Page 62 of The Beast

The woman leans closer and extends her hand toward me, holding out a business card. Before I can take it, Keir slaps it out of her hand and growls.

“I said no comments. That’s what I meant. And if you don’t hightail it out of here, I am going to call the police. Trust me, I donate millions to the police fund every year. They won’t think twice about slapping a pair of handcuffs on you.”

The journalist’s smile falters and for the first time, she looks a little worried. She squints at Keir and then tosses her head.

“Ella? I don’t know what this guy has told you. But he has the craziest history I’ve ever had the displeasure of researching. When you get tired of being lied to and manipulated, you should call me. My name is Wendy Allen.”

She extends another business card and Keir pushes me backward, so threatening that he makes her back up. He glances at me and jerks his head toward the shop.

“Get inside,” he rumbles. “I’ll be in very soon when this woman is gone.”

I realize then that I am physically shaking. Glancing helplessly at Wendy, I press my lips together. There are things that I could tell her, things that may help her figure out who and why Max got killed.

I can tell her exactly how it felt to stand there and watch as the SUV ran him over.

But my question is, will any of that help? Or will it just make her double down on the connection between myself and Keir? There is honestly no way to know.

“Ella?” she asks.

“Ella, get inside the fucking shop. Let me deal with us.” Keir grits out.

I take a shaking step back and then turn, swinging open the last door. The owner and the shops only employee are right there, asking if I need water or any other assistance. If I had to guess, I would say that they heard a large portion of what just transpired. I push off their offers of help and wander through the store, pretending to look at clothes.

But inside, I am a mess of jitters. I’ve been questioning why Keir has bothered to keep me here all this time. But today I just met the reason… And her name is Wendy. I swallow and flip through the rocks, my mind a thousand miles away.

CHAPTERTHIRTEEN

I stare at the brand new pair of Nike running shoes, my eyes tripping over their dark uppers and their white soles. I pick up the bright pink laces that came with them and scrunch up my nose. Lacing the shoes takes me a couple of minutes and the shoes are surprisingly light weight in my hands. Then I glanced at the handwritten note one final time.

Put these on. Meet me at the front door at 4:30 AM. Don’t be late.

Keir didn’t sign the note. Then again, he hardly needed to. His imperious tone could be heard through the furiously scribbled-off note. Shifting from foot to foot, I consider his words.

Why did he leave me these shoes? Does he think that I need to run for some reason? I have tried it since I left my knee rehabilitation, but I’ve never really liked running. After all, why run when you can dance?

I crumpled the note, feeling a flash of anger run through my veins. I suppose that I can’t actually dance. And I have felt like I have been sitting around, losing muscle tone and gaining weight ever since the New York Ballet benched me. So, no matter what his intentions are in giving me these running shoes, the worst thing I could possibly do right now is to ignore his demand to meet him downstairs.

Pulling on black running shorts and a pink and black purity ring tee shirt, I lace my shoes up. Checking myself out in the mirror for a final time, I adjust my hair just a little and then add a white hat. Feeling stylish yet sporty, I head downstairs, thinking idly that I’m glad that going downstairs can still be fun and easy. As opposed to climbing these three flights of stairs, which I do several times a day. And yet I still trip a little, my right foot catching the edge of a stair here and there.

Getting to the bottom of the stairs, I race to the front door, pulling to a stop when it swings open.

Keir is standing there, lit by only the dim front lights. My eyes travel up and down his body, noting the lightweight black jacket and the grey running shorts. I raise an eyebrow at his shorts because they are short and silky, highlighting his… package… in a way that I personally find blush-inducing. What’s not covered in material are his legs, lean and long and toned. When he crosses his arms, his biceps bulge and his look of annoyance really makes his cheekbones jut out.

I can say what I will about his personality. Keir is gorgeous to look at. And I think I’m about to find out just how he stays so perfectly fit.

He cocks his head, impatient. “Well?”

I scamper forward, clearing my throat. My cheeks are hot as I step past him. Keir’s hand shoots out and grabs my arm. I look at him, electrified by his touch and startled by him stopping me. I can’t read anything in his expression beyond impatience.

“It’s quite cold outside. You’ll need a jacket.”

My face contorts. “Why do I need to go running again?”

“Because, Ella.” He turns me loose with a tiny glare. “I contacted the finest orthopedic surgeon in the UK. He says that at this point in your recovery from your injury, the only way that you can possibly get back into fighting form is to very slowly try to ease back into exercise. I mentioned running and he thought it was a good idea.”

A snort escapes me. “I’m so glad that you have been discussing my physical impairment with other people. That’s just great.”

Giving him a sarcastic thumbs up, I turn back toward the stairs. Keir’s hand clamps down on my shoulder, stopping me dead.

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