Page 85 of All That Glitters
“In. Out.”
Her hands never let go. They never loosened and they never tightened. They were simply steady, soft, but the grip was strong enough to let me know I wasn’t alone.
I wasn’t alone.
I wasn’t trapped.
I wasn’t alone.
A few more deep inhales and deep exhales and I felt the darkness and fuzziness recede to the edges of my vision until they’d disappeared.
“How late are we?”
“We’re not.”
“But we’re not early.”
“No.”
“I’m sorry.” God, I hated that. I hated apologizing. I hated being a burden. I hated this fucking version of myself.
She squeezed my fingers and when I nodded at her, letting her know I was okay and ready to get out, she stepped back, beautiful, and all business in gray linen pants and a black pinstripe blouse.
I got out of the Jeep and she grabbed her purse. Side by side, we walked toward the front of the building where a young woman held the door open for us.
“I didn’t even know this little airstrip was out here,” Helen said, looking around.
“I didn’t either.”
“Hi. I’m Amber, Mr. Cross’s assistant.” We shook hands and Helen followed Amber across the threshold.
The lobby was covered in dust and plastic sheeting. There were pieces of furniture wrapped tightly and a central desk that looked to be the only functioning part of the operation.
I’d been in enough race shops over the course of my career that I was no longer impressed by gloss and shine. Glitterati Racing was the glossiest, the shiniest. The front of the house was constructed and designed to impress, but also to intimidate competitors and potential drivers. It did its job well.
From the looks of things, this shop, if that’s what it was meant to be, would be just as impressive and imposing.
Amber led us toward an elevator which opened immediately and whisked us up to the second floor.
“Excuse the mess. We only closed on this property a few weeks ago. Mr. Cross hopes to have it finished within the next six months.”
“That’s ambitious.”
“That’s what I told him, but one thing I know about my boss is that once he sets his mind to something, he’ll get it done.”
“Ashton Glitterati.” A man not much younger than my father stood from his seat on one side of a conference table. He offered me his hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I’m Darien Cross.”
“Thank you, Mr. Cross.”
“Darien, please.”
I nodded. “Darien.”
His eyes shifted. “And you’re…?”
“Helen Troye.”
I watched Darien’s eyes widened as he also shook her hand. “Helen Troye? You were next on my list to call.” He smiled. “What are the odds?” He ushered us in. “Please. Have a seat. Both of you. Can we get anything? Coffee? Water? Soda?”
