Allison
“Can’t you just like, I don’t know, fight them?” He drags me into the hall, walking fast toward the elevators. He’s got one hand on my wrist and the other in his jacket like he’s gripping a gun. “Fight them like you did back at the wedding?” I shove the phone back down into my bra since that’s the only spot where it won’t fall out. I really wish I had pockets right about now. And shoes.
“I can, but there’s no guarantee I’ll win. Getting away and regrouping is smarter.” He curses softly to himself. “I don’t know how they figured out I’m here. Unless Paul’s been keeping tabs on me from the start. Knowing that clever bastard, that’s exactly what he’s been doing. Luckily, I paid the front desk to keep an eye out.”
“You’re going to get me killed.” My heart’s racing, my palms are sweating. “But this is probably better than letting Paul do it.”
“Quicker at least.” He doesn’t smile, and I’m not sure if I’m joking. “At least we’re having fun, right? Running around together, driving in fast cars. I bet this is the most excitement you’ve had in your life. Hold on.” Up ahead, the elevator numbers light up. My skin crawls as they climb and climb, getting higher and higher.
“It’s coming toward us,” I say, barely keeping my tone steady. “Gregory. This isn’t fun. It’s not fun at all. Tennis is fun. Pickleball is fun. This is the opposite of fun. This is like jabbing needles in my thigh.”
“You babble when you’re nervous,” he says, taking a step back.
“Gregory,” I groan as the numbers begin to slow.
“Oh, say that again.” He stares intently at the elevator doors. “I like the sound of my name on your lips.”
“Stop flirting with me. At least wait until we’re not about to die.”
The elevator reaches our floor and stops. Then makes a very pleasant ding.
“Run,” he says, turning and dragging me the opposite direction.
I glance over my shoulder as I sprint after him. The doors slide open to reveal five men, all of them enormous and packed into the elevator like sardines. They spill out, tangling with each other briefly. “Stop!” one shouts as they start to chase.
“This way,” Gregory says, flinging me around a corner. I careen, hit a wall, keep going.
“My fucking foot,” I gasp as the pain flares up. “I really need some goddamn shoes!”
“No time,” he says through gritted teeth. He’s going flat out now, and I’m barely keeping up. Doors flit past, and if someone steps from their room, we’ll smash right into them.
“Callahan! Adams!” The thugs behind us start shouting. “Stop them! Thieves!”
“Fuckers,” Gregory growls. “This way, down here.” We reach the end of the hall and he shoves open an unmarked door leading into a concrete-lined staircase.
“Fuck,” I gasp, panting for air as we throw ourselves down. I barely stay on my feet and keep running into the walls at the bottom of each flight. “Oh, fuck, Gregory.”
Above us, the door to our floor opens. “Got you now,” the lead thug says, a man that looks like a thumb.
“Don’t, you fucking idiot,” another voice shouts with an edge of panic, then a gunshot rings out.
It’s so loud I scream in surprise, throwing my hands over my ears. The echo in the stairwell magnifies the sound tenfold. Everything’s ringing and I nearly fall on my face, and the only reason I don’t go tumbling down the concrete steps is Gregory sweeping me up into his arms.
He says something, but I can’t hear him. There’s the muffled sound of shouting behind us. Gregory runs on, carrying me now like a bride being ushered over the threshold of her home. I’m shocked at his strength, at the solidity of his chest and his arms, and how fast he can move now that he’s not trying to let me keep pace.
We fly down the stairs. It’s like he’s out of control and only just keeping on his feet. I lean against him, holding on tightly and supporting as much of my weight as I can. Sweat’s dripping down his forehead, his face creased in effort and concentration as we reach the bottom, and he bursts out another door.
Into blinding sunlight.
“Hold on,” he says and I’m surprised I can hear him. “Don’t let go.”
“I won’t.” I stare at his face, his handsome face, marveling at his power and his intensity. He springs around the side of the building, barrels through the parking lot, and finds his car.
“I can get in myself,” I say before he shoves me in like luggage.
“Don’t look back,” he says as I buckle myself into the passenger seat. He starts the engine and peels out, driving fast to the exit.
I make the mistake of not listening.
Six men stand staring at us. Five of them are bent over, breathing hard. One punches another, the thumb-guy, right in the shoulder. They’re arguing about something.
But I don’t care about any of them.
Only the sixth one matters. The one that wasn’t in the hotel chasing after us and must’ve been waiting in the parking lot.
It’s my father, still dressed for a wedding.