Sarah Monaghan died the night Roan McLaren entered my bedroom. The first of many identities started the very next day, but it wasn't until I left Wellington and arrived in Christchurch, that the first real chameleon moment began.
I dyed my hair black, took out the studs and rings and replaced them with visible temporary tattoos. The Goth clothing disappeared and leather jackets and mini skirts took their place. And ID number one was born. Biker-babe receptionist to a Motorcycle mechanic - who happened to be a patched member of the Devil's Henchmen MC. I was proud of my first hide-in-plain-sight moment. There was no way Roan McLaren would tempt the ill temper of a motorcycle gang.
Ten months later the itch started up between my shoulder blades and I could have sworn my temporary tattoos had become a bullseye on my back.
Grunge-wearing barista in the campus cafeteria at Otago University followed. Then g
irl-next-door deckhand on a Whale Watching boat out of Kaikoura, snow-bunny ticket-booth attendant at Cardrona Ski Field, country-bumpkin farmhand on a large secluded station in the High Country, and finally immigrant apple-picker in the Hawkes Bay.
To my latest incarnation, my seventh chameleon moment, high street retail assistant in an Auckland jewellery store. Abi Merchant wore slim, pencil skirts, and form-fitting blouses and kitten heels. Her hair was always coiffed in a French twist. Her make-up was impeccable and barely noticeable, her eyes a stunning green due to coloured contact lenses. Her hair a vibrant red, sleek and shiny. Her manners perfect, her speech well articulated. Her back straight and head held high.
I liked her. She was everything my life as Sarah Monaghan would not have been. She was everything Roan McLaren would not have wanted. She was upright and correct, she couldn't even jay-walk across the street.
Not that she was present in this suburban neighbourhood right now. My long, flowing flower-power skirt swished around my ankles as I strode with purpose towards the bus stop sign I could now make out up ahead. My ankle laced leather sandals made slapping sounds against the concrete beneath my feet. My beads rattled in my hair, my bangles jangled around my wrists. And the saucer-sized peace symbol hanging around my neck, bounced up and down against my chest.
Everything had a blue tinge to it, as the lenses on my round-framed glasses were a brilliant blue, hiding my natural eye colour. I was sick of contacts, Abi Merchant's only fault. My next incarnation would be
au naturel
. But even as I approached the bus stop ahead, I knew my new identity was already shot. I hadn't even received the $5,000 papers yet, and already I would have to move on from Chrystal Kerr.
But what choice did I have, but to wait for the papers to be done. Chrystal would get me to Australia, or maybe London, I wasn't sure yet. Then she could disappear and someone else would get born instead. If I left Auckland now, without this latest identity, it would take too long for me to find a forger good enough to fool any border control. Those I had used in the past had been barely good enough for employment reasons, this latest attempt was to be my last here in NZ. My father had warned I needed to wait at least a couple of years before attempting the dangerous task of heading overseas through international borders. He warned me that Roan would watch the airports, I had to give it time.
Life had meant two years turned into five, before I found a forger good enough for the task. Would it take another five years for me to find another? Could I continue to run and hide in New Zealand for that long? I didn't have it in me anymore, even though Roan was so close, breathing down my neck. I had to make a stand. I had to see this through and then I could leave. Then I could forget that night eight years ago, when I woke to Roan McLaren at the foot of my bed.
Bile found its familiar path up my throat and coated my tongue. I gagged, stumbled, heard a sound behind me and felt panic well up my throat instead. Heart thumping, sweat beading across my skin, I spun on my feet, ready to face my pursuer, but not ready to face my imprisonment or death.
Then lost my footing on the kerb, felt my ankle give out beneath me and went sprawling across the roadway in an undignified heap.
A screeching sound rang out in the air, the smell of burnt rubber and the whine of a strained engine as it sped up - aiming straight for my head. I swung my stunned and mortified gaze towards the incoming beast, only to realise it wasn't speeding, but braking, and not doing a very good job of that fact. The rear of the car swung out to the side, as it fishtailed down the street. Smoke wafted up from the rear tyres and little bits of gravel spewed out from the ones in front, only a couple of feet from my face.
