No matter how hard Gemma scrubbed, the memories would not leave her, the nights of screaming and the pain that followed. Even now, living on the streets, her father torments her relentlessly. Gemma knew why she knew too much, and she was an asset. However, Gemma wanted to be something more. She wanted to be someone SHE chose to be. Walking back to the motel, the woman kept her head low, tears slowly falling, ‘why me? Why did I have to get a father who hated me.’ The woman asked herself. The stale bread and questionable lunchmeat shifted in the bag as she had noticed she was not alone. Over the years, Gemma learned how to protect herself, picking up skills from fighting styles she watched through the window and from the YouTube videos she managed to see on the television. And, after some bargaining, gained a blade for protection. So in a situation like this, she thought she would be ready. Glancing back, she tried to make it as discreet as possible, but turning her head back around, someone stepped out. “Shit.” The bag dropped as her heart skipped a beat, and Gemma began to run. However, a tight grip on her jacket caused her to lose her footing and fall to the ground. Likely scraping her knee and injuring her ankle, adrenaline forced her to push on. “Leave me alone!”
Turning a corner, she once again found herself surrounded. Fumbling in jacket pockets, she pulled out the blade, thinking she could handle this. That was until she noticed they all carried guns. ‘Smart, Gemma.’ She thought, ‘you brought a knife to a gunfight.’ A heavy sigh escaped her lips, ready to go down swinging. At least she could say she tried. Right? Just as she was preparing to strike first, she noticed they all seemed to fall over, grabbing their ears, “what the….” Not staying around long enough to figure out why she jumped over them and began to run to the motel. Even if she did not plan on staying there tonight, it was where all her things were.
Getting into the motel, she looked around the room. Her breath was heavy, and her head throbbed. All she wanted to do was come back and eat, not pack and run for her life…. Again. “Becca! BECCA!” Gemma looked around for her friend, but it seemed she was out again for the day. Grabbing a piece of paper and a motel pen, she frantically wrote a letter saying she would be back, but she did not know when. And, just as she was going to sign it, she heard something. Heart still pumping, hand again reached for her knife, “Damn it, I thought I lost those fucks back several blocks.” She grumbles and steps towards the door, quickly opening Gemma points the blade at the other. “Do not fucking move, got it? Do. Not. Fucking. Move.” Even though her voice was menacing, her eyes gave away the fear and pain she was in. If she were honest, Gemma was tired of running. A trembling set of hands kept the blade at the other, she had yet to take a life, but she would if she had to. ‘It is him or you, Gem. And it better be you.’ Gemma reminds herself.
Watching as hands raised to show he had nothing, she did not trust it. Looks could always be deceiving. Her father is a perfect example of that. Eyes quickly dart up and down him and then at the surrounding area. He seemed alone, but she knew how sneaky her father and his goons could be. “Do not call me that!” Gemma spat out. She was not a Harding. Her father made it clear Gemma was something he could throw away. “My name is—” She paused. How did this man know her name? She had done everything to keep her name and anything about her away from the public. Doing so made it harder for anyone to find her. Eyes narrowed, “how do you know me? Who sent you! Answer me right now, or so help me, I will kill you and make an example out of you! I am not scared to kill you.” Which was a lie, she was, but like any animal backed in a corner, she would do anything to save herself.
“And you are right. I don’t have any reason to trust you… How do I know you aren’t with those guys who tried to kill me…” Adrenaline began to wear off, her ankle killed her, and she was ready for this to be over. “Besides, how can you help me?”
❝Gemma,❞ Harold corrected himself, an apology coloring the sound of his voice—he hadn’t heard her use her birth surname while he’d been listening in, but he hadn’t exactly heard her actively push against it, either. It hadn’t come up until that moment, but he could scarcely blame her for it. Dark brows briefly quirked upward with emphasis as he tilted his upper body sideways with a slight turn, the movement indicative of the way someone would’ve turned their head to gesture behind them.
❝Those men after you—they were connected to the person your father hired to kill you via bluetooth earpieces,❞ Harold gestured slightly to his own ear with one of the hands he still held upright. ❝The connection was disrupted with RF interference. Causes an earsplitting screeching sound, really painful, it gave you the means to escape—that was me. ❞ He was speaking with firm urgency, for he had no doubt that they would recover and come looking. Harold suspected they already knew where it was Gemma had been staying, who she’d been staying with—he made a mental note to contact detective Carter to check on Gemma’s friend, to ensure those men hadn’t found her, too.
❝ I help people out of very bad situations and, I’m afraid the only way we’re gonna get you out of this is if he does think you’re dead. For that to work, I’m gonna need your help—but we don’t have much time, and ... I fear, if they don’t find you soon, they’re gonna go looking for your friend Becca instead. I can ensure her safety, too, but ... you are gonna have to trust me. I’ve got somewhere safe to go, but we’ve have to go now.❞
Harold’s eyes briefly flickered down pointedly to the knife Gemma still held, ready to strike at him should he make any wrong move. ❝This’ll be a lot easier without the tension, so would you please ... put the knife down, Gemma.❞ He held her gaze then as time seemed to stand still; the both of them standing opposite each other, a razor sharp line of tension and fear keeping them there. Something barbed and painful twinged in Harold’s chest, however, at the sight of her terror. She was like a trapped animal, backed into a corner, perceiving anything unfamiliar that moved a threat. He wasn’t one to fight, not like this. Especially not when he knew that whatever fate awaited him, he likely deserved it—but Harold understood the fear. He understood it deep into his bones.
❝I know you’re afraid and, frankly, you’ve every right to be. But ... the only thing I’m here to do is help you. ❞ His voice softened, just slightly, with these words, the firm volume coming down a few notches.
