by Callie Hart
“When you see him on Monday, can you do me a favor? Can you try and be cordial? He didn’t hit on you, did he?”
“No, he didn’t.” If anything he seemed slightly repulsed by the idea that I’d lost my virginity earlier than I should have. I don’t tell Thalia that part.
“He didn’t seem like a criminal or a murderer, either?”
“No,” I admit. “Just a jerk.”
“You can handle hanging out with a jerk for a couple of hours a week here and there, girl. Promise me you’ll do it. Promise me you’ll be civil.”
Now that I’ve had the chance to meet Raphael, I’d love to decline the offer to spend any more time with him. I hate that he knows about the trauma I witnessed when I was a kid. I fucking hate it. Thalia is the only person I’ve mentioned it to, and I see the way she looks at me sometimes, like she feels sorry for me. Like I’m broken in some ways because of it. If Raphael North looks at me that way, I don’t know what the hell I’ll do. My reaction won’t be pretty, though. On top of that, Raphael’s looks are so distracting, his home so imposing. It clouded my head to be around him, and that coupled alongside the fact that he really was hostile made for one hell of an awkward hour. But. God, I hate when there’s a but…
“All right. For the money. But this can’t go on forever, Thalia. I’m going to have to buckle down and really start studying for exams soon. Once that time comes, I’m going to have to stop this, anyway.”
“Fair enough,” she concedes. “I get it. But in the meantime, think of all the cash you can put aside.”
“I am,” I tell her. “I really am.”
*
I cancel the interviews I have lined up the next day. It feels foolhardy to do it, but if I’m going to continue to visit Raphael, then I don’t need the extra two hundred bucks I’ll earn working fifteen hours a week in a coffee shop. And I do need that extra time to study. I spend all day going over the notes from Professor Dalziel’s missed class, making sure I have everything down and I understand the side notes that have been added by his T.A.
Then, on Sunday night, I get a text from a number I don’t recognize.
U nknown : I did the research. There’s no evidence that chemtrails contain elements known to cause infertility.
I sit there on my couch, surrounded by textbooks, paper everywhere, and I stare at my cell phone’s screen. I know who the message is from but I can’t quite force myself to believe it. I’m meant to go and see him tomorrow morning. Why would Raphael text me, especially if only to comment on some fleeting thing we mentioned in passing?
How did he get my phone number? Thalia must have given it to him. Or maybe he went and hunted it down on his own. He has the resources to do that kind of thing, I’m sure.
Am I supposed to reply to this? And if so, how ? I think for a solid ten minutes, torn by what I should do. His message wasn’t a question. He didn’t ask me anything, so I have nothing to respond to per se. But if I don’t send something, would that be rude? Shit. What would I do if it were Thalia who’d sent the text and not Raphael? Hmm. I’d reply with an emoji probably. Hardly an intellectual means of communication, but emojis are safe. You can’t confuse the tone of an emoji. A happy face is just that. A crying face, a high five, an emoji blowing a kiss. They’re impossible to misinterpret. I go to respond, surveying the options open to me. The smiling guy with the red cheeks? Extreme happiness? Probably not appropriate. Flamenco dancing lady? Definitely not. The laughing-so-hard-I’m-crying dude? Nope. What about a simple smiley face? That’s none threatening. It says, ‘it’s funny that you looked that up.’
Okay. Smiley face. Smiley face. Just send the damn thing already, Beth. Come on! I tap the smiley face icon and then hit send as quick as I can. I’m my own worst enemy. I overthink everything in these situa—
Wait.
Wait .
Oh…god…
I stare at the phone screen, not quite able to process what I’m seeing. There is no happy, yellow, round smiley face icon on the screen I’m looking at. Not even close. The single emoji sitting there next to my name, the only thing I’ve replied to the hottest, wealthiest man in New York… is brown.
The poop emoji.
It stares back at me, mouth open, eyes wide, laughing at me. Fuck. I can almost hear it mocking me: “Too late! Can’t take me back now, motherfucker! I have been unleashed upon the world.”
