A Diamond in the Rough

by Elisa Marie Hopkins

  “I can...hear it?”

  “It’s not ringing.”

  “I know...I know...it’s complicated.” Him standing there with his strong stance and heartbreaking confused look, I can only try to explain. “There is a slight buzz coming from it, and from every other electrical device. The high-pitched hum varies depending on the power of the transmission, but it is there, always, and I can hear most of them.”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “Well, it’s not like I hear things that aren’t there. I just hear things most people can’t, and louder too, like an off-pitch back singer or the buzzing sound a TV makes when it’s off. Sometimes, I can even hear my own heartbeat.”

  “If you’re hearing a high-pitched sound on the TV when the screen is off, that is perfectly ordinary. Though the sound may be almost inaudible, it still may be picked up by some people.”

  “Is it ordinary to hear this from across my apartment?”

  “Hmm. This may be the reason your mind is regularly unwilling to shut down at the end of the day.”

  “Shut down?” I nearly scoff. “There is no shutting down. My mind is like a circus... and the show runs all day.”

  ***

  “WOULD YOU HAPPEN to know where Oliver is?” I ask Thea, coming around the kitchen. “I don’t know why he always runs off on me early in the morning.”

  All I hear is a muted answer and logically, I ask, “What? What is it, Thea?”

  “I don’t know. Mr. Oliver didn’t go to work today. He is locked in his home office. Just won’t come out.”

  I lean on the breakfast bar. “Is that bad?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Sophie. I don’t know what to think.” She seems genuinely worried. “Is Mr. Oliver sick? Is he worried? Is he upset?”

  “I have no idea.” I refuse to let anything eat away my clear-headedness. If there is anything he’s currently hiding—how he’s spending his time—then it should be worth bringing to light.

  Thea tells me where I can find his office. When I get there, I slowly open the door and step inside. I find Oliver slouching back in a chair facing the large windows. He’s talking business dealings on the phone in casual trousers, messy hair, and bare feet. I walk toward his desk, slowly, wondering if he knows I’m here. He gets up, reaches the whiteboard next to him where an equation is jotted down, and stares at it for a while. He erases a negative on the board, switches the numbers around, and sits back down in his chair to contemplate the board.

  “Yes, sir. I would envision an increase of interest rates above five percent.” There’s a pause, then he says, “Put into context, numbers don’t lie.”

  His head twists and he sees me looking out of place, invading his top-secret cave. “I’m sorry. I’ll leave.” I mouth. He moves his index finger back and forth, as if calling me over. Approaching him, I get entangled with the phone cord, forcing me to sit on his lap.

  My own interest rates unexpectedly skyrocket.

  “Yes...absolutely. The initial pace is four hundred a month. Very well, Mr. Vice President. You will be hearing from me. Good day.”

  He puts the phone back in its cradle. “Hello, Amelia Sophia. To what do I owe the pleasure of having such a beautiful lady in my office?”

  “You have to stop calling me that.”

  “Why does it bother you so much? You have a beautiful name.”

  “It’s lame. My mother gave me a princess name to go along with her frustrated dreams. Anyway, I have a question for you.”

  He slinks his hand down my sweater sleeve, past the shoulder, and runs his fingertips along my skin. “Just one? This is a fortunate day.”

  I roll my eyes at that, and still he triumphs in stealing away a little smile from me. “Did you just say ‘Vice President’?”

  “Yes I did.”

  “Interesting. And why do you have a corded phone?” I play with the phone cord, coyly twirling it with my finger. “It seems very Stone Age.”

  “That’s two questions.”

  “First one doesn’t count.”

  “If you have to know...they are more secure. Corded phones use wires as opposed to radio frequencies. It lessens the probability of privacy infiltrations.” He pushes to his feet, forcing me to stand too. “And when dealing with private matters, I don’t like my conversations being intercepted.”

  “Why do I have a feeling you’re talking about me?”

  “Because I am.”

  “Okay, Mr. Private and Paranoid. Is this the reason you’ve been saving daylight and camping out in here? Because Thea thought that maybe you weren’t feeling so well.”

