Broken Waves

by Aitana Moore

  Outside, it was a completely different world when no one was about. It was taxing for her to always be in company, always pretending. The darkness around the villa was her friend, and she luxuriated in it as she might luxuriate in black velvet. And in diamonds, she thought with a smile as she looked up at the stars.

  The smell of cigarette smoke gave her pause when she approached the cloister. It wasn’t faint enough to be coming from the staff quarters, or from the guards at the gate. The smoke now surrounded her, but it was coming from above. She looked up and gasped. There was Bryce, looking down at her and smiling. He was above an arch that curved atop a door. The end of his cigarette burned in an orange circle as he drew on it.

  “Knew you were a transgressor,” he said in a low voice. He expelled more smoke from his lips as he considered her, leaning his elbows on the stone. He added, after a second. “Come up here.”

  She hesitated, only because she was so unsure of him. His eyes were sardonic as he watched her. “Afraid of something?”

  “Which way?” she asked.

  He pointed at a pile of stones to their left. The stones had probably been left there to fix some old part or another of the church, and Lee climbed them. He leaned over and stretched his hand, the cigarette clamped between his lips, as she was still short of reaching the top. With surprising strength, he pulled her up.

  “I’m sure that’s not good for your knee,” she said as she joined him.

  He lifted his head and blew the last of the smoke, flicking his cigarette over the side. “Don’t worry about my knee.” Picking up a glass he tilted it toward her. “Some wine?”

  "James!" Lee protested.

  "What?”

  "We can't drink."

  “Says who?” he asked, taking a sip of the wine as if to prove they could.

  “We’re in rehab.”

  He smiled. “For our mental problems, not for this.”

  “For Tramadol addiction.”

  Turning, he moved toward the ground. The arch was wider than it seemed from below and had a hollow part where he had created a sort of terrace, with some cushions, candles and a bottle of wine. He arranged cushions for her and sat down a little stiffly, leaning back. She sat next to him.

  “I had to take Tramadol because of two knee surgeries,” he said. “And when I was forced to come to rehab, I wanted to keep taking the damned pills so I could bear the lectures. I've stopped now. That's my story, what's yours?"

  Lee shook her head. "If that's true, then why did you let the judge send you to rehab?"

  "Have you ever tried arguing with an English judge bent on giving you a moral lesson? He had probably made up his mind about me before I ever stepped into court.”

  He poured more wine into the glass. He hadn’t been expecting company, or she supposed he would have more than one glass with him. He lifted the one he had at her.

  “No?” he asked.

  She did want a drink, and she supposed it would make them bond. She took the glass and sipped.

  “So you’re not an alcoholic?” she asked.

  Bryce scoffed. "Don’t think I’ve been truly drunk more than six or seven times in my life, and that’s a lot for an Englishman to say. And I wasn’t drunk when I crashed, I just lost control of the car on an icy patch.” He turned to look at her, and he was close. Too close. His eyes swept over her body. “And you're no more of a drunk than I am."

  Lee knew the look of a drunk, and it was true that she didn’t fit the profile. Someone far gone in alcoholism wouldn’t manage to keep tidy, not all the time. Still, she had to keep protesting, “I had an addiction to Tramadol, and haven't we learned that one addiction just leads to another?"

  "If you’re the addictive type.”

  It took a moment for her to ask, "Are you always so sure of the things you say?"

  “I’m sure of this.”

  "You're bad,” she said, before he took the glass from her hand.

  His fingers brushed hers, and she felt a tightness in her belly. He bit his lip as he studied her. “You’re just trying to act right,” he stated.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Putting an arm behind his head and balancing the wine on his stomach, he said, “I’m saying you’re bad as well.”

  You have no idea, she thought.

  “I’ve no idea how,” he continued, as if he had read her mind. “And it’s not an obvious way, either.”

  It was unnerving that he wouldn’t look away from her, and that his eyes caressed her even while the line of his lips mocked her.

