Escaping Reality

  The Secret Life Of Amy Bensen

  Escaping Reality

  Lisa Renee Jones

  Infinite possibilities....

  Infinite passion.....

  Infinite danger....

  His touch spirals through me, warm and sweet, wicked and hot. I shouldn't

  trust

  him. I shouldn't tell him my secrets. But how do I not when he is the reason I

  breathe? He is what I need.

  Chapter One

  Amy…

  My name is all that is written on the plain white envelope taped to

  the mirror.

  I step out of the stall inside the bathroom of Manhattan’s

  Metropolitan Museum, and the laughter and joy of the evening’s charity

  event I’ve been enjoying fades away. Fear and dread slam into me, shooting

  adrenaline through my body. No. No. No. This cannot be happening and yet

  it is. It is, and I know what it means. Suddenly, the room begins to shift and

  everything goes gray. I fight the flashback I haven’t had in years, but I am

  already right there in it, in the middle of a nightmare. The scent of smoke

  burns my nose. The sound of blistering screams shreds my nerves. There is

  pain and heartache, and the loss of all I once had and will never know

  again.

  Fighting a certain meltdown, I swallow hard and shove away the

  gut-wrenching memories. I can’t let this happen. Not here, not in a public

  place. Not when I’m quite certain danger is knocking on my door.

  On wobbly knees and four-inch black strappy heels that had made

  me feel sexy only minutes before and clumsy now, I step forward and press

  my palms to the counter. I can’t seem to make myself reach for the

  envelope and my gaze goes to my image in the mirror, to my long

  white-blond hair I’ve worn draped around my shoulders tonight rather than

  tied at my nape, and done so as a proud reflection of the heritage of my

  Swedish mother I’m tired of denying. Gone too are the dark-rimmed glasses

  I’ve often used to hide the pale blue eyes both of my parents had shared,

  making it too easy for me to see the empty shell of a person I’ve become. If

  this is what I am at twenty-four years old, what I will be like at thirty-four?

  Voices sound outside the doorway and I yank the envelope from the

  mirror and rush into the stall, sealing myself inside. Still chatting, two

  females enter the bathroom, and I tune out their gossip about some man

  they’d admired at the party. I suddenly need to confirm my fate. Leaning

  against the wall, I open the sealed envelope to remove a plain white note

  card and a key drops to the floor that looks like it goes to a locker. Cursing

  my shaking hand, I bend down and scoop it up. For a moment, I can’t seem

  to stand up. I want to be strong. I shove to my feet and blink away the

  burning sensation in my eyes to read the few short sentences typed on the

  card.

  I’ve found you and so can they. Go to JFK Airport directly. Do not go

  home. Do not linger. Locker 111 will have everything you need.

  My heart thunders in my chest as I take in the signature that is

  nothing more than a triangle with some writing inside of it. It’s the tattoo

  that had been worn on the arm of the stranger who I’d met only once

  before. He’d saved my life and helped me restart a new one, and he’d

  made sure I knew that symbol meant that I am in danger and I have to run.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting a wave of emotions. Once again, my

  life is about to be turned upside down. Once again I will lose everything,

  and while everything is so much less than before, it’s all I have. I crumble

  the note in my hand, desperate to make it, and this hell that is my reality,

  go away. After six years of hiding, I’d dared to believe I could find “normal”,

  but that was a mistake. Deep down, I’ve known that since two months ago

  when I’d left my job at the central library as a research assistant, to work at

  the museum. Being here is treading water too close to the bridge.

  Straightening, I listen as the women’s voices fade before the room

  goes silent. Anger erupts inside me at the idea that my life is about to be

  stolen from me again and I tear the note in tiny pieces, flush them down

  the toilet and shove the envelope into the trash. I want to throw away the

  key too, but some part of me won’t let that happen. Probably the smart,

  unemotional part of me that I hate right now.

  Unzipping the small black purse I have strapped across my chest and

  over my pale blue blazer, that despite my tight budget, I’d splurged on for

  this new job; I drop the key inside, sealing it away. I’m going to finish my

  party. Maybe I’m going to finish my life right here in New York City. The

  note didn’t say I’d been found. It only warned me that I could be found. I

  don’t want to run again. I don’t. I need time to think, to process, and that is

  going to have to wait until after the party.

  Decision made, I exit the stall, cutting my eyes away from the mirror

  and heading for the door. I do not want anyone to see me right now when I

  have no idea who “me” is or will be tomorrow. In a zone, that numb place

  I’ve used as a survival tool almost as many times as I’ve tried to find the

  meaning of that symbol on the note, I follow the soft hum of orchestra

  music from well-placed speakers, entering a room with a high oval ceiling

  decorated with magnificent artwork. I tell myself to get lost in the crush of

  patrons in business attire, while waiters toting trays offer champagne and

  finger foods, but I don’t. I simply stand there, mourning the new life I’ve

  just begun, and I know is now gone. My “zone” has failed me.

