This should be good. I told her to meet me at the Walker, but I don’t plan on staying there. At this point in time, I think it’s clear to say that Zara Hamilton cannot be trusted…for any reason. The girl’s a walking contradiction.
Just after five, I dress in dark clothes so I’m not noticed leaving the apartment with all the reporters still camped out front. Sneaking out the back door, I set off on foot, making it a few blocks before I reach Derrick’s house. Luckily, I have friends who are still on my side and are trying to help any way they can.
“Thanks again for this, man. You’re a lifesaver.”
“Don’t mention it, bro. I saw the video. I’d nail her, too,” he jokes, handing me the keys to his car to borrow. Rolling my eyes, I shut the driver’s door and head out into the early evening. I pull up in front of the Walker, looking around for Zara, and then I see her. Still, regardless of what she’s put me through…is putting me through…I can’t see past the feelings I’ve started to develop for her. Even dressed down, she’s gorgeous.
Before I text her, I just watch her for a moment, trying to decide if this is a good idea or not. Am I going to be able to set aside my anger to have a conversation with her? Will I be able to keep my hands off her? Unsure of anything right now, I pick up my phone and text the number she messaged me from earlier.
Me: Here. Dark blue BMW. NW corner of the lot.
A few seconds later, she pulls the phone from her pocket and checks my incoming message. Peeking up, looking in my direction, her lips turn upward and her shoulders sag slightly, like she’s let out a breath of air she’d been holding, as if she thought I wouldn’t show. She starts walking to the car slowly.
When she’s only a few feet away, I exit the car and meet her at the hood. Holding firm, I stick out my hand, palm up. Reading my mind, she places the phone in my hand and watches me patiently power it down. I move to the trunk and she’s on my heels. Lifting the hatch, I stare her down and toss the phone inside.
“Purse and coat, too. And empty your pockets, please.” I should pat her down for any other kind of recording device, but I give her the benefit of the doubt when she follows my instructions implicitly. I shouldn’t give her anything, but at this point, I have nothing else to lose.
Once she’s wearing only a pair of skintight jeans and a black fitted long-sleeve shirt, it would be impossible for her to hide anything, unless she’s wearing a wire. Stepping around the side of the car, she follows until I direct her to the passenger’s seat.
Cautiously, she does as I request, climbing into the car, feet planted on the floorboard and eyes focused straight ahead. I briefly catch a glimpse of what this is doing to her and it makes me feel things I’m trying to suppress. I want to take her hand and tell her that we’ll get through this together. I want to wipe away the tear she’s trying to hide and make sure she knows that we’re a team and as long as we have each other, we’ll be okay.
But I don’t.
I can’t.
I won’t.
“Where are we going?” she asks softly, as I leave the parking lot and head toward the highway.
“Somewhere we can talk and I don’t have to be worried about being recorded in one way or another. Somewhere safe.”
“Noah, I wouldn’t…” she starts to say, and it does nothing more than piss me off. Slamming on the brakes, the car screeches to a halt on the shoulder, Zara bracing herself on the dash to keep from smacking her head on the window. Throwing the gearshift into park, I turn toward her, my face stern.
“Don’t. You would. You did. There’s no trust here, Zara. You wanted to talk, so we’ll talk, but it’s going to be on my terms. I’m not sure I can be ruined any more than I already am, but just in case there’s a fighting chance for my career and reputation, I’m willing to take it.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, readjusting in her seat and staring out her window as I put the car in drive and continue our journey. More than an hour later, we pull up to the cabin I used to come to as a child. Lucky for me, my parents had given me a key a few years ago when Shannon and I needed an escape from the city and never asked for it back. Even luckier, nobody is using the house tonight. On the way over, I’d wondered if my parents would come here to avoid the questions and prying eyes of the journalists, but seeing no cars in the long stretch of a driveway and no lights on inside, I’d say the coast is clear.
“What is this place? You’re not going to hurt me, are you?” Zara asks, her face ghostly white as she looks around at the isolated land—no houses anywhere in sight, the woods pitch black, and a single cabin illuminated only by a porch light. I guess I understand why she’s scared. I might be, too.
“I’d never hurt you, Zara. I figured if we needed to talk, we should do it somewhere the reporters won’t see us and make this even worse. My parents own this place. It’s safe. I’m safe.”
Stepping inside, it’s obvious I need to turn on the heat; it’s freezing in here. Showing Zara to the living room, I head to the basement to fire up the furnace and get some warmth in this place. After I light the pilot and ensure that everything’s in working order, I’m back upstairs in time to see a shiver run through Zara’s body.
“Let me go grab your coat.”
“Don’t worry about it. I don’t want you thinking I’m hiding any recording device. Do you have a blanket or something I can use?”
I look around and see an old afghan that my grandmother made lying across the rocking chair closest to the fireplace. I debate throwing a few logs in just to get it warmer faster, but quickly shut that idea down. Something about a fireplace in an old cabin screams romantic, and this situation is anything but. Tossing her the blanket, I sit on the couch opposite Zara and wait for her to open the lines of communication.
It takes a few minutes for her to speak up, but when she finally does, she breaks. “I’m so sorry, Noah. So fucking sorry,” she sobs, her shoulders violently shaking and her chest heaving, trying to take in as many breaths as she can.
“I just don’t understand why. I don’t know why you would do that to me. I could have fallen in love with you, Zara. I was well on my way.”
“I’m not the one who sent the email. I swear. I recorded it, but never sent it.”
“Who else could have done it? I’m far from the smartest man in the world, but it came from your student account. I don’t know you that well, but I think I know enough about you to know how guarded you are. I’m sure that password was saved only on your personal laptop. So if you didn’t send it, who did?” I don’t know why I’m bothering with this excuse. Her email. Her video. I’m such a stupid man for listening to her, but for my own sanity, I have to know.
“Dillon,” she whispers, looking down into her lap, twisting a frayed string of the blanket around her index finger.