  Kiss me and be done with it, she thought. But he didn’t. He was even less obvious than she was.

  Instead, he said, “You should be scared to be out with a killer.”

  And then he sat up so suddenly that she had to clench her fists not to jerk away. But he was only taking a closer look at her, and offering her the wine again.

  “Cigarette?” he asked, finding the packet.

  “I don’t smoke,” she said.

  “Neither do I.” He patted the ground for the lighter, the new cigarette between his lips. When he lit it and inhaled the smoke, his face looked like a devil’s. “Except when I want the time to pass by fast. Or go really slow.”

  Leaning back against the cushions again, but this time in a sitting position, he still looked at her. He was comfortable doing that and saying nothing. Lee imagined it was his beauty that gave him confidence, but there was also strength to him. His shirt was unbuttoned, although he never appeared like that in company. She supposed he hadn’t had to mind his manners up on this Gothic arch by himself.

  “You’re not a killer,” she said suddenly, just so that she didn’t have to look at his chest, so carelessly displayed by his open shirt.

  “You don’t know that,” he replied. “I used to kill things every day.”

  “In the wild, you mean?”

  “Claire’s been telling you my adventures, I guess?”

  “Some of them. You killed to eat, though.”

  For the first time, he looked away. “Well, it’s like this: When you’re out there and you need to hunt for food, because there is nothing else to eat, really, your body just sings.”

  “What do you mean?”

  His eyes had gone far away now. “That men are made to kill. Men, especially. That’s what testosterone is for. Makes us get out of that cave after something that could just as easily kill us. But it doesn’t matter, because we long for violence.”

  Again he leaned his head back, exposing his neck, slipping a hand under his shirt as if he were tempting her to touch his smooth, golden skin, drawing on the cigarette and blowing the smoke at the sky.

  “So when we are out there and it’s sanctioned, when it’s what we have to do to survive and feed others, our body just sings with it. Everything is perfect.” He stopped for a moment, remembering. “Sometimes we would hunt with nothing in our bellies, and when we finally killed, we would have to drink a cup of blood, just so we wouldn’t faint.”

  Lee shrugged, taking the glass from him and drinking the red wine. It was as warm as blood. “You are a killer, then. Is that what you mean?”

  Lazily, he turned his head toward her. “I mean that every man wants to kill. It’s our mission. Women want to give life, men want to take it. But if we live in a place with laws, they stop us.”

  “And your body doesn’t sing anymore?” she asked with a small smile.

  “It does,” he said. “When it fucks.”

  The word was like a blow to her, but by his smile, she knew he had meant to shock her. Or perhaps not shock her, but not to use any euphemisms either. Not to say “make love.”

  “Fucking, killing machines, we are,” he added. He flicked the cigarette over the edge again. “We should all be locked up, but not in places like this, where we can run away at night. Forever.”

  “They thought you killed your wife,” she said suddenly, her voice coming out of her mouth as in a dream. She hadn’t m
eant to say it.

  His look at her was frightening then. A little. It was sharp, and piercing.

  “Have you ever wanted to kill anyone?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Could you have done?”

  Lee lowered her eyes. “Yes.”

  “That’s the point. Anyone could.”

  “But enjoying it?” she wondered.

  “That, too,” he said, and his face was perfect and remorseless, like a god’s.

  NINE

  Sunday came around once more, and the second week was over. After the night on the Gothic arch, Lee had not managed to spend a lot of time alone with Bryce. Balbina, with its endless meetings and insistence on group activities, was the wrong place for that.

  Although he sometimes spoke in the group, he had not mentioned his wife or her death again. When the therapists tried to bring up the subject of Mia Archer, they were met by Bryce’s unyielding irony, like a steel gate closing before them.

  The dreaded family day came around, and neither Lee nor Bryce had anyone to bring. He had told Kevin his sister would only come over his dead body. Lee could understand that feeling. Had this been a real situation, she would never have allowed Cora to come and hear anything about how she really felt. She had spent years making sure Cora would never know. James might feel the same about his sister — that she should have her youth, and that it should be as happy as possible.

