Page 72 of Girl Anonymous

Last night, he’d been careful to use a condom, conveying the clear message he would not get her pregnant so she’d be forced to accept him.

Today, on the other hand, she’d totally given in to stupid, careless, mindless screwing. Inside her, his little swimmers were no doubt heading up, all excited about meeting the ovum of their dreams. She’d dodged the bullet—or the baby—once, but she couldn’t ever be so careless again. Today they’d totally missed any chance at being careful about the potential of being parents. Maybe since she’d been on top…

“Leave everything.” He glanced at her legs. “Except your pants. Go to the car. Get in. We’re gone.” While she haphazardly attached the pants around her waist, he came around, opened the door, helped her out, and held her steady until she had her feet.

He didn’t need time to steady himself, damn him. Grabbing her hand, he ran to the feeble excuse for a car. She pulled herself away and got into the passenger seat; she didn’t need a manhelping her in. They needed to get out of here undetected, although she didn’t know, if someone had exploded something above, how they’d leave without being seen.

Dante tucked her leather pants, still torn apart at the seams, in around her legs, and shut her door.

So much for not needing help.

He got in the driver’s side, dug around under the floor mat, pulled out an old car key, put it in the ignition, and started the engine. It purred like a well-groomed cat. He grinned at her startled expression. “Had it souped-up years ago,” he told her. “Just for such an occasion.”

From the glove compartment, he produced a garage door opener. He pressed the button and directly in front of them the concrete wall slid aside. A dark hole gaped in front of them.

That did it. She was impressed. “How James Bond of you.”

She wasn’t so impressed with the gearshift in the middle, the clutch on the floor, or the low dark tunnel. The ceiling almost touched the roof of the tiny Opel. Pieces of dirt and clay fell out from between what looked like old beams and bricks.

He must have sensed her dismay and questions, for he said, “During the Prohibition when my great-grandfather ran liquor, he built his share of tunnels below the city. Not many of them survive; as you said, earthquake. But this one should get us to the next building’s parking garage, and from there we can get on the street and out of the area.”

Shouldwas not the word she wanted him to use, but it was honest. “Then where?”

“I have a safe house.”

“If your enemies—”

“Our enemies.”

“If our enemies tracked us into the garage and measured the approximate time it would take us to get out of the car and go up to your office, then they’re deep in the belly of your organization.” She started the arduous process of reconnecting theleather into some semblance of pants. “So no, you don’t have a safe house.”

“Fuck. You’re right.”

“It happens,” she said acidly. “At least that narrows the number of suspects.”

He looked at her. “Fuck. Yes!”

“Eyes on the tunnel,” she shrieked.

He faced forward.

Abruptly the tunnel came to an end. He slammed on the brakes and they faced a blank concrete wall. He pressed the button on the garage door opener. Once. Twice. He slapped the opener on his palm.

She started to hyperventilate at the thought of being buried alive.

At last the garage door opened in jerks and fits.

“I’m going to have to come down with some WD-40.” While she cackled hysterically (but really—dangerous, debonair Dante Arundel using a can of WD-40?), he drove into the parking garage under some other building on some other San Francisco street. He pressed the button to shut the door behind them, watched until it closed completely. He waved at the lady who was standing outside her car, purse over her shoulder, gaping at them, and drove up the ramp and onto a morning rush hour street.

The appearance of the Opel Kadett caused a blare of derisive horns, and he waved at the drivers, using one finger and looking so much like a defiant aging hippie she covered her eyes. They were so blatantly conspicuous no one in his organization would ever look to them as the escaped Dante Arundel and his newly-wed-by-glass-and-stone wife. “Does anyone in your organization know about this car?” she asked.

“No one alive today,” he answered coolly.

What an uncomfortable answer. Yet…if he was right, she’d live through this drive. “Let’s go to my mom’s.”

“In Oakland? What the hell would we do there besides convince someone to set her house on fire?”

“It’s Oakland. You saw it. Crummy old neighborhood. Former mansions subdivided into dingy apartments. Bathroom down the hall. High crime. Only a few private homes left intact. Mom’s is one. She’s always been the force in the neighborhood. She takes care of people. They take care of her.” It was nice to be able to tell him this. “They’ll take care of us. We can hide there while we prepare. And then—we’ll leave as fast as we can. We’ll face whoever it is with all our weapons in hand.”

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