by Ella James
28
Elise
Thank you, cuore. Take care of yourself and Oscar.
It’s all I can say. He replies four hours later: Do the same, E.
For days, it kills me that he didn’t call me rosa.
When Dani asks me out for drinks on Friday night with her and Ree and Ree’s new girlfriend, I go gladly. I don’t drink, but I get tired enough just being out with them that when I get home, I feel almost uninhibited enough to text him again.
I get a shower, do some yoga, read on the couch. I’m lying in bed with moonlight spilling onto the pillow when I give in.
There’s so much I want to say, but just one question matters most: You okay?
He sends a photo of himself and Oscar. He’s sitting on the couch in a black T-shirt. He looks scruffy. Sexy.
Wow, so YES. But you look tired. I see little lines around your eyes, you beautiful old man.
Lol are you drinking? ;)
Maybe, I say.
Well that begs the question- are you okay?
No. I don’t mean to text it. It’s the truth, though. For a long time, there are little dots that say he’s working on a reply. I picture Luca typing and deleting.
Did you see the moon tonight, he finally asks. It’s nice and round. He sends a picture through a moment later.
I send him a black heart.
You remember that, he says.
I remember what you said, yes. It was on the balcony, at Jace’s family’s place after the football game.
Always heed the warnings, rosa dolce.
U know what? I wouldn’t change this for the world. I send another dark heart symbol.
He sends one back.
I wait up for nearly three hours, hoping for more.
But he knows, the same as I do: This is over.
Luca
The camera outside Elise’s door breaks the third Monday in August. I don’t send someone to fix it—or rather, not immediately; it’s kind of tough to do the thing discreetly, and I’m waiting for one of Soren’s friends to get by there.
During that time, I don’t know what’s going on with her. Soren looks at her work server and sees some files and says he thinks there’s been no movement on the H yet, nor the pink ops. We don’t know how the FBI would react if Elise’s office questions them about all that. Sure, it’s not a crime, what I do, but only a few people in the local office know about it. If the broader organization—the FBI, or the D.A.’s office—did some looking around, they might find it’s not nefarious but still decide to twist it up and use it to get me, in lieu of solid drug trafficking charges.
That’s what you get when you live your whole life underneath the table. How can I expect it to be different?
Soren says it’s okay. Alesso wants me to do something, and I understand. But what do I do? Nicci Woodbern, the main contact I had there, left her post in late June. Had a baby. Even if she was still around…just because they look the other way for a time doesn’t mean you’re in the clear. It’s the system’s game—it always is, no matter what you tell yourself, no matter what Roberto says from Europe. System’s game, the system’s rules. The best we have is Soren’s hacker voodoo, which will never paint a complete picture.
For a few days, I think seriously of calling Elise.
We’ve moved locations in Queens twice, but Soren keeps finding surveillance devices wherever we are. We know it’s Aren. So we talk—Alesso and I talk—about just stopping. Pausing.
It’s my call. My responsibility. I’m in charge with Roberto out now, and anyway, it’s been my thing from the beginning.
I don’t know how much Alesso cares whether we quit or not.
He tells me, “I’m not worried. But maybe you should call her”—Elise. “Just the spirit of the thing.” He’s saying it’s bad business for us not to have our asses covered.
We might be okay. We just won’t know for sure unless it goes sideways. I could ask Elise. I know I could. But I find I won’t. I’m being selfish, choosing to refrain from meddling, from making Elise feel pushed, over safety for Alesso and Soren. So I start doing the exchange myself. It’s the only way to make this fair.
I’m thinking about that as I run rosa’s route in Central Park on a Saturday morning. Pretty fucking humid out here. I need to get some running shoes that have some mesh or some shit, so my feet don’t get hot. Maybe I should quit running her route. She hasn’t done it in a long while—that I know of. I keep dropping back in case she’s starting late, but why would she be starting late?
You’re getting fucking desperate, I tell myself.
