Life Of Lies. Sharon Sala
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of it on her face. The heat and smoke were still burning her eyes.
An EMT was taking her blood pressure and pulse while the other EMT, who happened to be a female, reached out and took Sahara’s hands and just held them.
It took Sahara a few minutes to get past the noise inside the open cabin to realize the danger was over, but when she took a breath, she choked from emotion and relief. Someone squeezed her fingers. Sahara looked up into the darkest, kindest eyes she’d ever seen and took comfort in the woman’s calm, steady gaze. Slowly, slowly, the shaking stopped. She began to realize she had these people to thank for her life, and did so, one by one.
They smiled as they gave her a thumbs-up, then one of them pulled the blanket tighter around her chin and scooted her up against his chest for more stability. It was like being buckled into a car seat, and the security she felt in the EMT’s arms lulled her into a sense of safety that abruptly ended when the chopper landed and he released his hold on her.
Once more, she was transferred to another set of strangers. And again, she had to trust they had her best interests at heart.
* * *
Bubba was furious, then frustrated, then in disbelief when he learned Sahara Travis was still alive. But he knew something she didn’t know. She was going to be on her way to New Orleans soon, which would complicate everything. So he paced the room, cursing his failures until he’d given himself a headache, then sat down and made himself focus. He wanted to take her out before she left LA, but how could he make that happen?
And then it hit him. Her plane. The private jet. It would mean one more bomb to build, but this time they’d be in the air before it went off and she’d have nowhere to go to escape.
He called the bomber, relayed his displeasure with the failure and then gave him further instructions.
“And don’t fucking fail me this time! Do you hear?”
“I hear you, but I didn’t fail. She got on that elevator, and I pushed the button. Who the hell could have predicted that she’d jump out at the last second?”
“Whatever, I don’t need your excuses. This time, do what you have to do. Understand?”
“Yes, I understand.”
* * *
Sahara was in the ER when Harold arrived. He pushed past a nurse in the doorway and went straight to the bed where Sahara was lying and took her in his arms.
“I thought you were dead. The entire drive over to The Magnolia I thought you were dead. Sweet Mother Mary, Jesus and Joseph...you are a miracle,” he said, hugging her and patting her over and over again.
“What are you saying? You’re Jewish,” she muttered, wrapped her arms around his neck and burst into tears.
“Well, you’re not, and I thought it best to thank your people first,” Harold said, and blew his nose.
“Excuse me, sir,” the nurse said, as she moved him aside.
“I won’t leave you alone,” Harold said when Sahara began to look anxious again.
“I’m not hurt,” Sahara said. “All of this is just dust from the explosion in the shaft. Nothing actually hit me.”
“You’re still getting the whole run-through, so settle back and deal with it,” he said.
“I have no place to live. I don’t know who wants me dead. I feel like a target on a gun range. What’s happening, Harold? Why is this happening?”
“Don’t know yet, honey, but we will. You will not spend another day alone until this danger is behind you.”
“I’m not moving in with you,” she muttered.
“Of course you’re not. But I have a bodyguard on the way over here. He’s an ex‒Army Ranger, and he’ll make sure you’re safe until we get this lunatic behind bars.”
“A bodyguard?”
The whine in her voice made him frown.
“After all of this, what did you expect?”
“I didn’t think it through,” she said, fiddling at the dust that kept falling out of her hair and onto the hospital gown and trying to brush it away.
Harold eyed the nurse who was trying to dodge Sahara’s fidgets as she struggled to get her blood pressure taken.
“Sahara, just be still and let the nurse do her job. I’m going to sit in that chair. Trust that I will not let anyone get close enough to hurt you again.”
She leaned back and gave in to the prodding and pulling, the lab tech taking blood, the X-ray machine that came and went.
“What happened to your foot?” a nurse asked, as she removed the dirty gauze around it, cleaned the burn and replaced the bandages.
“Burned it with hot coffee,” she said. “I’ve had a doctor—Chris Barrett—who’s been treating it.”
“Good man,” the nurse said, tossing the gauze in the trash, then cleaning Sahara’s foot and replacing the bandage.
An hour passed and then another. They were well into the third hour, and Sahara had finally calmed down enough that she was dozing and waiting to be discharged when she heard Harold shuffling around and then talking. Eyes still closed, she assumed he was on the phone thanking someone for taking the job on short notice, until she heard a man’s deep rumbling voice in reply.
“Happy to help,” he said.
She opened her eyes to see a giant of a man standing between her and the door, and she blinked again. Was he real?
As if sensing he was being watched, he turned toward her. She flashed on warm tan skin, thick dark hair and eyes the color of coal before he nodded politely and resumed his conversation with Harold.
Well...hello to you, too, whatever your name is.
Harold promptly filled in that blank.
“Sahara, this is Brendan McQueen. He will be your bodyguard until the person responsible for trying to kill you is caught. Brendan, meet Sahara Travis. I’m depending on you to keep her safe.”
As Brendan moved to the side of her bed, Sahara felt his gaze take note of everything about her within two or three seconds, including her filthy hair, the hospital gown and the bandaged foot, before he shifted it straight to her face.
“Sorry to meet you under these circumstances, Miss Travis. Know that from this moment until I am released from duty, I will be standing between you and trouble. I am pledging my life to keep you safe, so I ask only a few small things from you in return.”
“And those are?” she asked.
“That you never lie to me about anything and never leave my sight.”
She frowned. “You’re not coming into a bathroom with me, buddy.”
“I don’t have buddies, but you can call me Brendan. If you don’t want me in a bathroom with you, then I’ll make sure you’re the only one in it, because if you go into a public bathroom with multiple stalls, rest assured I will be standing inside that room until you are ready to exit.”
Her eyes narrowed, but she knew this was for her own good.
“Deal. Do we sleep together, too?”
His face remained stoic, ignoring her attitude.
“No, Miss Travis. I’m good with the floor.”
“You can call me Sahara,” she said, and then shifted her focus to her manager. “Harold, we need to talk.”
“What about?”
“The movie. I need you to get me out of the role. There’s no way to keep other people safe while someone’s after me, and I don’t want another Moira on my conscience. If