“Shit. Shit, shit, shit !” Literally. Shit. I throw my phone down on the couch beside me and cover my face with both hands. How? How the hell did I manage to send a shit emoji for no apparent reason to Raphael North? This is not good. Thalia is going to murder me.
I scramble, picking up my phone, about to text her, to ask her what the hell I should do, when I see the little bubble text box pop up in the conversation: Raphael is replying. I mouth the word fuck silently as I watch that damn box flash on the screen.
And then…an emoji. Two of them: a monkey, and another poop. The speech bubble appears again.
U nknown : Hey, if you’re about to start slinging shit around, at least let me defend myself.
M e : I am SO sorry. I did NOT mean to send that.
U nknown : No offence taken. I’m aware that I invoke strong reactions from people sometimes.
D amn it . It was an accident, but now Raphael obviously thinks I’m trying to insult him. Change the subject. Change the subject.
M e : Ha! I’ll be sure to tell my conspiracy theory friends that chemtrails are 100% safe, then.
R aphael sends a hand emoji —a peace sign. That seems a little out of character, but at least he doesn’t appear to be mad.
M e : I’ll also be sure to tell them the reports of your death have been greatly exaggerated.
H e doesn’t reply . I watch my phone, waiting for its chime for fifteen minutes, knees up under my chin, but nothing happens. After a while, I go back to my textbooks. An hour later, as I’m making coffee, a new message pops up on the screen. I’ve saved his number now, so I immediately know it’s him.
R aphael : I wouldn’t be so quick to spread that rumor if I were you. The jury’s still out on that one.
Five
Beth
T wo classes today , both of them early. Thalia passes me slip after slip of paper like we’re back in high school. It’s hard enough to concentrate on the lecture as it is, but with her constant questioning, it’s a miracle I manage to take any notes at all. Over lunch, she asks me if I’m going home to change before I go and meet with Raphael.
“Nope,” I tell her, taking a bite of my wrap. “He said I should wear whatever makes me comfortable.”
Concern flashes across Thalia’s face. “It’s probably a test, Beth. You should still wear something smart.”
“What’s wrong with this?” I look down at myself, at the pale blue strappy shirt and the black jeans I’m wearing. When I look up, Thalia’s nose is wrinkled.
“My father says jeans are blue collar working men’s clothes. They’re not smart or professional.”
“Might I point out that you’re wearing jeans right now. And also, your father is in his seventies. Of course he thinks that. He’d probably wear a shirt and tie to go hiking, if he could still hike.”
The troubled look doesn’t leave Thalia’s face. “I don’t know, Beth…”
“He wears jeans. Why shouldn’t I?”
“North ? Raphael North was wearing jeans when you met him?”
“Yes. Ripped jeans. And a t-shirt.”
“You’re fucking with me. That man never left his apartment unless that perfect body of his was expertly packaged in a Giorgio Armani three-piece.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Thalia. He was very casual the other day. Very casual. He practically laughed at me when I said you’d forced me to wear business attire. I’m going to our meeting this afternoon wearing this, or I’m not going at all. It’s that simple.”
“You might want to wipe your chin before you get chipotle sauce all over yourself, then,” she
says dryly, pointing at my face. I use my napkin just in the nick of time, barely catching the dollop of sauce that was about to land in my lap.
“You’re going to let him win this time, right?” Thalia says.
“Yeah, this time I’ll make sure I’m paying attention. So long as he doesn’t offend me the moment I walk through the door, I should be okay.” Even as I say this, I know the chances of that happening are slim to none. The man doesn’t seem to be capable of opening his mouth without saying something to upset me.
By four o’clock, I’ve worked myself into a ball of nerves again. Nate calls me from outside my building, and I go jump into the Tesla, opening my own door and climbing into the backseat before he can stop me.
“You’re trouble,” he says, laughing. “I know it when I see it, and you are trouble with a capital T. You’d have to be to come back for a second round with Raphael.”