When I near my car—within twenty feet of the driver’s side door—I get a text, and my phone buzzes. I pull it out of my pocket and look down at the screen, curious to see who’s pinging me at 6:45 on Saturday morning.
It’s a black heart. That’s it.
When I look up, I find Aren’s standing by my driver’s side door.
He’s so tall and thin—that’s how I know it’s him. He’s dressed in all black, wearing a scarf that covers his face. He holds up his phone as I close the space between us.
“I’m sending something to you,” he says. “On the text message. A screen shot of something you did!” He lunges toward me. Something cold presses to my side as his hand squeezes my shoulder. I’m twisting his wrist as I realize it must be a blade. I twist hard enough to hurt, because no one pulls a knife on me—not now, not ever. But the way I twist his arm makes his hand drive the blade deeper into my side.
I shove his chest and walk around the car, scanning the rooflines of nearby buildings for cams as he comes at me, this time with just raised hands.
“You trying to sell me out to your lover,” he shouts.
I laugh darkly. “I don’t have a lover.”
“How she has the video of mine and you, but I can’t see your face?”
“I don’t fucking know! Is it that FBI bitch you’re fucking? Maybe she gave it to Elise. Maybe the one making all the noise is the one who’s really a traitor. You know how I feel about a traitor.”
Now it’s his turn to laugh. “I would never fuck the FBI.”
“How do you know Elise has that video?” I arch a brow as my side throbs and I feel liquid seeping into my pants. I’d bet money that whatever anybody has is coming straight from Aren.
“I been hearing from an inside source.”
I press my hand against the sore spot on my side, not looking down yet. “I don’t trust a fucking thing you say when I know you’re double timing, talking to the FBI.”
“There is no FBI!” He laughs, shaking his head. He steps closer, and I put a hand on the stun-gun clipped to my waistband.
“You need to leave, Aren. Before you wish you had.”
He holds his hands up, laughing like a hyena in need of anger management.
“Hey, Aren? Watch your fucking back.”
“You watch your cunt. I’d hate to see it bleeding.”
I’m trembling with rage as I peel off, making a beeline for her place, where I patch myself up using my car’s first aid kit and watch the building’s front doors until Soren’s friend fixes the cameras in early afternoon.
I don’t know what Aren might do if he thinks the D.A.’s office is closing in on him—as he seems to. And I don’t want to find out.
29
Elise
The hearts are waiting for me every morning when I wake up. Sometimes, he’ll have something from a bakery dropped off at my front door or my office. I know he’s the sender because he sends the hearts at the same time the food comes. I send hearts back. At first it’s only in the morning, but later on, it’s any time I think of him and every time I miss him. Our text history is just rows and rows of dark hearts.
One day—it’s mid-morning on a Saturday in late August—he sends a text that says, Be careful right now. Extra careful.
I peer down at it with wide eyes, my heart pounding in the silence of the living room, where I’m reading on my Kindle. Well…that’s not scar
y.
I’m gonna take care of you. Just don’t make it tricky. Don’t get out ahead of me or do anything crazy like a midnight run in CP.
Or a spur of the moment trip to the cabin? I smile down at the phone, even as tears fill my eyes. I won’t.
He replies: I’m sorry for this…
Another text comes: I know I shouldn’t say shit like this…
I wait a second, holding my breath as I watch him typing. In another life, you would be mine forever. No more wanting.
Then another text from him: It’s making me tired
Tears gleam in my eyes as I swallow. I’m tired, too, cuore.
He sends rows and rows of dark hearts. Then red roses. I send rows and rows of wilting roses, mostly for dramatic effect.
He switches back to dark hearts. When I wake up the next morning, there’s a new app on my phone; it’s unlabeled—just a red box. I tap on it, and there’s a picture of him lying in his bed. No…it’s not a picture, it’s a video. He mouths, “Goodnight” and gives me a small smile.
I send him a video of me in my bed whispering, “Good morning.”
That’s what I’m doing when Dani walks in, dressed for meditative yoga.
