Goldilocks Forever

Chapter 18

Santa Monica, California

March 2006

On Saturday morning, George's bossy brusqueness echoed through the intercom system of the house. "Everyone up. It's drill time." He rustled papers. "A fire drill. Go!" He clanged some high-pitched bells at a monotonous pace.

It's just a drill, she thought, but then remembered it was timed and a competition, and George already expected her to fail and then cause everyone else in the house to fail. She kicked her way out of bed and grabbed a robe off the hook on the bathroom door. Drill or no drill, she did not want the men to see her in Casey's long silk nightgown.

She fastened the robe around her waist and remembering the barefeet rule (did that still count in a fire drill?) slid her feet into a pair of slippers. When she emerged from the room, the large window at the end of the hall showed that it was barely daylight.

"Hey! Anna!" Peter, one of the guards who worked with Ricardo, stood at the bottom of the stairs. He waved at her in a gesture she didn't understand. "Get down! On your knees! Crawl!"

Oh. She vaguely remembered fire drills in school. Crawling reduced smoke inhalation. She crawled to the landing of the stairs.

"Slide down the banister!" He turned his arm in a sweeping motion.

Peter caught her just as she came flying off the end of the railing. He grabbed her hand. "Come on. We have to run."

One of her slippers fell off as they rushed through the hallways behind the kitchen and past George's little office. The door was open, but he was not inside.

"Go on," Peter urged her forward as they approached the security center. "I'm responsible for the disks. You continue on. Run to the north wall of the yard and report to George. Go! Go! Go!"

She ran crookedly and stopped briefly only to remove the remaining slipper that slowed her down. The grass was slick and dewy. Its icy chill on her bare feet spurred her forward.

George and Chef, Elliott the driver and the other security guard—they stood against the vine-covered wall of the yard. George held his binder under his arm, focused on the stopwatch in his palm. A metal box lay at his feet. A red backpack was slung over Chef's shoulder and a wide ring of keys dangled from Elliott's finger. The security guard tucked an envelope into the waistband of his pants. Everyone was responsible for something—something so important that they could risk their lives to make sure they retrieved it from a burning house.

Peter ran toward them, a disc in each hand. Seconds later Ricardo and Sabian walked out of the house.

George clicked his stopwatch when he saw them. "Hmm." He wrote the time in his notepad. "Does everyone have their entrusted item?" A chorus of affirmative murmurs went up among the men.

Anna turned to George, "I could have brought something."

"Just the fact that you managed to leave the house without putting on a face full of makeup is miracle enough," he muttered.

She fought the urge to punch him in the gut. A face full of makeup? She'd been bare-faced since she arrived. Asshole. The words burned in her chest. She spat them out. "Do you have me confused for my sister?" Kick him. Slap his face! She balled her fists and dug her toes into the cold grass.

He said without looking at her, "Not a bad time even though you stopped to put on your robe."

This isn't even my goddamn robe! Nothing here is mine! She swallowed back her rage.