Run To You

blinds. “They’re camped out in my parking lot, but as soon as they leave, I’m going to leave town for a while.” Where she was going, she didn’t know. “So now isn’t a real good time for a family reunion.” She pushed end and set the phone on the kitchen counter.
    She moved into her bedroom and pulled a big duffel from her closet. She’d wait for a few hours. If they were still camped outside after dark, she’d have to call the cops, but she really didn’t want to call the Miami PD. She didn’t want to file a report. They’d ask her questions she didn’t know the answers to; she’d prefer not to make Ricky and his friends any madder than they were already.
    She dumped underwear and bras into the bag. Maybe she’d be gone for a week. Surely that was long enough. She’d stay at a hotel and look for a job. Maybe in Orlando.
    Next, she shoved shorts, tank tops, and two sundresses into the duffel. Makeup and hair products were followed by flip-flops and her iPad loaded up with about a thousand of her favorite songs. Everything from Regina Spektor to Johnny Cash.
    She pulled on a blue ombré halter dress and her Docs. In case she had to run, she needed her good solid shoes. Her hair, she slicked back into a ponytail to keep it out of her face.
    From the kitchen, her phone rang, and she walked into the hallway toward the sound. She didn’t recognize the number coming across but was fairly sure it had to be Ricky. She thought about not answering, but perhaps she could defuse the situation and convince him to leave her alone. “Yes.”
    “Where are you?”
    It wasn’t Ricky. “Who is this?”
    “Beau Junger.”
    Joe’s name was Beau? Didn’t seem to really fit him. It wasn’t hard enough. He looked more like a Buck or Duke or Rocky. “I’m in my apartment.”
    “Are the Gallo brothers outside your apartment?”
    She peered out the slice in the blinds. “I don’t think they’re brothers.”
    “One short and fat? The other tall and skinny?”
    “Yeah.”
    “They’re brothers. Do you see their beige Lexus LS?”
    How did he know that? “Yes.”
    “Where is the vehicle oriented to your front door?”
    “Several rows back and to the left.”
    “Okay. Do you have a bag packed?”
    “Yes. I’m waiting for them to leave so I can run to my car.”
    “Forget your car. I’m still about an hour out. So at”—he paused as if looking at his big watch—“fourteen hundred hours, you’re going to hear a commotion. Grab your bag and haul your ass out of your apartment.”
    “What kind of commotion? How will I know it’s you?”
    She wasn’t sure, but he might have chuckled. “You’ll know. There will be a black SUV parked at the curb closest to your unit. Get in.”
    “Your SUV?”
    “Yes,” he said, and the line went dead.
    “Wait. Come back. What time is fourteen hundred hours?”

Chapter Three
    C ommotion. Stella considered a heated argument a commotion. Loud music was a commotion. Evidently, Beau Junger had a different definition. One that included a boom and black smoke and chaotic flashes of light. At the first sign of “commotion,” Stella grabbed her bag, locked her door behind her, and hauled ass down the stairs as he’d directed. As she hit the ground floor, she glanced across the parking lot at the smoke pouring from beneath the Gallo brothers’ Lexus. Amid the confusion of crackling light and blaring car alarm, a black Escalade pulled up to the curb. With her backpack across one shoulder and her duffel clutched to her chest, Stella yanked open the door and jumped inside.
    “Holy frijole y guacamole!”
    From across the big SUV, Beau Junger, aka G.I. Joe, aka Captain America, looked back at her through the lenses of his mirrored sunglasses. “Good afternoon.” All calm and cool, he eased his foot off the brake, and the Cadillac pulled away from the curb. No squealing tires or racing engines or hail of bullets. Just cool air-conditioning, soft leather, and tinted windows.
    “What did you do?” She looked back through the seats toward the billowing black smoke and the Gallo brothers yelling and pointing at their Lexus. “Did you blow up the Gallos’ car?”
    “Of course not. That would be against the law.”
    “And that isn’t?”
    “That’s just a little flashbang.” He took a deep breath. “God, I love the smell of flashbang.”
    All she could smell was leather and some sort of man soap. Like he’d scrubbed his face with Axe or Irish Spring or Lava.