“Wait…what are you doing?” she asks, bouncing over as I cradle the phone to my chest.
“Nothing.”
“You were sexting!” She tries to get a peek at my phone, and I give a ridiculing laugh.
“I’m fully clothed, Einstein.”
She snatches my phone so quickly, I don’t have a chance. Then she plays the video he sent me in the app. I’ve never seen her eyes so wide. Her jaw falls to the floor as a wild laugh burbles from her throat. “Oh my God—I’m telling Ree!”
“You’ll give her another stomach ulcer!”
Dani flops onto my bed and rolls around, stuffing her face in a pillow. “Holy shit!”
I snatch the phone up, my eyes stinging as emotion nearly overwhelms me. She snatches the phone back and scrolls through.
“Oh Elise, he loves you. I knew he did. I knew it! Nothing could change that boy. He was the nicest guy we knew.”
“You don’t even like nice guys.”
“That’s not the point.” She cradles the phone to her chest. Then she tosses it lightly at me. I wince as it hits me in the belly. Then I grab my robe and pull it on in bed.
“You’re here early,” I say.
“I was bored, but you cured that. I don’t even think we’re doing yoga now. I’m turning on the fireplace, and you’re going to tell me everything.”
I don’t—tell her everything. No one but me knows everything. Not even Luca himself. Dani leaves my house almost four hours later. I’m so tired, I take a two-hour nap. When I wake up, I get into the tub, dump bath salts in, and text him a heart.
Then I drape my hand over mine. It’s not up behind my breastbone anymore. It’s a little lower…in my belly.
Luca
I’ve been having nightmares. Flashbacks. Sometimes all of that gets worse in the fall. I don’t know why. Circadian rhythms? Some such something.
I look up therapists on the internet and book an appointment—not because I want to chat, but because I can’t sleep. It’s been weeks, and I can barely drive my car, which isn’t okay. My hands shake, and my heart pounds all the time. I just need some shut-eye.
The guy is in Queens, in a loft above a mom and pop bookstore. I sit in a wing-backed chair across from the couch where he’s sitting, leaning forward with his hands touching at the fingertips. I can feel dude looking at me…analyzing, or whatever they do.
I try not to let it get to me. I slot in details that resemble the real ones, but don’t mention the mob, and, with some reluctance, I tell him about Elise. How much I love her, how her job makes her more visible, and how I’m scared something will happen to her. Not scared, even—terrified. He tells me that’s not logical. He says if I’m worried for her, it probably goes back to another time when I lost someone else. But he doesn’t know. That’s the problem. It’s a waste, to talk to someone who has no idea and can’t be given details. I don’t know why I bothered.
I send her hearts a lot now, almost every hour. I send her a picture of myself when I can’t sleep one night. She sends one back the next morning. She’s lying in her sunlit bed.
We start texting pictures every night, and almost every morning. I try not to text her in the wee hours, but one night, when it’s been a whole four nights since I shut my eyes, I send her a picture of me looking miserable beside my bedroom window.
She sends one back; she’s sitting on the edge of her bed in what looks like a robe.
You ok, I ask. It’s 3:30 a.m.
Just a little bathroom break. How about u?
Tired of missing u
So let’s meet up.
I type and re-type my reply five times. We shouldn’t, I try. Followed by: Probably a bad idea. I delete both. Blow my breath out.
Only if you’re sure. I send it fast, before I have a chance to rethink.
Let’s meet now. I need you. Do you want to come here?
I don’t think I should, I tell her. I’m so fucking worried Aren’s watching. We didn’t even do the last two exchanges, which is part of the reason I can’t sleep. I feel guilty—that I let it fall apart. That no one else is going to come through.
Aren’s off the deep end, though, repeatedly accusing me of ratting him out to Elise, repeatedly trying to share “evidence” that the D.A. is out to get him, and it’s somehow my fault. It makes no sense, since he’s the only one—out of the two of us—that’s been squealing to anyone.