It wasn't going to make it. Even if it wasn't Roan's men, I was done for sure.
Then out of the shadows came a flash of dark colours, the steel feel of strong arms lifting me up off the road, and the sensation of air as it passed my body. My saviour slammed us into the patched grass on the other side of the road, his body twisting in mid-air to take the brunt of the force on his back and protect me. It didn't matter. Air pushed from my lungs painfully, and a sharp stab radiated from my side as the saviour's elbow inadvertently dug into my ribs.
I screamed, then moaned. He made a low noise that sounded just as pained, and the car that had almost hit me finally stopped.
Over a metre past where I had laid.
"Your hair has beads in it," a low, gravelly voice said at my ear, in an almost incredulous tone.
I breathed through the pain and disorientation I was feeling, allowing myself a second or two to respond. It had absolutely nothing to do with the feel of the man's strong arms still wrapped around me. A feeling I hadn't allowed myself to experience for quite some time. It also had nothing to with the feel of his firm chest and legs beneath my side. Every hard angle and plane matching the softness of mine. And it most certainly had nothing to do with the way he smelled. A masculine fragrance that was definitely an expensive cologne, mixed in with the sweat of man.
A shiver of recognition ran down my spine. I had smelled this particular scent before.
I had dreamed this particular scent before.
I was up and out of his arms in the next second, adrenaline finally doing what it was meant to do. But vertigo making my flight delayed, as I doubled over and clasped my knees, breathing deeply and blinking rapidly to make the dots before my eyes disappear. I was vaguely aware of him sitting up, of him resting his arms casually across his bent knees. And of him watching every single move I made.
He was dressed in black, good to hide in the shadows, I told myself. Black faded jeans, black faded T-shirt, and old scuffed black boots and a black leather belt. The belt was heavily laden with items I did not want to dwell on, but forced my eyes to acknowledge anyway. A cellphone, taser, handcuffs, mace and the obligatory bad-guy gun. I'd seen my fair share at the Compound. I even knew how to fire one, my father had made sure of that.
His right arm was tattooed, it reminded me of Christchurch and my time with the Devil's Henchmen. But this was no motorcycle club marking, it was tribal in nature. Intricate and beautiful at the same time, despite the frightful looking Tiki hidden in its depths. Hiding in plain sight. My eyes flicked up to his face and I made myself not suck in much needed air.
He definitely had some Māori blood in him; more a milk chocolate colouring, than dark cocoa. He was also unbelievably beautiful, in a hard, rough-edged way. Abi Merchant wouldn't be seen dead with a guy like this, but the old me would have looked twice, that's for sure. I adopted a slightly haughty expression, then realised I was playing Chrystal today, so changed it quickly to one of carefree nonchalance.
He smiled, having clearly seen the cover-up and even while I swore loudly in my head at my faux pas, I blinked rapidly at the transformation on his face. If he was beautiful before, then when he smiled he was breathtaking. I stared dumbly at him for several seconds, as he held my gaze and the smile spread even more.
The sound of a car door creaking open behind me broke the spell. I stood upright and took a step away from the good-looking, good-Samaritan on the ground, and faced off against the yet unknown car-driving maniac to the side. I kept both men in my line of sight, and kept myself several feet away from each.
The driver was middle aged, had a light tan and a hard working physique. And wore a checked flannel shirt, rolled up at the sleeves. If he was one of Roan's he did not fit the bill. My eyes flicked back of their own accord to my "saviour", who would have blended in superbly at the Compound. I forced myself to assess the driver again. I noticed dirt beneath his chipped fingernails and mud on his working-man's boots and the back tray of his Ute - I realised, not a car - was covered in landscaping material.
Pete's Landscaping
stencilled on the side of the cab finishing off the image perfectly.
Roan could have used a chameleon like me to hunt me down, but I doubted it. The danger here lay in the relaxed looking guy still sitting on the ground. He was the one hiding in plain sight, Pete wasn't hiding at all.
"Bloody hell," Pete exclaimed. "Are you OK? I thought I was gonna hit you for sure. Thank God you were there to move her, mate," he said looking at my saviour, but returning his eyes to me immediately. "I tried to stop in time, but..." his voice trailed off and he swallowed painfully, as his eyes swung behind him to the road. Black burnt tyre marks left a trail of evidence behind them. "Are you sure, you're OK?" he asked, when his eyes finally returned to mine.