  “Where have you been?”

  The question comes as Chloe Monroe, the only person I’ve let myself

  consider a friend in years, steps in front of me, a frown on her heart-shaped

  face. From her dark brown curls bouncing around her shoulders to her

  outgoing personality and fun, flirty attitude, she is my polar opposite and I

  love that about her. She is everything I am not but hoped I would become.

  Now I will lose her. Now I will lose me again.

  “Well,” she prods when I don’t reply quickly enough, shoving her

  hands onto her hips.

  “Where have you been?”

  “Bathroom,” I say. “There was a line.” I sound awkward. I feel

  awkward. I hate how easily the lie comes to me, how it defines me. A lie is

  all that I am.

  Chloe’s brow puckers. “Hmmm. There wasn’t one when I was there. I

  guess I got lucky.”

  She waves off the thought. “Sabrina is freaking out over some

  donation paperwork she can’t find and says she needs you.” Her brow

  furrows. “I thought you were doing research? When did you start handling

  donor paperwork?”

  “Last week, when she got overwhelmed,” I say, and perk up at the

  idea that my new boss needs me. I don’t need to leave. I need to be needed

  even if it’s just for tonight. “Wher
e is she?”

  “By the front desk.” She laces her arm through mine. “And I’m

  tagging along with you. I have a sixty-year-old admirer who’s bordering on

  stalker. I need to hide before he hunts me down.”

  She tugs me forward, and I let her, too distracted by her words to

  stop her. She’s worried about being hunted but I am the one being hunted.

  I thought I wasn’t anymore. I thought I was safe, but I am never safe, and

  neither is anyone around me. I’ve lived that first-hand. I felt that heartache

  of loss, and while being alone sucks, losing someone you care about is far

  worse.

  My selfishness overwhelms me and I stop dead in my tracks to pull

  Chloe around to face me. “Tell Sabrina I’m grabbing the forms and will be

  right there.”

  “Oh. Yes. Okay.” Chloe lets go of my arm, and for a moment I fight

  the urge to hug her, but that would make her seem important to me, and

  someone could be watching. I turn away from her and rush for a door, and I

  feel sick to my stomach knowing that I will never see her again.

  I finally exit the side of the building into the muggy August evening,

  and head for a line of cabs, but I do not rush or look around me. I’ve

  learned ways to avoid attention, and going to work for a place that has a

  direct link to the world I’d left behind hadn’t been one of them. It had

  simply been a luxury I’m now paying for.

  “JFK Airport,” I pant as I slide into the back of a cab, and rub the back

  of my neck at a familiar prickling sensation. A feeling I’d had often my first

  year on my own, when I’d been certain danger waited for me around every

  corner. Hunted. I’m being hunted. All the denial I own won’t change my

  reality.

  ***

  The ride to the airport is thirty minutes and it takes me another

  fifteen to figure out what terminal locker 111 is in once I’m inside the

  building. I pull it open and there is a carry-on-sized roller suitcase and a

  smaller brown leather shoulder bag with a large yellow envelope sticking

  up from inside the open zipper. I have no desire to be watched while I

  explore what’s been left for me. I remove the locker’s contents, and follow

  a sign that indicates a bathroom.

  Once again in a stall, I pull down the baby changer and check the

  contents of the envelope on top. There is a file folder, a bank card, a cell

  phone, a passport, a note card, and another small sealed envelope. I reach

  for the note first.

  There is cash in the bank account and the code is 1850. I’ll add more

  as you need it until you get fully settled. You’ll find a new social security

  card, driver’s license, and passport as well.

  You have a complete history to memorize and a résumé and job

  history that will check out if looked into. Throw out your cell phone. The new

  one is registered under your new name and address. There’s a plane ticket

  and the keys to an apartment along with a location. Toss all identification

  and don’t use your bank account or credit cards. Be smart. Don’t link

  yourself to your past. Stay away from museums this time.

  A new name. That’s what stands out to me. I’m getting another new

  name. No. No. No.

  My heart races at the idea. I don’t want another new name. Even

  more than I don’t want to be back on the run, I don’t want another new

  name. I feel like a girl having her hair chopped off.

  I’m losing part of myself. After living a lie for years, I’m losing the

  only part of my fake identity I’d ever really accepted as me.

  I grab the passport and flip it open and my hand trembles at the sight

  of a photo that is a present-day me. How did this stranger I met only one

  time in my life get a picture of me this recent? It doesn’t matter that I’d

  once considered him my guardian angel. I’m freaked out by this. Has he

  been watching me all this time? I shiver at the idea, and my only comfort is

  my new name. I’m now Amy Bensen rather than Amy Reynolds. I’m still

  Amy. It is the one piece of good news in all of this and I cling to it, using it to

  stave off the meltdown I feel coming. I just have to hold it together until I

  get on the plane. Then I can sink into my seat and think myself into

  my “zone” that I can’t seem to fully find.

