Page 108 of Two-Step
I want what’s best for Iris.
I leave the truck running with the headlights on and dash for the front porch just as the rain starts to pour in earnest.
Dropping to my knees on the bottom porch step, I run my hand under the plank of the top step as rain splashes off its surface and into my face. I find the key, cross the porch, and open the squeaking screen door.
As I fit the key into the lock, I calculate how long this mission will take and how badlyNoncis going to ride me when I show up at his house looking like a drowned raccoon.
It’s only when I push the door open that I hear the barking.
I reel back as Mica charges, teeth bared, eyes wild. “Whoa, boy!”
Chapter Twenty-Two
IRIS
I have to stop crying.Jonathan will be here to pick me up any minute. But the text on my phone makes me feel like I’m holding a hand grenade.
Moira: Take a picture of him when he gets there. Post it to IG. Tag J and give him credit for keeping you safe. We’ll go from there.
This is going to be a disaster. Why did I accept his invitation? Why did I let Moira push me into this?
I can’t do this. Ican’tdo this. It’s wrong. My director has no idea what he’s walking into. I can’t face him, knowing I’m part of a plan to manipulate him.
Who am I kidding?I’mthe one manipulating him. If I’m handed a gun and told to shoot someone, I’m the murderer.
I’m the guilty one.
I just have to tell him what she’s up to. I can’t let him think he’s doing me a favor—looking out for me—when I know Moira wants to twist this into some demented advantage.
I can’t do this. I can’t.
Moira: And post by noon Eastern time or I will. We don’t want to miss lunchtime viewers.
“Fuck.” I already knew this would happen. She’s making it nearly impossible for me to refuse. Either I pull the trigger or she does.
Jonathan is going to hate me. He’ll never want to work with me again. This’ll ruin my reputation.
I’m huddled on my living room couch with an overnight bag at my feet in a full-on tailspin when Mica barks and runs for the front door.
“Shit,” I mutter, wetly, dragging the heels of my hands across my eyes. I pass the foyer on the way to the bathroom and see headlights and rain. “Shit.”
I whip out my phone and send Jonathan a quick text.
Me: One sec.
I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I look like trash day. It’s obvious I’ve been crying all morning and got almost no sleep last night. When I wasn’t torturing myself over what I’m about to do, I was agonizing over how to tell Moira no. How to convince her that we shouldn’t do this. Hearing her tell me how stupid I am. How worthless I’d be without her. How I can’t do anything by myself.
But every now and then, my overworked mind would throw me a bone, and I’d think of Beau. In the middle of my prayers for answers, I found myself praying that he’d be safe during the storm. And then I’d imagine the feel of his strong hands on me. Remember our kisses and those brief, out of control moments on the picnic blanket.
Envision again the picture he painted of me appearing onSNL.God, that made me feel like I could fly.
As crazy as it sounds, I thought about calling him last night to tell him about all of this. Tell him about Moira and her insane plan and ask him what I should do.
But what would he think of me? Would he think I’m a human wreck for even letting things get this far?
I do.
Would he think I’m weak for not being able to stand up to Moira?
