Hideout Lullabies
The travel from office desk to motel hideout consumed the next hour. Headlights cut cold through the gathering dusk.
The room’s silence was a held breath. Vivian stood at the window, staring at nothing in the gray afternoon light, the echo of her own words still stinging the air between them. *He’s sleeping in your guest room right now.* She hadn’t meant to say it. The truth had clawed its way out of her throat before she could stop it.
Behind her, Adrian’s chair scraped against the floor. His footsteps paused near the desk. She could feel his gaze on her back, a question he couldn’t quite form or didn’t dare ask.
“Vivian,” he said, his voice low and slow, like he was testing the weight of a name he’d never spoken aloud. “What did you just say?”
She opened her mouth—a lie, a deflection, something to build a wall between him and the truth—when the world came alive with screaming tires and the ugly crack of glass. The window beside her exploded inward. She hit the ground before she knew she’d moved, adrenaline yanking her down as a shower of safety glass raked across the crown of her head. The sound was not a pop, not a cartoonish *bang*, but something heavier. Metal spitting out its own violence. A second round punched through the wall above their heads, and dust snowed down from the ceiling.
“Stay down!” Adrian’s voice was a blade. He was already moving, low and fast, his body a shadow against the late-afternoon light. He sucked in a breath as he clocked the shattered window, the trajectory. “They’re on the street. Blue sedan. Fuck—Beckett! We’re hot!”
Vivian’s ears rang. She could taste dust, copper, the chemical bite of adrenaline flooding her limbs. Her hands were shaking. She looked up and saw Adrian’s back to her, his shoulders a rigid line as he assessed the exit points like a man who’d done this a hundred times. Because, she realized, he had. This was the engine that ran beneath the silk of Ashby & Co. A lifetime of running from men like Reid Covington.
“Vivian, *move*.”
She moved. Not because she was brave, but because he was already there, his hand clamped around her forearm, pulling her into the hallway toward the guest room. The door swung open and Eli was standing there in his pajamas, his feet bare on the cold wood, clutching the dinosaur plushie she’d packed in his bag. His eyes were huge, dark liquid mirrors reflecting her own terror.
“Mommy?” His voice was a whisper, a tiny fragile thing. “What was that noise?”
“Nothing, baby.” Her voice was brittle glass. She knelt, ignoring the stinging slices on her cheeks from the glass, and pressed her son’s face into her shoulder. “We’re going to play a game, okay? We’re going to be quiet as mice.”
Adrian disappeared into the hall and came back a moment later, his jaw set. He had a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and a travel bag in his other hand. He didn’t look panicked. He looked like a man who had already played this scene out in his head a thousand times, who had already decided what the next ten minutes would look like. He tilted his head toward the back door.
“Beckett’s pulling the car around. We go out the rear, over the fence, and into the motel across the treeline. The one with the neon sign. They won’t expect us to hide right under their noses.” He looked at Eli, and something in his voice softened, just a fraction. “Game starts now, soldier. Let’s see if you can keep up with the grown-ups. You get to carry the secret map.”
Eli’s fear flickered, replaced by a spark of pure, uncomplicated excitement. The dinosaur plushie was forgotten for a moment. “A secret map?”
“Yeah. It’s right here.” Adrian tapped his own temple. “You memorize the pattern of my feet. You follow exactly where I step, and you win. Deal?”
Eli nodded, small hands already clenching into determined fists. Vivian felt her heart crack right down the middle. *He has your laugh, Adrian. He has your whole soul.*
They moved through the back of the house. The air was thick with the smell of cut grass and exhaust from the street. She could hear the distant wail of a police siren, an impotent sound. Adrian pried a loose fence panel loose with a low grunt, revealing the overgrown, narrow strip of wild land that separated the residential street from the commercial strip beyond. The motel’s red and yellow neon sign buzzed in the fading light—*The Palms Inn*, a tragic misnomer in the middle of a rainwater-stained stretch of asphalt and dying shrubs.
