We’d made it.
I glanced out of the window at the wide city street and the first thing I saw was a police car. The headlights flashed once, and I saw the strain on Laney’s face.
“It’s my dad.”
Her tone wasn’t reassuring.
Laney’s door was ripped open and a cold gust of wind wound around us, whipping her long hair into her face. It was forty-five degrees cooler than the heat of the desert, but I liked it. I didn’t ever want to spend time in parched, arid air again.
Laney was already in her father’s arms while he looked her up and down, as if checking that each arm and leg was still attached.
I climbed out of the car stiffly and pushed my hands into my pockets, watching Laney and her father.
He didn’t look anything like her. He was tall and heavy, with a thick neck like a bull, bright red hair and rugged skin; not small and pale like his daughter. His eyes turned to me.
“Is that him?”
His tone was less than friendly, and Laney whispered something angrily that made him scowl. Then he jerked his head at another police officer who stepped forward abruptly, making me jerk back, slamming my back against the car door.
My vision dipped with the pain, and I guess my sudden movement freaked him out, because a second later, I was face down on the hood of the car, my cheekbone pressed painfully against the freezing metal. I swore, but couldn’t move as pain radiated across my stretched skin.
“Stop that right now, Billy Jenkins!” Laney shouted.
“It’s okay, Billy,” said Laney’s dad, “he won’t be so stupid as to try anything.”
My arm was released as suddenly as it had been grabbed. I stood up slowly, my heart pounding in reaction. I was tired and pissed, but Laney made me want to smile. She was facing down two big policemen, her small hands balled into fists.
“I can’t believe you two,” Laney glared, her voice furious. “He is not a criminal!”
Then she grabbed hold of my hand and marched us toward a tall brownstone building.
“Just for that you can carry our bags and my wheelchair, Billy Jenkins,” she shouted over her shoulder. “And then you can take the car back to Hertz.”
She didn’t wait for a reply, but allowed me to help her into the building, slowing only slightly as she used the handrail to pull herself up the six steps at the front.
I couldn’t help wondering how she managed them on her flare-up days.
I glanced over my shoulder, but her father didn’t try to stop us. He looked annoyed and a little confused, but he wasn’t going to argue with her either. Shaking his head, he fixed me with a hard stare. It was clear what he meant: Fuck with my daughter and I’ll fuck with you.
“I’m sorry about that,” Laney said tightly as we waited for the elevator, ignoring her father’s angry snort. “Are you okay?”
I nodded, my eyes darting back to our police bodyguard.
“Have you been taking your meds?” Laney’s father asked in a gruff voice.
“Yes, Dad,” she said with a soft sigh.
We rode the elevator in silence, but I was surprised when Laney continued to hold my hand. Her father didn’t miss that detail either.
“Did you read my email?” she asked pointedly.
“Yes.”
“And?”
“We’ll talk inside.”
I glanced at Laney, wondering what was in the email, but she gave a small shake of her head.
Her apartment was small but not cluttered. A couch took up most of the room, although there was still enough space to navigate the area with a wheelchair. A heavy bookshelf was the other piece of furniture, lined with hardbacks and paperbacks, shot glasses and several framed photographs. I recognized a younger Laney with her two girlfriends; pictures that were probably of her family; and a heavy guy with his arm around her. I wondered why she kept a photo of her ex.
I turned toward the European-style French doors that led to a tiny balcony. The drapes were open, and the whole room was lit with the soft, orange glow of street lights below. But if you looked up, you could still see a patch of sky and a few scattered stars between the towering skyscrapers.
I understood about wanting to see more of life, wanting to see over the horizon.
Laney sank into an overstuffed easy chair, leaving me and her father to share the couch.
Instead, Laney’s father carried a hardback chair from the kitchen and placed it directly in front of me.
“Dad,” Laney said, her voice level and controlled. “He’s not a suspect, he’s my friend.”
I looked up quickly, meeting her eyes, and she gave me a conspiratorial smile that caused a vein to stand out on her father’s forehead.
“You don’t even know this man,” he objected strenuously.
“We’ve spent the last fifty-plus hours together in a very stressful situation,” Laney argued. “You’ve always said that you learn a lot about a person in extreme circumstances.”