  “Well, aren’t you curious today?”

  “I just want to know if everything’s all right.”

  “Yes, everything is absolutely fine. I’m not hiding. I’m working.”

  “In that case, I’ll let you get back to that. I don’t mean to question everything you do, it’s just—”

  “Oh, you don’t?”

  “I don’t like being interrupted either, not when I’m in the middle of a sentence.”

  “Go on.”

  “All I came in here for was to see if you were feeling all right. Trust me, I don’t want to know about your private dealings.” I look to the whiteboard and convince myself that I wouldn’t even understand his dealings in the first place.

  He puts a hand to his chest. “Look at me.” His smile gives him away, and yes, he is splendid. “Do I look unwell to you?”

  The truth is that I see a pretty spectacular man. I’m not convinced, however. Thea looked concerned, and she knows Oliver best. All morning, the thoughts in my head keep banging around the issue like a monkey playing cymbals non-stop.

  ***

  SITTING NEXT TO me in the car, Oliver looks down at me with earnest concentration, blue eyes sparkling, and says, “Thank you.”

  “What for?”

  “For coming back to me, even after I behaved the way I did. The things I said about the photographs...I didn’t mean to be so vile. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

  “It wasn’t easy for me,” I tell him. “It made me very uncomfortable. I thought about you the whole time at the photo shoot, Oliver. Only you.”

  He caresses my knuckles with his thumb before he lifts my wrist to kiss it softly. “It is not easy to admit what I felt today. When I heard Donna speaking of the photo shoot, when I saw the pictures, when you slapped me, when you showed up at my place last night.”

  I direct my gaze to find shame and wretchedness on his beautiful face. “How exactly did you feel?”

  “Powerless.”

  “I know the feeling,” I say. “It’s not pretty, is it? That’s how I feel sometimes when I’m with you...most of the time when I’m not with you. Trust me, I may not know what it’s like to walk in your shoes, but you sure don’t know what it’s like to walk in mine. You can’t begin to understand why I do what I do, or why I am the way I am.”

  “I don’t want you to walk in my shoes, Sophie, nor do I want to walk in yours. I want you to walk beside me, as will I do the same.”

  Such a moment is interrupted by his cellphone. I sit awkwardly, propping my elbow on the window control ledge and trying not to pay attention to his conversation. But I can hear the female voice on the other side. “I’m aware. I’ll be there shortly.” He dismisses the call and places the phone inside his suit pocket.

  “I’m sorry about that. It’s work,” he says, his lips pressed to my temple. “Are you nervous about riding on the Princess of Wales today?” he asks.

  “Oh, that? No. Not a single bit.”

  “Always so self-contained.”

  I lounge my legs over his lap. “At what time should I be ready?”

  He doesn’t answer me. He acknowledges the presence of my legs and brushes my ankles with beautiful, lethargic caresses. “Oliver, hello? Are you listening to me?”

  “Well, no,” he says, playing with my kneecaps. “I was distrac
ted by this pair of legs that can go on for days.”

  “Distracted?”

  “Yes, distracted.”

  “What about you? Only you look at me with such intensity, like I am the only thing in the world and all you want to do is ravish me. That’s distracting.”

  “You got all that by the way I look at you?”

  “Please, tell me where my imagination drifted from reality.”

  “I do want to ravish you, Sophie, in ways that will make the neighbors complain.”

  “Oliver, Jesus. It’s the middle of the day.”

  He turns with an impish stare that rustles my feathers enough for me to want to have my way with him. As for the fooling around—our real-time interactions seem to click naturally, leaving us both with a smile on our faces as the dialogue starts firing on all cylinders.

  FOURTEEN

  CONFUSION. PANIC. SHOCK. Worry. That’s what goes through my head as I walk inside my apartment.

  Jess moves across the living room like she’s a falcon after a heron. In this scenario, I’m the heron.

