Words On Candy Hearts by Augusta Reilly

Author:Augusta Reilly [Reilly, Augusta]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Rhapsodic Press
Published: 2022-07-25T18:30:00+00:00

CHAPTER 26

Ian

Wow. Just. Wow.

While I was lying there thinking of a way to bore a hole through the floor of my Toyota so we could slither like snakes under parked cars until we were out of Carter’s line of sight, Clara’s mom had given clear-cut instructions for what promised to be a perfectly executed escape. And it had taken her all of about one second to come up with it.

“I’m officially impressed,” I said.

“With what?” Clara said.

“Your mom. She’s really cool. Like way, way cooler than my dad. He would have just sent somebody here to break Carter’s legs and smash his camera.”

“She has a lot of high-profile clients,” Clara explained. “She knows how to evade unwanted attention.”

Her phone pinged, and a text bubble popped up.

“It’s time,” she said.

Cautiously, we both lifted our heads and looked out the dashboard window. There was now a black Lexus where the Santa Fe had been. A woman in dark glasses and a crimson dress was lying on her back across its hood in an extremely sexy pose. Sara. Her plan was working like a charm. Carter was facing the opposite direction, very eagerly engaged in his impromptu photo shoot.

“She’s got his full attention,” Clara said. “Let’s go.”

We quickly grabbed our things and snuck out of the car. Hunched over, we ran to Clara’s car and grabbed her duffle bag out of the back seat. Careful to remain hidden from any prying eyes, we sprinted up the block and through the front door of Paulie’s. A tall man with dark hair, presumably Paulie, was waiting for us.

“You’ve got to move quick,” he said.

“I owe you one, Paulie,” Clara said as she handed him her car keys.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Just hurry up and get out of here. I don’t know how much longer your mom can keep the photographer distracted.”

“This way,” Clara said to me, gesturing toward a door that said ‘Employees Only.’ We passed through an office and headed toward the neon exit sign. A moment later, Clara was cautiously peeking her head out into the back alley.

“Are we alone?” I whispered.

“No one’s there,” she whispered. “Come on, let’s go.”

A minute later, we were pulling onto Park Avenue in Clara’s mom’s Santa Fe. Free at last.

Or so we thought. Over the course of the next fifteen minutes, we only managed to get from the corner of Park and 63rd to the corner of Park and 64th. As we crawled forward at a snail’s pace, my heart began to pound. Clara was one inch away from being dragged into the darkest depths of tabloid hell. I’d been there a million times before and I could handle it. But Clara couldn’t. And shouldn’t have to. She was an innocent victim. Yeah, she had passed out in my car and technically started it all. Whatever. One dumb mistake shouldn’t mean she was branded a two-dollar whore for the rest of her life.

I reached over to her side of the car and honked the horn, long and loud.

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