We laugh and joke on the way over to the Osiris Building, the drive much quicker than it was on Saturday. I try not to worry about the text faux pas from last night. I try not to worry, period. Easier said than done, though. I toe off my sneakers in the elevator and hand them over to Nate. He smirks when he sees my freshly painted plum toenails, but he doesn’t say anything. I gave myself a full pedicure last night before I went to bed. My feet have never looked better.
Nate buzzes on the doorbell by the glass door again, then gives me a squeeze on the shoulder. “Give him hell, spitfire.”
I laugh under my breath. “I’ll try.”
Today, the curtain on the other side of the door doesn’t go back. The door just swings open, and there is Raphael—tall, cheeks a little red, eyes wild, hair wet again. There are damp spots on his shoulders too, making the dark, burned red of his polo shirt even darker. His eyes blaze when he looks at me. “You’re early,” he states.
“Am I?”
“Yes. Fifteen minutes early.”
“I’m sorry, would you like me to come back later then?” I’m joking, but it’s very obvious that Raphael is considering saying yes. He frowns slightly, and then steps away from the door, holding it open for me.
“No. It’s fine,” he says tightly. “Go on through. We’re playing in the lounge again, by the window.”
I go inside, walking the long length of the penthouse, aware that every single one of the doors that line the hallway toward the lounge are all closed again. No chance of seeing what lies beyond. Calling the space at the other end of the hallway a lounge simply doesn’t do it justice. It would be more appropriate to call it a loft, or even a hangar. The chess set is set up exactly where it was two days ago. I sit down in the same chair, and Raphael sits opposite me. He takes hold of the chessboard, though, spinning it around so that the black pieces are in front of me, and the copper pieces are in front of him.
“Fair’s fair,” he says.
So today, I will have the advantage of going first. How very generous of him. He seems a little tense today. More than he was on our first meeting, which is saying something. The muscles in his jaw are popping as he grinds his teeth together. A small vein stands out at his temple. I can’t stop staring at it. There’s something about him right now. Not just one thing, but a number of small things that, combined, make him thoroughly intriguing. I can tell something’s bothering him, but I can’t tell what will happen if I ask him if he’s okay. There’s a prickly energy pouring off him as he eyes the board. It’s as though he could snap and explode at any second. He’s been silent since he switched the board around, but his body language is absolutely screaming.
I take my cue from him and I keep quiet. I open the game, already plotting how I will lose. Raphael doesn’t look up at me. He watches the board with such a single-minded focus that I doubt he really even knows I’m here. I can’t decide which version of Raphael is more unnerving: the impolite version of him that asks impolite questions, or the brooding, silent version of him that hardly acknowledges my presence. He plays furiously, barely waiting for me to put down my pieces before he’s picking up one of his and making his next move.
Five minutes pass.
Ten.
Then fifteen.
I claim his pieces, and he claims mine. Twenty minutes into the game, he slumps back in his chair, rubbing his index finger along the line of his chin, looking out of the window. “Congratulations,” he says.
“I’m sorry, what ?”
“Congratulations. You have me in four moves.”
“No, no, I—” I check the board, and I see it. Four simple moves and my rook will have him in checkmate. Damn it! How the hell did that even happen ? I pinch the bridge of my nose, sighing. “Would you like to go again?” I ask. “That was a pretty fast game.”
“Honestly, I don’t want to play. I’ve had an…interesting day.”
“Oh. Okay, well…” What does that mean? Am I being dismissed? He doesn’t seem like he’s in the mood for company. Not that he did last time, either, but there you go.
“Do you read?” Raphael says.
“Yes, of course. I read all the time.”
He finally tears his gaze away from the window, looking right at me. “Have you ever read any of Anatoly Vasiliev’s books?”
“No, I haven’t.”
He grunts, a sound of disappointment. “He wrote a novel called, Waking Dreams in the Garden of Men . It’s about this guy who wakes up one morning, goes to work…” Raphael pauses, looking out over the city again, frowning, as if something’s caught his attention. “He goes to work, and all of his friends, the people he’s worked with for many years, are all gone. Replaced with strangers, who all seem to know him, know personal details about his life, his family…they all seem to share personal experiences with him, and yet he doesn’t know a single one of them. When he goes home, there’s a guy waiting for him inside his house. He claims he’s his brother, but the man doesn’t have a brother. He has sisters. Three sisters. He checks his house for their photographs so he can show them to the imposter who’s broken into his home, but all he can find are pictures of the two of them together. He spends the rest of the book trying to figure out if he’s dreaming in this bizarre new world, or if his other life was the dream all along, and where he finds himself now is real.”
