Chapter 35
“Well, you're positively glowing,” Roxie says as I cross from the penthouse kitchen into the living room. With a quizzical look, she cocks her head to the side. “You’re not pregnant, are you? Are you and Grant using any sort of protection?”
I laugh, holding two wine glasses. The dark burgundy liquid sloshes to the rims even with my cautious step.
“Our protection is the pill, but I'm pretty sure I'm not pregnant since my cycle just ended yesterday.” I pass off one of the glasses.
“Well then, let’s drink up,” she says, her hazel eyes shining too bright for what seems possible against the rainy skyline of Seattle. The first sip has Roxie humming out a pleased hum as she savors the dryness of our Cabernet.
My face winces at the taste. Now that I’m with Grant, I don't drink as much as I used to, and my consumption is at an all-time low. Roxie is about the only person I drink with anymore, but it's infrequent enough to where I’m considered a lightweight.
Roxie bumps an elbow into my ribs, her naturally stronger touch nearly jostling the glass out of my clutches as she laughs. “Day drinking not your thing anymore?”
“Not really.” I shrug, peering hard at the glass with tightening eyes. “Do you think 10 a.m. is too early? We haven’t even had breakfast or brunch yet.”
“I had a shit ton of cheese and deli meat before I came. I’m good.”
“No bread?”
Her slim nose wrinkles up on one side. “Makes you lose the taste of the deli meat. Honeyed ham? That’s just a waste to cover up.”
I roll my eyes, chuckling. “Whatever.”
She returns my teasing smile and walks over to the couch, settling into the oversized white sectional. After another small sip, she kicks her heels off and snuggles deep into the cushions. “So, Brexton didn’t say much about you being married?”
“Hardly anything,” I say, taking the seat a few feet away. “He already knew some important details, so that knowledge just solidified what I’m sure he suspected.”
“Why am I not surprised about that?” We both giggle lightly, and she shakes her head, flicking a long lock of hair off her shoulder. “I’m happy for you, Liv. You look so at peace. No more dark circles or bags under your eyes, and you’re smiling and laughing all the time. The best part is seeing you not obsessing over Lonnie.” The corner of her lip rises. “You’re not afraid of him anymore, are you?”
“I haven’t been for a very long time.” Curling up, I wrap my arms around the tasseled throw pillow in front of me and rest my chin on it, loving the even-paced thumping of my heart. “Let Lonnie find us; he’ll be sorry he did.”
“I’m sorry?” she teases. “Who are you again, because I know this badass isn’t a person I’ve met before.”
“Ha!” I tilt my head back and finger comb through the ends of my hair. “This ‘badass’ is totally here to stay. Welcome to the new Liv.”
“Totally into it.” Roxie’s phone chimes with a message, and I remember why she came over to begin with.
“Hey, can you tell me what time it is?”
She flicks on her phone, responds to the message, and then checks. “10:28.”
“Shit. It will be starting soon.” The urgency to turn on the TV sends me dashing for the remote so quickly I almost topple over the wine glass next to me.
Grant is earning a key to the city and having one street renamed to Brexton Avenue for the day. It’s honorary, and a nice plaque to hang on the wall more than anything, since nothing changes for Grant, but I love that he’s receiving some recognition for his overall contribution of bettering the local art community. And it’s going to be broadcast by the local news as well.
I click to channel 7, the broadcast divided into a split screen with the news reporter at the station and the other of downtown. There’s drizzle and enough umbrellas to fund a new stock company, but as the camera starts to pan, I can see Grant.
He stands out so easily, wearing a black suit that fits better than everyone else’s, and a heavy platinum watch, with his effortlessly styled midnight locks that are so dark his head gleams.
The saliva in my mouth thickens as I stand spellbound by his presence on the TV. A warm fullness weaves itself through my core. He’s so fucking perfect.
“Sorry now that you didn't go?” Roxie asks, abandoning the couch to stand beside me.
“I am and I’m not.” I grimace, looking at the camera view. “I don’t care how long I live here, I’ll never like having to stand in the cold rain. Running or walking is fine, but no thanks to the standing.”
“Feel that,” Roxie says. “Get me in and out of it, ya know?”
We watch for a few moments as they set a few more things up. After what seems like an eternity of back-and-forth between the one reporter in the studio and the other one that’s on location, the camera finally zooms in fully to the event.
The audio kicks on, and in between light drizzle and water tapping on black umbrellas, I see a female walk up to Grant, touch his sleeve, and say that they’re ready for him to approach the podium.
Grant nods, straightens one sleeve, then casually walks to an awning that protects the podium. All the umbrellas that were covering Grant fall away, allowing me a clear view.
There’re various clicks from cameras snapping away as the press takes their pictures while he shakes the mayor’s hand, and afterward accepts the old fashioned, oversized key.
There’s the warmest smile lighting up Grants face as he steps up to the podium to make a speech, and I think—
Pop! Pop! Pop!
Gunshots. It sounds like gunshots over the TV.
The temperature in my body dips, and as men and women wail through the screen and scatter, my hand is clamped across my mouth so tightly that I sense the skin on my cheek tearing away.
I begin to sway.
This isn’t happening.
Grant is okay. He’s not the target. He can’t be the target.
This isn’t happening.
There’s a quick pan of the camera right before the screen blackens.
“NO!” My shriek burns my throat, and distantly I hear the wine glass dropping to the floor, but I barely the register the shatter or the spewing of Cabernet.
All I see is Grant, lying on the ground, his large body strewn behind the podium—and he’s not moving.
The last time someone I loved was killed, it was over the phone, and I was helpless to stop it.
Now it’s on the screen before me, and not only am I just as helpless as before, but now, I’m seeing the horror with my own eyes.
Why does everyone I love have to die?