"I'm fine," I said with a small smile. "Just incredibly clumsy." Abi Merchant was not clumsy, so I was happy to go with that.
"So you don't need me to call an ambulance? Or... or the cops?" Pete asked again and I felt myself pale. My current ID would not stand up to the police's assessment. I shook my head at him to force my words home.
"I'm positively fine. Happens all the time," I said, my smile becoming more natural.
"It does?" he asked, stunned.
"Well, not so much the nearly being run over part, but you know what I mean," I mumbled, feeling the situation again fall from my clasp. I needed to get things under control, lose Pete, ditch saviour, and catch the bus which had just rounded the corner of the street. "Um, don't worry about me, I'll be fine. Gotta go," I said, starting to head towards the bus stop down the street.
"Do you need a lift somewhere?" Pete asked in a voice that definitely sounded like he wanted me to say no. I obliged.
"Nah, it's all groovy," I attempted my new persona again. It felt stilted and wrong. Bad vibes surrounded Chrystal, which was a shame, because I needed her ID more than ever now.
"Ah, OK, then," Pete said, a little uncertainly. "As long as you're sure."
Shit, this guy was persistent. "It's all good, my friend. No worries." There, that sounded more like a hippy-dippy chick. Maybe this could work after all.
I crossed the street, hearing Pete's door on his car shut and the Ute start up. I waved merrily as the vehicle passed by. The bus stop sign was only a couple of feet away, the bus still down the street. Things were going to work out just fine. I came to rest next to the sign and waved out to the bus driver as he came into focus. I felt my heart rate begin to settle, my breathing even out. I even began to play with the beads in my hair.
"You're not gonna say thanks," that deep, gravelly voice sounded right behind my shoulder.
I jumped, made a little squealing sound and rounded on my saviour, who I should
never
have let out of my sight. Shit, shit, shit. I was so dropping the ball here, Dad would not be impressed.
"Sorry, thank you," I mumbled, flicking my gaze at the lumbering bus, as it stopped in front of a friggin' stray dog as it crossed the street. A horn sounded as the mangy thing sat down to lick its nether region. Panic welled up my throat again.
"At least tell me your name," my saviour asked, leaning against the bus stop sign, letting his gaze wander down the length of my frame. He couldn't have seen much, certainly not as much as Abi Merchant's clothes showed. Chrystal Kerr was all about freedom; the flowing drape of a long skirt, the simple drop of a tie-died peasant shirt. But, from the looks of his heavily lidded eyes, my saviour saw something else.
The panic shifted, turning into something entirely different, but no less frightening. A blush rose up my cheeks. His eyes tracked it, the edges of his lips lifting ever so slightly at the sight.
"I'm sorry, but I have to go," I attempted to deflect, throwing a frantic glance towards the still immobile bus.
"I can give you a lift, if you need one," he offered, his voice running over my body like work-hardened hands; hot, rough and entirely too addictive.
"I'm fine with the bus," I insisted, willing the bus to hurry up. I heard the engine rev, as the bus began to move again. I let a small sigh of relief out.
"So, what's a girl like you doin' in a neighbourhood like this?" he asked, his chocolate brown eyes on mine.
I raised an eyebrow, somehow thinking the question was out of place, for one of Roan's men. I studied him again, committing every aspect of his appearance to my memory. This was one I'd have to be careful of. If he was Roan's, then Roan was acting out of form. Hiring a professional. And there were no two ways about it, this guy was a professional. He was too smooth, too practised, too relaxed, too unobtrusive. Hiding in plain sight. Roan's goons lacked that sort of finesse. He'd obviously out-sourced this man. He was upping his game at last.
Suddenly, all consuming fear washed my body, stole my breath, stilled my heart. I needed to leave Auckland right now. I needed to get as far away as I possibly could from this person before me. I knew my liberty, my
life
, depended on it. The stakes had risen, the goal posts had shifted. Roan McLaren was closing in.