“That sounds confusing,” I offer. “I’m not sure it’s my kind of book.”
“It’s horrible,” he says slowly. “It’s not anyone’s kind of book.”
“Then why did you read it?”
He blinks at me, like this is the most bizarre question I could possibly have asked in this moment. “Because it’s a work of fiction,” he says. “I like reading fiction. It’s not real. You can close the book and end the story whenever you like. Would you like to go up to the roof with me now, Ms. Dreymon?”
“The roof? I don’t think that’s a good idea. It’s…cold .” Cold is the first word that springs to mind. What I want to say is it’s too fucking high. I’m afraid I’ll fall over the railings and tumble to my death.
“Okay,” Raphael says. “In that case, would you like to see something no one else has ever seen before?”
Thalia would have a quip about his dick on the tip of her tongue right now. She’d definitely have some crass little comment to fire back at him. Plenty of women have seen Raphael’s dick if the media are to be believed, but she’d make it work somehow. Instead, I say, “Okay. So long as it doesn’t involve heights.”
Raphael smirks—the first sign of amusement from him since, well…since we met. “No heights, I promise.”
He gets up and holds out his hand to me. “Come with me.”
My hand feels dwarfed in his; it’s been a long time since I’ve been held by my hand, and it’s a strange feeling. A thrill of…something fires through me. His skin is hot, burning almost. His fingers intertwine with mine, and I can’t hide my surprise. It’s not the way someone would take another person’s hand if they’re showing them the way. It’s the handhold of lovers, people who care deeply about each other. Raphael doesn’
t seem to notice the startled look on my face as he guides me toward the door he disappeared through at the end of our last meeting. Nor does he let go of my hand. He’s a man on a mission as he pulls me through the door and into a short hallway. This time there are no doors on either side, only a wide marble staircase leading upward at the other end of the hall. There are mountings, on the walls, though. Gold hooks drilled into the bare brickwork, where pictures obviously used to hang. They’ve all been removed now, though, it seems.
Raphael finally releases his hold on me at the foot of the stairs. “Are you afraid of the dark?” he asks, as he begins to head up.
“No.”
“Good. This test room has to be completely pitch black for the technology to work.”
At the top of the stairs, he hurries me along another hallway—this place is huge—and then opens a door to his right. Flicking a light on, he gestures me inside, then closes the door behind me. The room is small, maybe only four meters by six. The walls are lined with a thick, black felt, and the floor is protected with some sort of rubberized coating. My pulse races away from me as Raphael locks the door. Shit, shit, shit…
“Don’t lock yourself away with people you don’t know. Never be alone with people, especially men, Elizabeth. It’s not safe. It’s never safe.” My mother’s words echo inside my mind, like a death toll. I should be more careful. I should have asked to keep the door open or something. If he’s locked it…
“Don’t look so afraid,” Raphael says abruptly. “You’re in no danger. I know what this must look like.”
“Oh? I don’t know what you mean.” I squirm, rubbing my hand against the back of my neck. Fuck. I must be so easy to read.
“This room looks like some sort of torture chamber. It isn’t. You just have to trust me,” Raphael says.
Trust is earned, not freely given, though. My heart is skipping all over the damn place as he moves to stand in front of a computer sitting on a desk against the wall. The desk and the computer are the only items of furniture in here. A bundle of black cables hang down from the center of the ceiling. Raphael opens a drawer in the desk and takes out a soft shell container, which he unzips. Inside: some kind of headset. No, not a headset. Way less bulky. More like a pair of glasses that wrap all the way around my head, encompassing my peripherals. He connects the glasses to the cables that hang down from the ceiling, then he also connects a series of what look like electrode pads to the glasses, too.