  Still, the therapists expected them to attend the meetings. They might not have anyone there, but they should still see what addiction did to others’ families. James seemed pained for some of the people he had come to know, especially Kevin since they had become friends, but he didn’t speak much. Neither did Lee, but she caught him looking at her with a different light in his eyes a few times. Was he thinking they were alike? That would be a useful thought for him to have. It would bring him closer to her.

  Lee wanted to ignore the fact that she had begun to believe they were alike. Two misfits among the misfits. The pegs that would fit no holes. Creatures who couldn’t be made to conform, although he had been born on a different side of the tracks from her, and he had stayed within the limits of the law since.

  She didn’t suppose he was sick, like her, unless he were hiding a bigger crime than theft.

  In any case, the four weeks of rehab ended, and Dr. Faure concluded at the final session: "It's about the connections in your life. Without them, you'll reach for every bottle, every pill, every drug, every warm body. We've seen here that it isn't easy to love and be loved, but we've also seen that it's what we all long for. Existence is just survival without love."

  “Neatly wrapped with a bow,” Bryce said for Lee’s ears only as they walked out of the meeting.

  “Maybe all this is for nothing, anyway,” Lee said, realizing her voice sounded hard. “People like us don’t get cured in twenty-eight days. It’s not like we have chicken pox.”

  “How old are you?” he asked suddenly.

  “Twenty-eight,” she lied. She was twenty-four.

  “That’s six years younger than me,” he said. “You’re cynical for how young you are. You gotta believe in something.”

  She glanced at him and saw that he had a wicked twinkle in his eyes. No, this wasn’t a man who would ever say or even think platitudes.

  They had Sunday to relax and slowly say goodbye to the friends they had made. It was the last day at Balbina, and she was running out of time to wrangle an invitation from Bryce to go home with him. But there were few people left, and he took the sunbed next to hers once more at the pool.

  "Where are you going now?" he asked.

  "I don’t know. I took the summer off. The business is mine, and there will still be real estate for me to sell in September. Or October. I was thinking of Rome. I haven't ever seen it."

  Bryce turned, shading his eyes. "You haven't seen Rome?"

  "Only from the window of the car, and only the part near the airport. Thought I'd leave it for after."

  "There’s very nice real estate there,” he said. “Will you give me a ride?"

  "What?"

  “I don't have a license at the moment.” He added with a cheeky grin, “We can share the price of petrol.”

  On Monday people left at different times, and there were no more goodbyes. Lee's rented BMW was waiting at the bottom of the front steps when she was ready; so was Bryce. He opened the driver’s door for her and went around to the passenger seat.

  As he waved to the staff, he said, "They're all thinking we’re going to fraternize now."

  "I like speed," Lee warned as she drove off, lifting the golden dust of Umbria behind them.

  "Oh, that’s perfect. I only almost died in a car accident."

  A quick glance told her it was another irony. He didn’t look like he minded her driving fast. She was a good driver.

  "Where are you staying?" he asked three hours later, when they faced the traffic of Rome.

  "Piazza Navona."

  "At the Raphael? That's not far from where I live."

  "Where?”

  "A piazza about ten minutes from you."

  "I'll drop you off," she said.

  "Certainly not. I'll drop you off."

  Lee laughed. "I happen to be driving, so that would be difficult."

  "Not at all," he said, sounding immensely British. "I shall accompany you to your door, and then take a taxi to mine."

  He would brook no argument as he directed her toward Piazza Navona. They parked on a side street and he walked her to the Raphael, gallantly pulling her suitcase.

  "Here you are," he said at the door as a bellboy took her luggage. "I'll pick you up at eight."

  She frowned. "You'll—?"

  "Pick you up at eight. You've got yourself a cicerone. Believe me, a leggy blonde does not want to do Rome alone."

