Shade Me

FOR SCOTT

W
HEN SHE WAS
being honest with herself, she knew she had chosen the drop site based mainly on how she'd seen it done in movies. Laughably typical, she thought—every part of her life had always been so very Hollywood. Dazzle and dysfunction, spritzed with expensive perfume. Every secret, every scandal, every stitch of clothing and fancy car had a glam front to it. Emphasis on
front
. Her life was nothing if not faked. That was, after all, the main problem.

Of course, needing a drop site in the first place was almost as millionaire's-daughter cliché as choosing the loading dock of an abandoned Italian grocery in the middle of the night. Lord knew she'd spent enough of her life in the
tabloids—
Daughter of the Acclaimed Producer
—but if she kept playing into the moneygrubbing rich-girl stereotype like this, she could end up being paparazzi fodder for the rest of her life. God, for the tiniest moment, she wished to be one of those boring girls in small towns where nobody even knew a film director or makeup artist to the stars.

She'd asked for five million. She could have asked for more. Maybe she
should
have asked for more. Maybe five million would be gone before her twenty-first birthday, and she would wish she'd asked for ten. Or twenty. God knew, twenty was doable.

She hadn't heard the purr of a car engine since she shut hers off. The loading dock wasn't just isolated—it was completely abandoned. Flattened cans and discarded fast-food bags drifted in the corners of the dock, rocking and shivering in the breeze. It was a clear night, but it felt foggy somehow, as if danger were physically pressing down on her.

Paranoid. She was being paranoid. She had chosen carefully who would make the exchange. He wouldn't let her down. He was the only one she could somewhat trust.

But it was the
somewhat
that had her worried, wasn't it? He was good for booze and bitch sessions and the occasional cover-up, but he was hardly an upstanding citizen. She knew enough of his dirt to know she couldn't
totally
trust him.

Maybe she should leave.

Definitely she should leave.

But just as she started to step out of the shadows, she heard the familiar crunch of tires on gravel. It was his car. Her heart sped up as the car slowed to a stop, the headlights dying before the engine. In their absence, her eyes seemed filled with black ink; she rubbed them with the heels of her palms, fighting panic.

Why had she trusted him? She knew how he could get.
You trusted him because this affects him, too,
she reminded herself.
Even if he won't accept it yet.
But still, out here where nobody would hear her scream, his not accepting the truth seemed to make all the difference in the world.

Mistake. This was a huge, huge mistake.

She would call. She had to call. It was too soon, but she'd told herself she would, if she started to think things might go south. If she didn't call now, she might never get the chance.

She fumbled her phone out of her pocket and hesitated.

He got out of his car and began walking toward the dock, but stopped as another pair of headlights clawed open the darkness. She got a momentary glimpse of him—cocky, expensive, athletic. A briefcase swung casually from one hand—way too casually, she thought, given what she knew was in it—the Figaro bracelet she'd given him for Christmas two years ago glinting in the headlights.

He'd promised not to bring anyone else with him. He'd betrayed her.

“Where is she?” a voice said from the direction of the new car. She heard a door softly shut.

“I just got here,” he answered. “She's here, though. Her car's here.”

“We'll find her,” the other voice answered. Now two sets of feet were scuffing through the gravel toward her.

She pushed herself deeper into the corner, no longer caring if there were rats or used condoms or dirty hypodermics underneath the trash and leaves. She woke the phone, slid to the only number in her contacts list, and hit call. It rang what seemed like an impossible number of times, during which she clearly heard the words “Right there” come from the direction of the cars, though from which one of the men, she couldn't be sure.

“Hello?” a voice said on the other end.

Suddenly, she didn't know what to say. The men were moving quicker now, the one who'd just arrived walking with a cane. She thought she recognized his silhouette, and that was bad news. Her mouth went dry and her mind went blank as she tried to figure out where—how—to start.

“Hello?” the voice repeated.

“Hey,” she said, panicked. “Listen, I . . .”

“Put the phone down,” the man with the cane said. He didn't bother to yell it, which scared her even more.

“What?” the voice on the other end of the phone said. “Hello?”

Her throat seemed swollen shut. She could have sworn her every breath whistled as it tried to force its way into her lungs. All the things she needed to say—the instructions she needed to give—swirled nonsensically in her mind. “Nikki,” she said, but the men were climbing up the dock steps now, so close she could make them out clearly.

“Put the phone down,” the man with the cane repeated.

She hung up and stuffed the phone back into her pocket, tried to look tough, even though she was trembling and pouring sweat. “You're late,” she said. “I was about to leave.”

The man with the cane grinned. One of his side teeth wore a silver cap, which matched the silver ball cane handle he was gripping.

“We show up when we want to show up,” the boy said. But there was something funny about his voice. She thought maybe the briefcase trembled.

She crossed her arms over her chest so the two wouldn't see her hands shake. “You seem to have forgotten that I'm the one who can destroy your life,” she said to the boy.

Worry flickered in his eyes. “Who did you just call?” he asked.

She tossed her hair back. “Don't worry, golden boy, I didn't out you yet. You play nice, and I'll play nice. That's how it works. Just give me the money and I'll be out of your
life forever.”
Or at least until I need more money,
she finished in her head.

The boy swallowed; then the man elbowed him. “Go ahead,” he said. “Who cares who she called? Do it.”

The boy held the briefcase toward her. She made no move to take it.

“It's all here? Five million?” she asked, staring into his eyes, refusing to look away.

“You don't trust us?” the boy said.

She laughed out loud. “Not for a second.”

“It's all there,” he said.

“I want to see it.”

After a brief hesitation, he turned the briefcase so it was flat against his forearm. With his free hand, he popped open the clasps, and then slowly eased it open. The man with the cane let out a low whistle. Finally, she tore her eyes away from the boy's and gazed at the neat stacks of new bills within. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. Her ticket out of Brentwood. Her freedom to finally live a real life. Maybe she would go to the Midwest. Get as far away from this life as humanly possible.

She nodded, and he reclosed the case, the snap of the clasps especially loud in the abandoned lot. Wordlessly, he extended the case toward her and she took it, her hand brushing up against his.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” she said, though it
had been anything but. The only pleasure now would be getting the hell out of there.

Somehow she found the strength to move her shaky legs. She could feel more sweat roll down between her shoulder blades. She felt almost weak with relief. She'd done it. She'd gotten the money and gotten away. Away from them all. Forever.

She stopped just before passing her so-called protector. She was shorter than he by at least six inches, but she knew that for him, it was all about attitude. She gazed at him through the darkness, his dark-brown eyes nearly black. His betrayal hurt. So very disappointing.

“You can pass on this message. Do not. Fuck. With me,” she said through gritted teeth. Satisfied, she sauntered slowly toward the stairs, her heart thrumming as if she'd been sprinting for miles.

Just as she reached the top step, she heard the rustle of swift movement, followed by a sharp cry of “Wait!” She turned at the top of the stairs, just in time to see the cane singing through the air toward her.

Her eyes shut involuntarily, and she brought her hand up to shield her face. There was time only to suck in a great gust of air, but never to let out the scream.