Keeping Secret (Secret McQueen) - By Sierra Dean Page 0,25
wedding is the best day of her life. I don’t care about this stuff.” I pointed to the wall of silk, satin and the godforsaken tulle.
Ignoring my uncharacteristic outburst of honesty, Kimberly smiled at me and patted my arm with a forced sisterly compassion. “It will be worth it when you see the look on Lucas’s face the first time he sees you.”
I tried to imagine the moment, but all I could bring to mind was Lucas’s cold eyes staring at Desmond’s dead body while he asked me, “What have you done?”
“I guess.”
Olivia returned a moment later, and soon I was trussed up again, itchy lace draped over my shoulder and my back exposed. The dress was pretty, but I wish someone had warned me how heavy lace was.
Trudging out, I stepped onto the platform in front of about ten thousand mirrors so the girls could get a look at what fifty-seven pounds of Venetian lace did for my five-foot-four frame. I turned so they could see the bare back.
Which was how I saw the gun.
The figure dressed all in black wouldn’t have stood out thanks to the uniform of all Kleinfeld employees, but the ski mask was a little out of the ordinary. As was the raised Beretta in the attacker’s gloved hand. There was a flash of light, followed by a muffled pop from the silencer. Without thinking, I dove for the most vulnerable person in range.
Olivia and I tumbled to the floor as the mirror exploded into a million pieces and Kimberly began to scream. Kellen joined in the chorus, obviously still scarred by the memory of what had happened on the highway earlier in the week. I, too, remembered that night as the pain in my shoulder responded to the sound of gunfire.
Mercedes—bless her police officer blood—had withdrawn a gun from an ankle holster and was ducked behind the loveseat with Brigit next to her. I rolled off Olivia and instructed her to stay the hell down. She was crying so hard I didn’t know if she heard me, but I hoped her common sense would give her the same instruction.
“Cedes,” I whispered loud enough for her to hear me as I hunkered down behind a mannequin. “I need my purse.”
She didn’t question me, just grabbed the large leather satchel and hurled it in my direction. With my beloved SIG 9mm in my hands, I immediately felt safer. With a bullet loaded in the chamber, the whole situation was less uncertain and foggy.
The salon was almost empty thanks to our late-evening appointment, but there were still quivering, whimpering masses of bridal white pressed to the floor and crying black-clad employees hiding in recessed closets, their hands covering their heads. I saw a young woman in a wedding dress get to her feet, and before I could shout out a warning she made a dash for the waiting room.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I cursed as I rolled from my hiding place. The gunman was here for me, not these people, and I’d be damned if anyone died here tonight because of me. The women in the salon were here to prepare for the best day of their lives, and instead they were caught in a living nightmare.
This was what I did to people.
I wrestled with the skirt of my lace dress and jumped over the sofa, using the arm to propel myself higher, grateful for my bare feet. Another shot rang out an instant before I collided with the girl. We tumbled down in a mass of white fabric, and she screamed the way people can only if they’ve been shot—a high, keening wail.
I pushed off her and saw the tiniest bit of skin sheared from her arm, just above the elbow. If I hadn’t pushed her when I did, it would have hit her dead center in the chest. The gunman wasn’t aiming for flesh wounds.
“Shhh, shh, shush,” I whispered, trying to be soothing when I was really impatient with her wailing. “It’s a graze. You’ll be fine, you’ll be fine.” She continued to scream, and it got worse when she saw the gun in my hand.
Heavy boot steps moved behind the wall. The woman and I were hidden only by a decorative divider where dresses were hung on display. I wrenched a veil off a mannequin nearby and wrapped the delicate fabric around her bloody arm. The front of her dress was splattered red, and the spray from her wound had left my own lace gown