Page 25 of Tangled Like Us
“Sister…” His deep smooth voice breaks to pieces with the spotty signal. “…fucking fiend.”
Eliot is often dramatic and hyperbolic, as we all can be, but hearing him call someone a “fiend” does not alleviate any sort of panic.
“I can’t hear you, Eliot,” I tell him. “What was that?”
Call dropped.
My sisterly dread has now shot to the moon.
I lower my phone as it rings again.
Audrey is calling, but my little sister should be in class right now. 8thgrade.
I try to accept the call—call dropped.
“No,” I breathe, clutching my phone like it’s my lifeline to my family.
The namePippyshows up on the screen. My youngest brother is calling me. BenPirripCobalt—he should be in school too. 10thgrade.
Call dropped.
Charlie is suddenly ringing. My nonconformist brother is often hard to reach, but it’s not uncommon for him to call during pandemonium.
My thumb taps the button.Call dropped.
A new name pops up on the Caller ID.Tom.He’s typically dead asleep this early in the morning. I tap—call dropped.
Now Beckett is dialing.
I stare wide-eyed at the phone. Beckett is usually the last of my brothers to reach out due to his rigorous ballet schedule. The fact that he’s calling now means this is a real catastrophe.
Who’s in trouble?
His call drops like all the others. Every single one of my siblings just called me. Sullivan Meadows and Luna Hale, my closest female cousins, are the next two calls that drop.
I have no new texts, and I can only assume none are going through.
I have to find better reception.Outside.Go outside, Jane. I start to sprint down the aisle. Thatcher is already ahead of me. Leading the way.
He knows where I want to go without any doubt. He always seems to understand where I crave to be and what I need.
As I sprint, my ballet flat slips off my heel.
I stumble a little and then tear my flats off my feet. Cramming them into my purse while I rush after my bodyguard, his stride long and strict.
Thatcher glances back at me, his expression grave as he clicks his mic. “No, you’re still coming in weak.” We round the narrow aisle, in sight of the glass door to exit, and mayhem erupts outside.
I screech to a halt, phone ringing incessantly in my frozen fist.
Thatcher stops and checks on me again.
“JANE! JANE!” paparazzi scream over each other.
At least twelve men swarm the store’s door. Lenses pressed to the glass since they’re not allowed inside. Flashes ignite in furious succession.
I can’t be surprised they’re here. I’ve exited buildings with more, but these cameramen seem particularly hostile.
This won’t be an easy getaway. I can’t simply step outside and take a call. I’ll have to rush to my car and possibly drive away first or else they’ll bang on my windows. It’ll be twenty minutes.
