Lisa Jones - His Secrets

Those words follow us into the other room, and I can almost feel the fear they create in Sara, but there is too much to say, and too little time, before Amber and Tristan become an issue. The instant we’re inside the private viewing room, I turn Sara to me.

“Before we leave I need to make a call here, where we’re not monitored, but we have to be ready to move. Tristan’s trying to get Amber out of here. He’s supposed to call me before they leave, but she’s still volatile. I can’t be sure we’ll have much warning.”

“Can’t you make the call outside?”

“No, once we leave, we’d need Isabel to let us back inside. Amber threatened suicide, Sara. We need to stay close in case Tristan needs us.”

She blanches. “Oh, God. Now it all makes sense. She’s acting out, crying for help, and I did nothing.”

“What? Sara, this isn’t on you.”

“Yes, it is. Even if it’s subconsciously, I sensed this in her. You and Tristan were too close to this to see it. I think I was the stranger who she thought might listen, and I didn’t hear her.”

I did this, yet she’s blaming herself—a prime example of a lifetime of self-blame working her over, and an example of why I’m so damn certain she’s a step from the edge I can’t let her take. I pull her to me. “This is on me, baby. Not you. Tristan was right. I stayed in her life out of guilt, and became a crutch, not a solution.” I kiss her forehead. “Watch for Amber.” I pull out my phone. “I’m going to get my attorney to arrange a treatment center for Amber, with check-in tonight if possible.”

“Good.” She steps to the window, hugging herself, the self-blame radiating off her, and I know I was right. Rebecca, and even the Ella situation, have influenced every interaction with Amber. She wants to save the world. I need to save her, right after I save Amber.

I dial my attorney, who thankfully answers and is quick to instruct me and then go to work. “Well?” she prods when I hang up.

“He had another client who had to commit his daughter. He’s pulling some strings at that facility. He says that since Amber threatened suicide, we can get her committed for observation, but it won’t guarantee she stays in treatment. We need her agreement for that.”

“That’s not going to be easy.” She glances at the window. “Shouldn’t they be leaving by now?”

“Yeah. I’m concerned.” I dial Tristan, who doesn’t answer, and I grimace. “I’m starting to think I need to check on them.”

“Won’t someone miss Isabel?”

“Not when she has company.” My phone beeps and I grab it and glance down to read what Tristan has written: I convinced her to leave by telling her you were meeting us at our house. We’re on our way out of here now.

Slipping my phone back in my pocket, I glance up at Sara. “Tristan and Amber are headed our way.” I take her hand to head to the doorway, but I can’t shake the sting of Isabel’s accusations. “Sara, about Isabel—”

She kisses me. “I’m okay,” she promises, but the crack in her voice and the shadows in her eyes when she pulls back tell me she’s not even close to okay. And I’m not sure we are, either.

We exit the club into the chill of the windy November Paris night to discover that the 911 has not been held nearby, but parked in the garage. Apparently Isabel’s prior orders trumped my cash. With Sara shivering, and Amber due out the door any minute, I order our car to be pulled to the side of the building.

Rounding the corner, I drag Sara into a dark entryway framing a door to some other part of the building. Pressing her into the corner, I use my body to shelter her from the wind, leaving us swimming in shadows. But even in the darkness, our eyes connect, the heat radiating between us, defying the cold night. This reminds me of another day, and another entryway, when we’d first met and I’d warned her away from me and the gallery. Before I knew she would take me by storm.

“I didn’t want to put you through this hell, but eyes wide open, baby. I promised if you came to Paris, that’s what you’d get. I almost let us leave without giving it to you.”

“Nothing I saw in there tonight was new. I know it all.”

“Damn it, Sara, take off the rose-colored glasses you say you saw your father with for years. You keep seeing the wrong things.”

“So if I don’t see you as some kind of monster, I see the wrong things? Obviously, I see you and Amber differently than you do. One person experiences tragedy and uses it to drive them to success, like you have with your art. Another, like Amber, lets it drive them into self-destruction. We all have different kinds of people cross our paths, Chris, but they don’t define us. We do. How I deal with who you are isn’t about you. It’s about me.”

“But those people who cross our paths can make us stronger or weaker.”