  “Thank God you’re okay!” she yells out, hugging me. “Christ, Sophie! Where were you? Why haven’t you called? Have you completely lost your mind?”

  Before I answer anything, I look around the living room. The flower vase where my roses had lounged—Oliver’s exquisite display of affection—is shattered all over the floor. The roses are dead. There is glass everywhere. Not only that, the dining table is overturned, as are the chairs. Small items have been knocked off the coffee table. There are at least four people carefully going through the mess while two other persons clean up.

  “What happened here?” Oliver’s face clouds over.

  “This is Detective Hamilton.” Jess gestures at the man next to her. “He’s with the FBI. He’s in charge of the ongoing investigation involving you.” She focuses on me.

  “You called him in?” asks Oliver.

  “Yes, I called him in. I didn’t sleep here last night.” She starts explaining. “When I got home today, I saw the place was completely trashed...Sophie’s bag was here, her cellphone was here...her things were here, everything was here except her! I didn’t know what to think!”

  “It’s okay. I’m right here, Jess.” I try to sound composed. This is unbelievable, I think to myself as I look at the disarranged furniture. “What’s missing?”

  Detective Hamilton speaks up. “Missing?”

  “Yes. It’s obvious someone broke in. What did they take?”

  Jess and Detective Hamilton look at each other like there is something else boiling under the surface.

  “Detective, come forward with the truth,” Oliver demands.

  Concern covers the mustached policeman’s expression. “The truth is, this wasn’t a heist, Miss Cavall.”

  Naturally, I turn to Oliver for answers. When I don’t get them, I ask, “Then...what was it?”

  “Look around.” He waves a hand. “Someone came in through the balcony doors. This is a loud warning. Someone is angry. It’s only been a couple of hours and we are still working on gathering the facts. It looks like someone was trying to send you a message.”

  “Send me a message?” I laugh because he has to be joking. “No...no...that’s not possible.”

  His brow furrows. “Please come with me. I’d like to show you something.”

  We move across the living room and he pushes open the door to my bedroom. What I find there is disturbing. There is a doll in a lilac dress sitting on my bed with her hand waving out, a bouquet of flowers in the other, and a tiara nested on her blonde head. A knife cuts right through the doll’s chest.

  Message received.

  ***

  “MR. BLACK! CAN I get a picture of you both?”

  Oliver nods at the photographer and I look at Oliver for protection. We’re standing on the boat dock headed toward Cassie’s party. The narrow path leading to the yacht is entirely covered in red carpet and charming fresh flower arrangements. My hair is slicked back in a wavy ponytail and I wear a shimmery, rose colored open-back dress, and nude strap-heel sandals.

  Mingling guests in their glossy dresses and fancy suits congregate under white pergola tents and others make their way onto the handsomely sculpted yacht. Huge white stars—dimly lit from the inside—ingeniously float just above the crowd, creating an elegant ambiance.

  Oliver has told me to “stop fidgeting” about a thousand times, and for the thousandth time, I don’t listen.

  “Smile,” he murmurs into my ear. “We’re celebrating.”

  Celebrating what? My death sentence? I muster a smile for my handsome accompanier. But inside, I’m screaming like a rebellious teenager and my stomach might just explode any moment. I’ve never liked the ocean...or boats, or anything that moves over water. Now here I am about to get on one.

  “You are celebrating,” I correct, not meeting his face. “I’m merely an invitee.”

  “You are more to me than that, Sophia. Much more. Let’s celebrate, because you are about to board the Princess of Wales with me.”

  Whoop-de-doo. Fun. I’ll celebrate like a Jew celebrates Christmas.

  “Sure...yeah.” I nod, my arms crossed and hands gripping, digging my nails into the skin of my wrists. “I’m not so sure why you’re not worried about what just happened back at my apartment. Oliver, he knows where I live. It’s not a joke anymore.”

  “Listen to me.” And I do. As soon as his beautiful, rumbling voice catches my ear, he has me entirely. “Allow yourself to enjoy the evening. You are safe with me. Nothing will happen to you.”

  “Well...still, I mean—”

  “Do you trust me?”