The room he rented was at the end of a row of identical doors. Number 12. The carpet was the color of dried blood, stained with old wine and older sins. A queen bed sagged in the middle, and a single television sat silent on a laminate dresser. Beckett was already there, leaning against the wall by the drawn curtains, a man with a careful calm that only came from violence witnessed and survived. He gave Adrian a single, sharp nod. Adrian returned it. They didn’t need to speak.
For the first hour, they were all motionless. Adrian stood by the window, a finger pulling back the thick curtain an inch—an inch—to watch the street. Beckett guarded the door. Vivian sank onto the edge of the bed, pulling Eli into her lap. She could feel his small heart beating against her ribs, fast as a sparrow’s. She ran her fingers through his hair, humming a lullaby under her breath. She could hear Adrian’s phone vibrate. He glanced at the screen, and his expression flickered dark. He pressed the phone to his ear, speaking in clipped, low tones.
“Reid’s people,” he said after he hung up, his voice flat and tight. “They’re not playing games. They’ve got eyes on the docks, the airports, the main roads. They know you’ve cut your ties to your father’s company, Viv. They think you’re coming for them.”
“I’m not coming for anyone,” Vivian said, her voice raw. “I’m just trying to keep my son safe.”
Adrian looked at her, and something unspoken passed between them—a heavy, impossible truth. He cleared his throat and crossed the room to the grimy kitchenette. He returned with a stack of greasy cardboard boxes. Pizza, likely from the neon-lit joint two doors down. It was gloriously, absurdly mundane.
“I don’t know about you guys, but I’m starving,” Adrian said, forcing a lightness into his voice as he set the boxes on the low table by the toppled chairs. “The great escape always gives me an appetite.”
They sat cross-legged on the stained carpet, passing slices of lukewarm pepperoni pizza between them. Eli, his earlier fear already fading into the resilience of a six-year-old, was covering his slice with napkins to make a “pizza tent.” Adrian laughed, a low, genuine sound that seemed to light up the dim room. He reached over and ruffled Eli’s hair.
“You’re a weird kid, Eli. The good kind of weird.”
Eli beamed. “Do you have any monsters in your room, Adrian?”
Adrian’s eyebrows rose, and his gaze flicked—just for a moment—to Vivian, who was carefully, methodically pulling the melted cheese off her slice. “I haven’t seen any, but I keep one under my bed just in case. You know, to guard the good stuff.”
“That’s silly,” Eli said, giggling. “Monsters don’t guard. They scare you.”
“Nah. That’s the thing.” Adrian leaned in conspiratorially, lowering his voice to a thrumming whisper. “You just have to show them who’s boss. You’ve got to be stronger than the monsters.”
“Are you?” Eli asked, his voice suddenly small. His gaze was intent on Adrian’s face, searching for a promise. “Are you strong enough to fight the bad men? The ones who made the noise outside?”
The laughter in Adrian’s eyes evaporated, replaced by something deeper, something guarded. He held Eli’s gaze for a long moment. Then he set down his pizza crust and squared his shoulders. He flexed one arm, the muscle pulling against the crisp fabric of his shirt, and then the other. The movement was almost theatrical, a little exaggerated, but it struck Vivian as the most graceful, most beautiful thing she had ever seen.
“Am I strong?” Adrian asked, his voice full of mock bravado. “Kid, I can lift a refrigerator. I once arm-wrestled a bear and won.”
“You did not,” Eli squealed, his cheeks already stuffed with pepperoni.
“Did so. It was a very small bear. And I gave it a good head start.” Adrian held out his hands. “But for you, I’ll do the ultimate strength test.” He scooped Eli up from the carpet, hoisting the boy high above his head. Eli shrieked with laughter, his arms windmilling, his feet kicking in a convulsive joy that seemed to bounce off the walls of the grubby motel room.
*Adventure.* That was the only word for it. Eli was not the son of a frightened woman hiding from the past. He was a small prince in the arms of a king, his laughter the only sound in the room, and it was the sound of total, uncomplicated trust. Vivian watched from the corner. Her chest ached, a deep, physical pang that took her breath away. Her father was a hard, calculating man. But Adrian—adopted at seven, already wearing the mantle of the Ashby empire while still a boy—had built a castle of safety for her son with nothing but his own two arms, his own raw voice, his own inescapable presence.
