped short by the expression on his face.

“You think I’m crazy.
” I’m inwardly cursing myself for saying too much. He just stares at me, the iceberg eyes growing more remote. “Look, I’ve got money,” I say, feeling desperate, groping around in my bag for my wallet. “Here’s five hundred dollars in advance. You could just walk away and I couldn’t do anything about it. I’m trusting you.”

His abrupt movement as he lunges across the table is like a cobra striking. His eyes pin me to my chair and I realize that, as beautiful as his eyes are, they are deadly.

“Don’t trust me. Don’t ever trust me. You don’t know me. Stop being so trusting.” He is hissing two inches from my face. “I don’t want to know why you need a disguise and a fake ID. I just need to know what you want. I’ll get it—you pay me.”

He leans back then, shakes his silky hair out of his face and, again, flashes brilliant, even teeth. I know now what’s been bothering me when he smiles. His smile never reaches his eyes. No sparkle, or warmth, just blue doll eyes in a beautiful face. My mouth has gone dry. I don’t know what to say. He continues in a more even tone, “I think I’ll get that coffee now.”

“No, let me,” I say, feebly, but he’s already out of the chair and halfway to the counter. I watch him, feeling shaken. I seem to say whatever is on my mind without thinking it through first and it messes things up. But still,
what was that?

My brooding is interrupted when I notice Liam’s been staring at the pastries for way too long. I start shredding the napkin under my cup. My fingers are trembling. He finally buys coffee and a muffin and returns to our table
, perfectly composed. He settles himself in his chair, takes a bite of muffin and a sip of coffee before he says, “How tall are you?” Flustered, I stand, unwilling to open my mouth. He looks me up and down like he’s appraising livestock. My knees are shaking a little bit, but this just makes me ticked off.

Apparently satisfied, he sits back in his chair, looks off in the distance and continues to chew his muffin and sip his coffee. Finally feeling silly, I sit and resume napkin-shredding. After swallowing the last bite of muffin, he wipes his mouth with a carefully folded napkin and says, “Look, apparently you don’t know if you can dance, but there is an audition in two days for replacement back-up dancers. The show is produced by a friend of mine.” He looks at me intently, waiting for my reaction. My mouth must have dropped to the floor.

“You aren’t talking about being a showgirl! Or maybe a stripper?” I’m incredulous. This guy’s crazy. He’s going to get me into worse trouble.

“No, this is a major production in a hotel, not a strip club, and you’re a bit short for a showgirl,” he says, firmly.
“A back-up dancer’s job is to support a major entertainer. In this case, it’s a well-known singer. All the dancers have costumes from Paris. Tons of make-up. In other words, you would be well disguised.”

“My God. I was thinking something more like a restaurant worker with a costume theme,” I say, reaching for his napkin to shred it.

“Pay is much better,” he says, to the point. “And it’s a lot more exciting and fun, until the routine sets in. Anyway, my advice is to get yourself to the studio I’m writing down and see if you can keep up with the other students in the class.” He writes on a business card in meticulous printing and hands it to me. “I’ve included the class time and the name of a dance shop in town. Try the audition. Sometimes if you move really well, you’re chosen on your ‘look’ and you can work really hard to keep up. Nothing to lose. If it doesn’t work out, we’ll move on to a more mundane job. In the meantime, I’ll be working on your ID. You’ll also need a Social Security number for work. By the way, my services don’t come cheap.”

“No problem about the services,” I say, blowing out my held breath. I stop shredding napkins. “But forget about the showgirl, uh dancer, audition. You’re right; I don’t even know if I can dance. Probably not. Try a restaurant job.”

“First, don’t say ‘no problem.’ Too trusting. I could charge you any amount. Instead say ‘how much?’ Second, try the class. We’ll talk after.”

“OK. How much? And I’ll think about the class.”

“I don’t know for sure, but be prepared for something around three thousand dollars.”

I make
a sarcastic remark about whoever could afford to pay three thousand dollars doesn’t need a job. Liam laughs with a sound completely devoid of humor and says he knows a job for me has nothing to do with money. He seems to see through me and that knowledge leaves me cold.

He
reminds me about the difficulty of getting fake ID and Social Security cards, and says he can help with a car and apartment. I try to argue a little more with him so I don’t seem too trusting, but in the end, agree with him. He says he’ll call me about the IDs very soon. I beg him to hurry.