“If we let them. Amber won’t let you help her. She makes herself weaker. You, you make me stronger. You make me fight for me, and when I don’t, you do it for me, the way I try to fight for you.” She balls her fingers around my shirt. “I heard you in the museum in California. I heard the way you stood up to my father, and to Michael, for me. And you taught me to deal with men like Mark by claiming my own power, the night you negotiated that commission for me. I didn’t see it then, but I do now. You make me stronger.”

“But I’m still the person who made Amber what she is today. Did you see her, Sara? Really see her?”

“Do you really see me, Chris? Because I’ve lived my mother’s death, my father’s life, Michael, my own identity issues, and then all this hell with Rebecca and Ava. And though I have my weak moments, I don’t want the whip. Even when you left me over Dylan and I was alone and devastated, I didn’t waver. And let me tell you, Mark did his damnedest to convince me that love was for fools and he could show me another way—but I wasn’t tempted.”

My anger is an instant punch of adrenaline. “Mark did what?”

“Mark isn’t the point here. You told me to see you once before, Chris. I’m begging you to see me now. I love us and you. And I love where you take me, and what you make me feel.”

“The us, you know. The me, you understand. But I was Amber at one point.”

“No. You weren’t.”

“Sara—”

“I saw you tied up in Mark’s club, screaming to be beaten harder. I know who you are. I know where you’ve been. I get it and I get you. I’m starting to worry that you don’t get me, though. Or maybe you’re just looking for a way out.”

I trace her jawline with my fingers. “I don’t want out, and I don’t want you out.” I lower my forehead to hers. “I just needed—”

I’m cut off by an explosion of voices and commotion around the front of the building that makes me jerk back. “Why do I know that involves Amber?” I lace my fingers with Sara’s. “Come on.”

“Wait,” she objects, digging in her heels. “Aren’t I supposed to be avoiding her?”

“I’m not leaving you on the side of a sex club, in the dark, by yourself.” Shouts lift in the air and I think I recognize one of the voices. “Fuck. I’m pretty sure that was Tristan.”

We race around the corner to discover that utter chaos has erupted in front of the club. Two doormen are holding Tristan’s arms and his classic Impala is speeding away. “Oh no,” Sara murmurs. “Please tell me Amber isn’t leaving by herself.”

I hand Sara my phone. “Call Rey. We need backup.”

A loud crash sounds, and smoke rises into the air near the exit onto the road. “Amber!” I take off running.

Scantily clad people begin to pour out of the building, scattering everywhere and seeming to multiply. The crush is too extreme to be caused by simple curiosity; the building is being evacuated. That must be what’s happening, and damn it to hell, Isabel is in the stocks—but I have to make sure Amber is safe, first.

Reaching the edge of the road, I can see that the Impala had pulled in front of another car and taken a hit to the front right panel. Smoke’s pouring from the hood and the driver is still inside. The second car seems less damaged and a man climbs out; he seems to be okay.

Tristan appears by my side and curses at the sight of his banged-up car, charging toward the driver’s side door. I quickly follow, not sure how Tristan’s going to react if this is Amber and she’s hurt. He jerks open the door, and almost instantly a bloodied Amber throws her arms around his neck. I let out a breath—she’s conscious and mobile.

Sirens sound nearby, and I lean weakly against the car at the unexpected stirring of old memories. I was five when my mother had died, and I heard the screeching emergency vehicles in my nightmares for years to follow. Trying to shake it off, I move to the other car and check on the driver, but by the time I reach him, an emergency vehicle and two police cars have appeared.

Emergency personnel circle Amber and the other driver, and Sara appears by my side, looking frazzled and breathing hard. “Is she okay?”

“Bleeding from somewhere, but she’s coherent and moving around. What happened at the building?”

“From what I gathered, Amber pulled the fire alarm to get Isabel set free. Tristan told me she freaked out when she saw that Isabel was still in the stock when they were leaving. The minute he stepped outside with her, she flipped out and told the staff he was kidnapping her.”

“You’re fucking kidding me.”

“I wish I were, but we have some good and bad news. The attorney called. He arranged the facility for Amber’s rehab, but she has to agree to check herself in or they won’t take her. When I told him about her stealing the car and all this nonsense, he suggested that Tristan threaten to press charges for the car theft and the physical attack if she doesn’t check herself in for a month.”