Page 70 of The Challenger

Unknown number: Flynn, I told you, you can do better than a brown boy. I bet against him and won. Now I can bring you home.

My heart trips and stumbles. A gloom that might not ever dissipate buries my soul.

“This is not a boyfriend,” I say. “This guy has been stalking me for the past year. He went away but then showed up again in December. That's why I freaked out about the photographer in Oz. I didn’t want this guy to know where I was. He found out where I lived in LA and—”

“Hold on.” Chavez stops my babbling with a raise of his hand. Utter bafflement erases any trace of anger on his face. “So, you have a stalker and you don’t tell me about it?” He shakes his head in disbelief. “Jesus, Flynn. I want us to build a life together. How do we do that when you lie to me and keep all this shit inside you?”

Wind pelts debris against the windows, and the angry sky is every shade of grey. My throat constricts, and I feel a surge of panic. As soon as I saw El Corazon hanging in his Ferrari, it was my ticket to run as far away as possible. That card is a curse, a prophecy of trouble. Reality sinks in, hitting me like surreal waves. I stumble to my side of the bed and start frantically yanking on clothes lying crumpled on the floor.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

I stuff my phone into my purse, my laptop next. Pull on my boots. I need to get out of here.

“Flynn!” Chavez approaches me like I am not quite right in the head. “Look at me. We need to talk about this. All of it. Who is this guy? Are you in danger?”

“There is nothing to talk about,” I say, shouldering past him. “I am trouble. And you need to stay far away from me.”

I dash for the door with Chavez right on my heels. “Talk to me,” he pleads. “What is going on?”

It’s actually worse that I can tell how hard he’s trying. I yank on my pea coat, feeling dirty and covered in scum. Chavez might not be in a wheelchair because of my stupidity, but he might as well be if he can't play tennis again.

“Flynn, please,” he begs. “Don’t leave. Let me help you."

Chavez stands so still and for someone forever in motion, it feels wrong and unnatural. Pinned by his weighted gaze, I want to tell him how wrongheaded I have been. But even saying sorry is impossible because I have no more breath. In a secret place, beneath flesh and bone and my pumping heart, lies an appalling silence.

Sweet Jesus, how did I let this happen?

I slip out the door and stagger like a drunk down the hallway, blinded by tears.

Flynn Dryden is on the run again.

ChapterTwenty-Seven

This can’t be happening.

But it is.

I stagger across Place Vendôme with the wind shrieking around me. Pellets of rain sleet hard in the cold grey morning, and I huddle into the shell of my pea coat. Any rational human is tucked away in bed on this miserable Sunday morning, but when it comes to sensibility, I have lost the plot. Hamilton’s mother once called me a lying bitch, and she certainly had the first part right. Her son would never have taken me on his white-water rafting trip had he been privy to my emotional state.

And now, history is repeating itself with more lies and more trouble.

I am cursed, just like that damn card.

If only…

The sudden blare of a horn snaps me out of my thoughts. I’ve wandered out of the plaza, onto a street, and a Peugeot roaring past kicks up a monster spray of water. I scurry back onto the sidewalk, drenched and shivering.

Fuck!

Hot tears streak down both cheeks, cutting through the street grime splattered on my face. Before my toes turn blue with cold, I need to plant my ass and gather myself. Figure out how to untangle this diabolical mess. Up ahead is a hotel, and I suffer through the scrutiny of a front desk clerk unimpressed with a dirty, wet American clueless as to how many nights she plans to stay.

“There is nothing available right now,” he informs me with what I think might be understated glee. “We were sold out last night. If you leave your number, I will call with an update. You are welcome to wait in the restaurant. Complimentary wifi.”

He says this like I’m a street urchin whose mission in life is free internet access. Note to self: if I ever move to Europe, I’m bypassing France and heading straight for Italy.

I cross the lobby, my boot heels ringing on the marble floor. The hotel is eerily quiet for nine a.m. Not even remotely hungry, I detour from the cavernous restaurant into the cozy confines of an empty cocktail bar. The clubby room has a low ceiling and wainscoted panels. A privileged and pricey space where bankers would tip back martinis and bitch about interest rates. The perfect setting for me to dwell on how bankrupt my life has become.

Next to the bar, a server with chubby cheeks and brunette hair flowing to her shoulders in soft waves stacks glass racks on a trolley. She looks up when I enter and assesses me head to toe. “Good morning. The bar isn't open until eleven.”

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