Adrian lowered Eli, setting him gently on the floor, his forehead smoothing against the boy’s. “See? Told you. I’m strong.”
The motel room phone rang. The sound was shrill, a needle through the quiet. Beckett moved, but Adrian held up a hand. He picked it up, listened for a second, and then held it out to Vivian. “It’s Petra.”
Vivian took the phone, pressing it to her ear. Petra’s voice was a frantic rush of static and breath.
“Oh my God, Viv, are you alright? I saw the news—there’s some kind of incident reported at Ashford Industries. I heard your father—Vivian, are you safe? Where are you?”
Vivian forced her voice to sound smooth, light, a careful mask over the shards inside her. She watched Adrian kneel on the carpet, helping Eli set up the board game he’d found in the bottom of the duffel bag—a battered, half-missing set of Candy Land. He was laughing at something Eli said, his head thrown back, the veins on his neck catching the flickering television light.
“Everything’s fine, Petra. We’re just… we’re in a quiet spot for a few days,” Vivian lied, the words tasting sour. “We’re safe. I’ll call you tomorrow, I promise.” She hung up before Petra could press further.
The rest of the evening blurred into a strange, fragile peace. They played a catastrophic game of Candy Land, where Adrian insisted on cheating by moving his piece to the candy castle on the first turn just to see Eli’s indignant face. They ate more pizza, and Eli told Adrian about his favorite show, a cartoon about a wolf who couldn’t stop sneezing. Adrian listened with the intensity of a man studying a boardroom contract.
At bedtime, Vivian changed Eli into his pajamas and tucked him into the bed that was too big for him. The room was dark save for the pale glow of the motel sign filtering through the thin curtains. She was about to lean down and kiss his forehead when Eli’s gaze drifted past her to the doorway.
Adrian stood there, a dark silhouette against the half-light of the hall. He was checking the lock again, his shoulders a taut line of vigilance even as he pretended to be at ease.
“You’d be a good daddy,” Eli whispered into the quiet, his voice a small, bright thing that cleaved the silence in two.
The words hung in the air, suspended between Vivian’s broken heart and Adrian’s still form. He didn’t move for a long moment. Then, his voice came low, rough like gravel, thick with an emotion he was ruthlessly trying to compress. “I’m not going anywhere, buddy. I’ll be right out here, alright? You sleep tight.”
Eli nodded, satisfied, his eyes already drooping. Vivian watched as Adrian took a step back into the hallway, his hand lingering on the doorknob. His face was a mask of composure, but she saw the tremor in his fingers.
She slipped out of the room, closing the door most of the way, leaving a sliver of light from the bathroom spilling across the floor. She stood in the hallway, the cheap motel wallpaper pressing against her shoulder blades, and let the tears come silently, hot and silent and burning. She pressed her palm to her mouth to keep the sound muffled. *He has your laugh, Adrian. He has your whole soul—and you don’t even know.*
A low chime cut through the silence. Her phone. A message from a blocked number. A single, damning line of text: *We know where you are.*
And then, footsteps. Heavy, deliberate, stopping just outside their door. The floorboards creaked under the weight of someone who didn’t care who heard them. Vivian froze, her heart hammering so hard she could feel it in her throat. She looked down the shadowed hallway, and her blood ran cold. A silhouette filled the mottled glass of the door’s small window. A shadow in the shape of a man.
Adrian’s head snapped up. His gaze met hers, dark with the certainty of a man who had faced this exact moment before. He took a step toward her.
Eli’s tiny voice drifted through the cracked door: “Mommy, can Adrian sleep in my room? He makes the monster under the bed go away.”
Adrian cleared his throat. “I’m not going anywhere, buddy.”
Vivian slid down the wall in the hallway and whispered to no one: “He has your laugh, Adrian. He has your whole soul—and you don’t even know.”