  Lee found a good salon, had her roots done and at eight she was ready, wearing a cool, sleeveless dress with a soft skirt. Bryce’s eyes were polite; they didn’t sweep over her or insist on holding hers. He was cool, not intense Bryce.

  "We're going across the river," he said. "To Trastevere."

  It was an easy stroll to Ponte Sant'Angelo, an old bridge over the Tiber, where they stopped to look at St. Peter's Basilica in the distance and at the angel statues along the way. The castle that housed Emperor Hadrian's mausoleum was in front of them, on the other side.

  The bridge had a throng of people, happy that summer had come. Bad music from flutes made Bryce wince with an eye closed. African immigrants exhibited fake bags, crying, “Gucci, Prada, Miu Miu-uuuu!”

  Rome was the most beautiful city Lee had ever seen, and Bryce appeared to know it well. He guided her through small medieval streets with red walls in Trastevere until they reached a square with a beautiful church. At the terrace of a restaurant, he was greeted by the owner. The men exchanged a few pleasantries as the owner showed them a reserved table. Bryce pulled her chair and took his place.

  "Aren't you famous?" Lee asked.

  He raised his eyebrows. "Famous?"

  "Yes, I’ve heard you come out in magazines and all."

  "I think you mean tabloids. Are you worried you'll be in them too?"

  "We're practically in the middle of the square, and I think the paparazzi were invented here?"

  "But I'm infamous in the UK, not in Italy."

  "I thought they knew no borders. I mean, the British ones would still have the ones here looking for a story about you, wouldn't they?"

  "Sure," he said. "'Wife murderer enjoying Rome with blonde.’ ” His look held some defiance in it, but also something else, more difficult to interpret.

  She hadn’t thought of him as a murderer for a while, but he wasn’t a man free from secrets, or from rage. None of that would make her back away. She could take care of herself.

  “I confess I looked you up this afternoon, now that I’m online again,” she lied.

  “It would have been silly of you not to. I was clever when I ran away to
rehab, though,” he said. “Left loads of red herrings. It will take a moment for them to catch on to where I might be.”

  "You don't seem to care."

  "Might have to hobble after a few people to make them eat their cameras. It will be fun."

  The restaurant owner materialized next to them with a waiter bearing a cold bottle of Crystal champagne. "We got it this afternoon, as you asked.”

  "Then let's hear that pop."

  Lee wouldn’t make the mistake of protesting too much; not after they had already broken the drinking rule together. The champagne was carefully poured into flutes and placed before them. The waiter nodded, smiled and left.

  "You're the sinner,” said Lee, clinking her glass against his. “I’m just along for the ride.”

  “Explain that to the devil at the doors of hell,” he replied with a wink.

  There was a buzz in her head as they left the restaurant, but there was tension as well, heightened at every step that took them across a different bridge and on to the historic center of the city. He stopped underneath a large house with high painted ceilings and lavish chandeliers.

  "It's a Roman palace," she said.

  "I know. It's mine."

  "Seriously?"

  "I’m renting it because of the view — want to have a look?"

  Her ribcage felt tight as they climbed the stairs. Bryce wouldn't wait anymore. He hadn't slept with anyone in weeks, and he must be ravenous. She was going to be his meal. He held on to the banister as he climbed. His knee had improved but wasn’t completely healed.

  Maybe it would just be a nightcap. Maybe he was tired.

  He opened the door to a magnificent little palace and ushered her through frescoed corridors over marble floors, past large rooms furnished with antiques and on to a large, semi-circular lounge overlooking the ancient forum.

  Lee gasped at the ruins of the most powerful ancient civilization, glowing at her feet, but Bryce put his arm around her waist, turning her. His other hand held the back of her neck as he kissed her.

  His mouth was soft and firm at once, and he tasted clean despite the champagne; he even tasted good. He was a strong, healthy male, and she gave in to the slight pressure on the small of her back to lean against him.