Page 3 of Tempest

Barry broke down the door with his gun drawn. So there’s that.

The hallway’s clear, and with my shoes hooked in my fingers, I pad down the Persian runner and to a side door leading to the servant’s quarters back in the day. We live in an nineteenth-century brownstone in the Upper West Side, dark, creaky, ominous, and covered in ivy. A beauty to behold in the daylight but a crouching, sentient shadow at night. I use its beast mode to the best of my abilities and stay close to the shadows as I creep down the narrow stairs, avoiding the ones that moan the most. I’d tested out my escape route more than once—okay, twelve times—since Mila and Clover convinced me that this was the night to taste freedom.

The staircase leads down two floors. Once I reach the bottom, I peek past the corner and into a darkened hallway. A few security men are patrolling the brownstone, but like every executive protection, they have shifts. I’m banking on that switch occurring at 12:15, leaving me a small gap to push the side door open, squat/run to the side gate, and hop the iron fencing into the neighbor’s bushes where Mila apparently awaits.

I make it to the fence, and I’m mid-hop when my shirt catches on one of the iron spears and rips, sending me sprawling face-first into the dirt.

Damp soil clumps in my mouth, stifling my groan.

“You made it!”

I look up to a furtive shadow moving toward me. Her face comes into the golden light cast by the streetlamps as she helps me up.

“I can’t believe you actually did it,” Mila says as she helps me brush off the dirt. “You’re a rebel bitch in … plaid? What are you wearing? Where is the dress I gave you?”

I lift my tote, stained in parts by the neighbor’s garden.

Despite hiding in bushes for over half an hour, Mila looks like she just drifted out from her salon and spa appointment and got lost finding her chauffeur. Her open leather jacket can’t disguise her black dress that flows down her torso but cinches at the waist. A small slit at the hem shows off even more of her tanned, toned legs, and her wavy, sun-soaked hair cascades across her shoulders, absorbing whatever light the night has left to give.

The running joke is that we look a lot alike. That is, if I saw the sun, gave my hair any attention, and stopped talking to my cat. Other than sharing the same coloring, dimensions, and height, we’re as different as cream and cottage cheese.

Barry, while a little put off by Mila’s personality, understands why I’m drawn to her. He’s the one who taught me—the louder the people you’re with, the less you’ll be noticed.

Mila cringes at the sight of my bag. “I mean, I suppose the dress is better protected there than here. On you.” She gives me a dubious once-over. “Whatever. The point is you made it out, and none of the Matrix men have followed you over the fence.”

“I know I don’t look great, but I was running out of time, and I figure we can pop into the restaurant on the corner, and I can use their bathroom to get ready,” I offer, following her out of the terrarium my neighbor’s helpfully created to shield us from view.

“No worries, I have us covered.”

I squint at her suspiciously. “How? We have less than fifteen minutes to get to the auction, and we can’t let any of our drivers know what we’re doing in case it gets back to my parents.” I left my phone in my room because of the obvious tracking apps my parents have put on it. “Should we call a car on your phone?” I’ve never been allowed to take the subway, but its sordid appeal lends itself to the kind of night I’m having. Might as well go all in. “I’m pretty sure the 2 train is around here somewhere…”

“We’re not down all drivers.” Mila straightens once we reach the sidewalk, grabbing my hand, and leading us farther down the street.

I skid to a stop on my socked feet. “Mila—no one can know what we’re doing. That was the deal. You can’t tell anyone. I swear, my dad has electronically bugged all the sidewalks in Manhattan—”

“Relax, baby dove. Clover and I figured it out.”

The mention of Clover and driver said so close together has my spine stiffening. “No.”

Mila spins to face me, arching her brow. “What do you mean, no?”

“Not him.”

Mila’s answering smile is closed-mouthed, slow, and too much like Hermione’s.

“Shit, I’m right, aren’t I?” If we weren’t still so close to my house, I would’ve screeched it at her. “Why, though? He’s the worst. A complete asshole.”

Mila turns toward the cross street, pretending she can’t hear me.

“He’ll be the first to narc on me to my parents, you know why? Because he’s amused by misery. He feeds off watching other people suffer. It gives him the needed energy required to operate at maximum dickhead speed.”

“What are you, a Miami cop? Who says narc anymore? And anyway, he won’t say a word to your parents because that would mean he’d have to care about your outcome, and that guy cares about nothing, especially you.”

Mila doesn’t mean it the way it sounds. I know she doesn’t. Yet the sting comes, small and sharp. She’s salty from the way Clover’s older brother has dismissed, ignored, and completely deleted every move she makes toward him. And Mila’s tried everything.

Heck, even I don’t know why he hasn’t given in. Mila Hernandez is tall, highlighted an exquisite blonde, naturally tanned, and gorgeously trim. Eyes skate to her in every room she walks in, especially men’s. Women can’t resist her prowess, tracking her movements with attraction and jealousy.

I’m used to operating in Mila’s shadow. Come to think of it, Clover’s, too. But there’s something about this guy who makes his dismissal hard to swallow. Probably because I don’t even get that much from him. I’m less than a ghost, not even requiring the close inspection of a mite on his bedspread. Since I was nine, I’ve been trained to be invisible. I was able to accept it until I met him. He was a gorgeous, witty, charismatic boy who made friends with everybody and had every single girl he came across becoming stupid for him. Including me. I was obsessed with watching him, amazed at his easy confidence and a little light-headed every time he unleashed a smile. Never at me, since I was usually hiding somewhere in the shadows stalking him, but always nearby.

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