  Flipping open the folder, I find an airline ticket. I’m going to Denver

  and I leave in an hour. I’ve never been anywhere but Texas and New York.

  All I know about Denver is it’s big, cold, and the next place I will pretend is

  home when I have no home. The thought makes my chest pinch, but fear of

  what might await me if I don’t run pushes me past it.

  I turn off my cell phone so it won’t ping and stuff it, with everything

  but my new ID and plane ticket, back into the envelope. I have my own

  money in the bank and I’m not about to get rid of my identification and

  access to that resource. Besides, the idea of using a bank card that allows

  me to be tracked bothers me. I’ll be visiting the bank tomorrow and

  removing any cash I can get my hands on. When I’d been eighteen, naive

  and alone, I’d blindly trusted a stranger I’d called my guardian angel. I

  might have to trust him now too, but it won’t be blindly.

  Making my way to check in, I fumble through using the ticket

  machine and my new identification and then track a path to security. A few

  minutes later, I’m on the other side of the metal detectors and I stop at a

  store to buy random things I might need. All is going well until I arrive at the

  ticket counter.

  “I’m so sorry, Ms. Bensen,” the forty-something woman begins. “We

  had an administrative error and seats were double-booked. We—”

  “I have to be on this flight,” I say in a hiss whispered with my heart in

  my throat. “I have to be on this flight.”

  “I can get you a voucher and the first flight tomorrow.”

  “No. No. Tonight. Give someone a bigger voucher to get me a seat.”

  “I—”

  “Talk to a supervisor,” I insist, because while avoiding attention

  means I am not a pushy person, and despite my initial denial of my

  circumstances that might suggest otherwise, I have no death wish. I am

  alive and plan to stay that way.

  She purses her lips and looks like she might argue, but finally she

  turns away and makes a path toward a man in uniform. Their heads dip low

  and he glances at me before the woman returns. “We have you on standby

  and we’ll try to get you on.”

  “How likely is it you’ll get me on?”

  “We’re going to try.”

  “Try how hard?”

  Her lips purse again. “Very.”

  I let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you. And I’m sorry. I have a…crisis of

  sorts. I really have to get to my destination.” There is a thread of

  desperation to my voice I do not contain well.

  Her expression softens and I know she heard it. “I understand and I

  am sorry this happened,” she assures me. “We are trying to make this right

  and so you don’t panic please know that we have to get everyone boarded

  before we make any passenger changes. You’ll likely be the last on ther />
  plane.”

  “Thanks,” I say, feeling awkward. “I’ll just go sit.” Definitely flustered,

  I turn away from the counter. Ignoring the few vacant seats, I head to the

  window and settle my bags on the floor beside me. Leaning against the

  steel handrail on the glass, I position myself to see everyone around me to

  be sure I’m prepared for any problem before it’s on me. And that’s when

  the room falls away, when my gaze collides with his.

  He is sitting in a seat that faces me, one row between us, his features

  handsomely carved, his dark hair a thick, rumpled finger temptation. He’s

  dressed in faded jeans and a dark blue t-shirt, but he could just as easily be

  wearing a finely fitted suit and tie. He is older than me, maybe thirty, but

  there is a worldliness, a sense of control and confidence, about him that

  reaches beyond years. He is money, power, and sex, and while I cannot

  make out the color of his eyes, I don’t need to. All that matters is that he is

  one hundred percent focused on me, and me on him.

  A moment ago I was alone in a crowd and suddenly, I’m with him. As

  if the space between us is nothing. I tell myself to look away, that everyone

  is a potential threat, but I just…can’t.

  His eyes narrow the tiniest bit, and then his lips curve ever so slightly

  and I am certain I see satisfaction slide over his face. He knows I cannot

  look away. I’ve become his newest conquest, of which I am certain he has

  many, and I’ve embarrassingly done so without one single moan of

  pleasure in the process.

  “Inviting our first-class guests to board now,” a female voice says

  over the intercom.

  I blink and my new, hmmm, whatever he is, pushes to his feet and

  slides a duffle onto his shoulder. His eyes hold mine, a hint of something in

  them I can’t quite make out. Challenge, I think. Challenge? What kind of

  challenge? I don’t have time to figure it out. He turns away, and just like

  that I’m alone again.

  Chapter Two

  Everyone has boarded the plane but me. I am alone in the gate area

  aside from a few airline personnel, and I feel vulnerable and exposed with

  no crowd to hide me. I’m already thinking through my options for the

  evening if I don’t make this flight, when my new name is called. “Your lucky