Let’s meet on the roof of my old building. Is that too far for you, she asks.
It’s too far from your place. Let me get you. I’ll take u somewhere close. I didn’t want her to know about this flat of mine, since sometimes we use it for pink ops, but right now I don’t care.
Somehow, I manage to drive to her. My head is spinning as I idle in the cab lane, watching Elise walk out in a long black coat. Then I’m reaching over, pushing the door open, and she’s getting into the car, all perfume and gladness and her long hair falling down her shoulders. She looks so damn gorgeous, I can barely keep the car in its lane.
“Hey.” Her fingers stroke my leg, and she smiles softly at me. I grab her hand.
“You okay?” she murmurs.
I nod. I can’t speak. My throat is knotted.
She kisses my cold hand. “You need gloves.” She pulls off one of hers, stroking her warm fingertips into the cuff of my shirt sleeve. “You’ve got chills, cuore.”
“Because of you.” My throat is so damn tight now.
“What’s the matter, sweetheart?”
I’m at a red light, and I feel like I might pass out. It’s been almost five days now—since I slept.
“Just some trouble sleeping. No big deal.”
But I can tell she sees through my lies. Her hand goes to my shoulder, rubbing gently, and I want to park the car and pull her into my lap. Somehow, despite the sleep deprivation and feeling like hell, I’m hard for her.
Finally, we’re at my building. I drop her out front, telling her, “It’s floor nine, unit 902, passcode is your birthday but my birth year.” I hesitate. “Do you remember my birthday?”
“Of course,” she says, and something in me uncoils slightly.
I watch as she walks in, telling myself Aren doesn’t even know I have a place here. Then I give the car to valet and follow her up.
When I open the door to the flat, she launches herself at me—arms around me, mouth on my mouth, her tongue slipping in as I moan.
Her fingers stroke through my hair, and she pulls my head to her chest. “I’m here now. Even if it’s only for a little bit, we’re here together.”
We drift into the bedroom and she sits on the bed. Then she peels the covers back so she can crawl under. She holds the duvet up, nodding for me to join her. I see her eyes move over a nearby dresser, where I have bottles of melatonin and a couple ot
her things; I’ve been coming here some lately, seeing if a change of scenery might help me catch some Zs.
I lie on my back and she lies on her side, wrapping her arms around my head and pecs. “Thanks for telling me.” Her whispered words are so quiet, her breath warm near my ear.
I shut my eyes. “I didn’t.”
“Yes you did. And I could feel it—that you needed me.”
I breathe deeply as I wrap an arm around her. Why does she cure everything that hurts? Forbidden cure, my reeling mind thinks drunkenly.
She kisses my cheek, gentle. “You’re going to sleep here with me. Or at least rest.”
“I don’t want to rest.” I find her mouth with mine, needing to feel her. I want lose myself inside her—much more than I want sleep.
I make quick work of her coat’s buttons, reaching in to run my hands over her sweater-clad breasts and down her belly. She scoots back, but not fast enough. My hands brush her lower belly. When I feel it, I can’t process at first. Then I do, and it’s such a shock, and I’m so fucking strung out, black spots spray in my vision. I scramble back and nearly fall off the bed, then stand on shaky legs, gripping the headboard so I don’t fall over.
“It’s yours. It’s your baby.” Tears shine in her eyes as she sits up, hugging her belly. Then they’re sliding down her cheeks.
“But…how?”
“I think…it was that night at the party. In the closet,” she rasps.
Holy fuck. Something hard and heavy hits me, making me feel like I might fall over. “How far are you?” I hear myself ask in a strange, choked voice.
She covers her face with one hand, shoulders curling in as if she’s shrinking.
“It’s okay, rosa—it’s okay.” I get back on the bed, pretending my heart’s not thrumming in my ears. “Are you okay? Is it a girl or a boy? Is it too early?”
“I’m so sorry I surprised you,” she half-sobs. “You look exhausted, and I—”
“I’m okay. I’m just fine.”