James Patterson - You’ve Been Warned

Clearly it’s me.

I try to ignore her as I head for the door, but I can feel her eyes boring into me from behind those cheap large-rimmed glasses she wears. Her stare is relentless, she won’t give it a rest; and as much as I want to keep walking out to the street, I can’t help making a little detour. Right up into her face.

Whipping out my camera, I aim the lens an inch away from her pointy nose.

“Take a picture, you old bag, it lasts longer!” I yell.

Click.

I spin around, not waiting for her angry reaction. Everyone else in the lobby is now staring at me, but I say nothing more. I aim for the exit and look straight ahead.

What’s come over you, Kristin?

This is so unlike me. I simply don’t do things like this, yelling at people, getting in their faces.

It’s scary.

And yet, scarier still is that I enjoyed it.

With everything happening lately, I’m acting more and more on impulse – thinking, saying, and doing things I normally don’t. Those little red flags, the ones that are supposed to pop up in my brain, have mysteriously disappeared.

“Hey, watch where you’re going, lady!”

It takes me a second to realize that the grunge-looking guy playing guitar for tips on the corner is talking to me. I nearly plowed right into him.

“Sorry,” I mutter.

I’m already a block from my building, head down and oblivious to everything and everyone. The guy’s right; I need to watch where I’m going. Of course, that raises a good question. Wheream I going? I stand still for a moment, thinking of what might have been. My day with Michael, the picnic he mentioned. We’d talk, hold each other, drink some wine… and I’d feel so much better.

Instead, I feel as if my day is ruined before it even started. The dream, the burning smell, the rash…

Then, out of nowhere, I have an idea.

Something a little, well, crazy.

Very unlike me. At least the way I was until a few days ago.

“Hey, lady, you mind moving along? You’re hurting business.”

I turn to the stringy-haired guy plucking away on his guitar, every other chord off-key. His ragged guitar case lies open at his feet, and I glance at the torn black velvet lining sprinkled with spare change. And I do mean spare. A quarter or two is the mother lode for this troubadour.

“I’m serious, lady,” he barks. “Beat it! Get out of here!”

Before I know it, I’m right in his face too. “Listen, you sorry-assed Kurt Cobain wannabe, did you ever think that maybe it’s your playing that’s hurting business and not me?”

He’s speechless, songless too, and I’m already halfway down the block.

I’ve got somewhere to go after all.

WHEN I LEFT BOSTON and traded the Red Sox for the Yankees, I brought three things with me to Manhattan. A suitcase. A boyfriend.

And Bob.

There are undoubtedly far more inspired nicknames for a pickup truck than Bob, but I’ve always liked the simplicity of it. Besides, we’re talking about a 1980 Ford F-100 with more than 180,000 miles on it. Even the rust has rust. A fancy name just wouldn’t feel right.

I hurry over to First Avenue, where I park Bob at an outdoor lot. The indoor garages can cost more than some apartments here – like mine, for instance. Still, I don’t get off cheap. Three hundred and fifty bucks a month, to be exact. That makes broken-down Bob, with his missing hubcaps and leaky engine, my greatest luxury in this city. Crazy, huh?

But today he’s worth every single penny. Today Bob screams freedom, maybe even salvation.

The crosstown traffic is its usual bear, and I’m worrying that I might be late. When a Macy’s delivery truck ahead of me doesn’t move the nanosecond a light turns green, I obnoxiously bang on my horn. It doesn’t take much to bring out my inner cabdriver.

Approaching the building, I know I can’t park too close. Bob doesn’t exactly blend in.

After circling the block a couple of times, I luck out with a spot that’s a safe distance from the entrance. I reach for my cell and dial the apartment, hitting *67 first to block the caller ID.

Michael answers.

Good, they haven’t left yet.

For the second time this morning, I hang up on him. Then I adjust my sunglasses, sink down in Bob’s front seat, and get busy.

Waiting.

Soon I see Michael emerge from the building. I immediately want to rush out and go to him, kick his shins, and call him a nasty name. Then I’ll kiss him so hard he can barely breathe. We’ll escape to the nearest alley and have amazing, passionate makeup sex – no, wait, better yet, we’ll fuck, like rabbits, like minks, or like whatever other furry creatures top the most-horny list.

“Have a nice day with your in-laws!” I’ll say when we’re done.

Instead, I stay right here with Bob, watching.

Michael disappears around the corner. A few minutes later, he returns with the “family car,” a shiny black Mercedes, the G-class.

Almost on cue, Penley, Dakota, and Sean come bounding out to the sidewalk while Louis, sweating in his doorman uniform, brings up the rear with the kids’ knapsacks and an overstuffed beach bag.

Michael steps out and straps Sean into his booster seat while Dakota climbs in on her own. Penley meanwhile opens a compact and applies some lipstick, blindly gesturing to Louis to load everything in the back of the wagon.

It should be me getting in that car, not Penley. That’s all I can think as I stare at them. I should be the fourth in that particular foursome.

They may look like the picture-perfect family – all smiles as they pull away from the curb, heading for “the country” – but I know better.

Pictures lie.

MICHAEL DRIVES LIKE a speed demon, hardly a surprise. It dawns on me that I’ve never seen him behind the wheel of a car before. I drove him somewhere once in Bob. Other than that, we’re always either in his limo or taking cabs.

He’s definitely a little reckless today, especially with the kids in the car. A couple of times I almost lose them, first by the George Washington Bridge and then later on I-95 through Stamford, where one of the lanes is closed for construction.

I tailgate other cars, trying to stay hidden in Michael’s rearview mirror. For my first time following someone, I think I’m doing a pretty good job.

Next exit, Westport.

It’s only an hour’s drive from the city, but it might as well be a million miles away. So many trees, so much space, it’s a whole other world. A very rich one, at that.

And the closer we get to the water, the richer it gets.

The homes looking out on Long Island Sound all seem to share this majestic, otherworldly quality. Beyond their manicured front lawns and perfectly aligned shutters, there’s a certain grandness to them that goes beyond size. It’s not mere money, it’s wealth.

Michael turns into a driveway.

Fittingly, it belongs to the most impressive home of them all, a cedar shake Nantucket colonial that looks like a page out of Architectural Digest. Actually, make that two pages. The huge house rolls across the property like a wave, seemingly endless.

So this is where Penley grew up.

I park by the far end of the house behind a low hedge. I’m mostly shielded while still having a decent view of the grounds, including the large infinity pool and the tennis court. What I expect to see, I don’t know.

What I’m even doing here is a much better question. We’ll find out, won’t we?

I watch as Michael and the rest of the Turnbull family spill out of their Mercedes wagon.

An older couple – Penley’s mother and father, for sure – are quick to greet them with hugs and kisses, the majority going to Dakota and Sean. Penley’s father kind of reminds me of a retired Gordon Gekko.