"I won't go without a fight," I said and watched as the guy's face blanked momentarily. An impassive mask that was more chilling, than any fierce expression could have been. My hand wrapped around the can of mace in my bag. His eyes tracked the movement, but his body showed no other signs of preparedness. I wasn't fooled. "Tell him, if he wants me, he'll have to kill me first."
There was an expression then. A shadow of unease fluttering across his face and then it was gone. The mask of impassivity back in its place. Gone was the good-Samaritan, in his place a battle-worn warrior who'd seen it all, done it all, and would do it all again when needed.
"What are you runnin' from?" he asked softly, his voice almost drowned out by the diesel engine of the approaching bus. I held his gaze, noting the warm chocolate of before had become hard chips of granite now. I waited, timing my answer, willing my heart to slow, and the tremors in my body to still. I'd get one shot at this and one shot only.
"He won't get me without a fight," I semi-repeated my statement of before. And just so Roan would get the message, I kneed the guy in the balls as the bus's door whooshed open at my back. Turning and dashing up the steps, slapping my bus pass down on the scanner and willing the bus driver to move with my eyes. He must have seen the panic, he'd certainly witnessed my attack. The doors closed, the bus shot forward and I stumbled to a seat down the back.
I watched as my saviour rolled in a curled ball on the pavement beneath the bus stop sign, and although I knew I should have felt justifiable satisfaction at seeing one of Roan's men writhing on the ground in abject pain, I didn't. A lump had formed in my chest and blocked off all feeling from my mind. I stared numbly as the guy came up to a hunched crouch, his body protectively curved around his middle. His glossy eyes lifted to the rear window of the bus I was staring out of numbly.
And he cocked his head, gave me a nod and smiled.
Shit, shit, shit, shit. I abruptly sat down in the seat I'd been kneeling on and started to bite my thumbnail. This guy was good. Too good. He wouldn't give up after a small show of defiance on my part. If anything it would make him more determined to pin me down. I'd done it now. I'd shifted from that all important hiding-in-plain-sight my father had instilled in me, and come out of the shadows practically screaming "catch me if you can" at the top of my lungs.
Panic, that all too familiar fiend, wrapped around my body and settled in my heart. I was living on borrowed time and the only thing that would save me now was to up anchor and haul arse out of town.
I stared blindly out of the side window and contemplated my next destination. I hadn't decided where Chrystal would go, but Chrystal was now blown. The expensive, border ready papers, would have to be written off as a loss. A loss, after so many years of hiding, my purse strings could not easily cope with. I had a small amount of Dad's money left, a bit of my own, although the type of jobs I'd had barely covered living expenses, but still, maybe one more cheaper ID purchase. And the notion of crossing New Zealand's borders lost for good.
I leaned my head back against the scratched vinyl of the bus seat and stared at the lights that tracked down the middle of the aisle in the ceiling. Far North or back down south, closer to Wellington and Roan McLaren? My heart told me to run as far away as I could, Cape Reinga if I could hitch a ride there. But what sort of forgery artist would live up North? My head told me I needed another city, where the chances of finding decent forged documents would be easier. I'd done the major centres, from Dunedin, through Christchurch, up to Auckland. I could try Hamilton. Slap bang in the middle of nowhere with a fuck-you attitude to go with it.
Yeah, Hamilton would work. Hamilton would have to work. There was a criminal underbelly there. So, there would be forgers as well.
I glanced at the bus route map off to the side of where I sat. This bus went to Britomart, in the city centre. From there I could easily head to Quay Street and catch a Naked Bus heading south. It was the right thing to do. The only thing to do. I had no choice. I had to do this. Roan was too close, way too close for comfort.
I realised I was panting slightly at the thought of leaving a location again. But it was more than my usual build up to a run. This one cut deep. I gripped my satchel tightly and closed my eyes, willing my breathing to settle - yet again. I could do this. I had to do this.
Ah, shit. I so did
not
want to do this. God help me, but I was so tired of running. So tired of Roan McLaren fucking with my life.
But I hadn't survived this long without following the rules my father had given me. Could I break them today? Could I turn my back on years of dropping everything at the first sign of trouble and picking up from scratch all over again?