Page 16 of Yellow
“Who is it?” I shouted while squeezing my fingers around the weapon in my hands.
“My name is Adam Black.”
I drew in a deep breath and moved closer to the door, but then a paranoid thought slowed me down. “How do I know you’re him?”
“Just open the bloody door, woman. I drove hours to get here and I’m tired.”
“What was your father’s profession?” I called out through the door.
“A full-time failure!”
I waited, one hand on the lock.
“A doctor,” he said finally.
With one hand still holding the candelabra I unlocked the door and stepped back.
“Come in,” I shouted, my heart hammering in my chest.
The door handle pressed down and the door swung open, making way for a large Native American man in a baseball cap.
On instinct I backed away until I was stopped by the table behind me.
Adam closed the door and sat down his duffel bag before he flipped the light switch and turned the ceiling lamp on.
I blinked from the bright light but didn’t say anything.
All I could think was:It’s him! The man from the bar.Even with his jacket on and that ball cap I recognized him.Does he know who I am?
“Yes I know who you are. And don’t talk to me in third person, that’s just weird.”
Shit– somehow I had spoken out loud what I only meant to think.
“You’re Cleo. The celebrity who is hiding from her psycho boyfriend.” Adam shrugged out of his jacket and walked closer, throwing his hat on the table.
He still had that long hair I remembered, he was still gorgeous, and his voice was deep and amazing, almost like he had a subwoofer hidden somewhere.
“That’s not why I’m here,” I said, and without my realizing it my accent was back. He had called me Cleo and I responded to that by stepping back into the role of my alias.
“No? Then why are you here?” he asked and looked down at me. Without the high stilettos I usually wore, I only reached his chin.
“I’m here as a favor to my sister. She thinks your aunt can help me get more balanced… or something.”
“Right.” He crossed his arms and with his legs slightly spread, his stance made him look like a police officer interrogating a suspect. “I spoke to Ona for a few minutes on the phone and she mentioned you’re here for a detox. What kind of drugs are you on?”
I wrinkled my nose in an offended snort. “I’m not a drug addict. That’s not what she meant.”
“Then enlighten me.”
“What, now? It’s the middle of the night and I’m cold.”
He looked down to where my right foot was on top of my left on the chilly floor.
“Get back under the covers,” he ordered, and I was happy to oblige and crawled back into bed.
“If you really want to know – it was my sister who felt I needed some time to find myself, after a bad breakup. Onava was probably talking about a detox from the media and my toxic boyfriend. Not drugs!”
“Could be. All I know is that Ona asked me to take over and stay here until she returns.”