  “Yes, I trust that what you’re saying is true.”

  “Good.”

  Our eyes meet with a crushing silence. He pulls me closer to him until we are almost meshed into one, and for a second I stop worrying.

  “Do you think Cassie will like her gift?” he asks. “I normally have someone cater to her latest necessities.”

  “This,” I raise a small, squared-shaped box with gold ribbon for him to see, “is rarely a girl’s necessity. This is more like an expensive indulgence. I’m sure she’ll love it.”

  Oliver and I are distracted by the cheerful voice and sight of Cassie. She walks toward us with enthusiastic treads and greets us both with a kiss and an embrace. “Hi, Sophie! It’s good to see you again! I’m happy you decided to join the party.”

  “Again?” Oliver tugs on his earlobes. “Do you two know each other?”

  Neither of us answers. Perhaps we like knowing something Oliver doesn’t. Cassie throws her arms around me, carefully draping her wavy, blonde hair backward. She’s quite the budding seductress in her white strapless cocktail dress.

  “Happy birthday, Cassie,” I say. “You look lovely.”

  “Well, thank you. You are not so terrible looking either.”

  Oliver wishes her a happy birthday and hands over her present. A glowing grin sweeps over Cassie’s face.

  “Oh, wow! This is awesome. You didn’t have to do this. Thank you!” She unties the ribbons and carefully unwraps the glossy paper to reveal a luxurious black velvet box.

  “No way.” She opens the box and her eyes grow huge as she peers inside. “These are beautiful!”

  Naturally, Cassie goes on to thank Oliver for her present. She’s quick to rid herself of her current jewelry and bedazzle her earlobes with a pair of delicate pink and white diamond earrings. Two photographers hurriedly direct their cameras at us. Oliver—standing in the middle—takes hold of his sister’s waist and mine. This is my first public appearance with Oliver at an event, at least in front of the tabloids. We’re no longer a secret.

  “So twenty, huh?” I rub my arm as tingles of anxiety shoot through me. “How’s that going for you?”

  Cassie scoffs. “Lame! Seriously, it makes no difference if I’m turning nineteen or twenty. I don’t get any privileges out of it like if I were turning twenty-one. I can�
�t officially go out and order a martini. It’s like I’m in limbo.”

  “But you’re no longer a teenager,” Oliver says. “When I was your age, the mayor gave me the key to the city.”

  She looks at him with an are-you-kidding-me expression. “Oh, Ollie. When you were my age, you already acted like you were forty.” I laugh under my breath at the thought. “I mean, I know people in their twenties get jobs, get married, have babies. I am not planning on doing that anytime soon. I just got into Colombia University and the way I see it, I’m still nineteen plus one day older.”

  “You’re right,” I say with a smile. “It’s scary. I get it.”

  “You know, Cassie...” When Oliver wants to make a point, he can be very serious and speaks slower for more emphasis. “Turning twenty in Japan is a rite of passage. Celebrations are held nationwide. It’s very important. The beginning of adulthood.”

  “Thanks for the perspective, Ollie.” Cassie doesn’t go light on the sarcasm. “I’ll think about that.” She fixes her hair back into place. “What about you, Sophie? Any life-changing lessons you’ve learned so far?”

  I chuckle just thinking about it. I shrug and say, “Metabolism slows.”

  “Now that’s something I can get behind,” says Cassie and then a rush of happiness washes over her face as she fiddles with her new earrings. “Anyway, what are we doing out here? Come on, everyone is on the boat!”

  “We’ll be there in a minute,” Oliver says.

  “Don’t take long. Mother wants to meet Sophie.” She turns to me. “You know, the last time Oliver introduced a girl to my mother—”

  “Cassidy,” Oliver scolds with sharp eyes and a rich rasp to his voice.

  Cassie says nothing; she merely flashes a look of regret, while I fall into an imaginary ring of sizzling fire. “Come on, Sophie.” She takes my arm and leads me in the direction of the luxury cruiser. I can feel it. I’m going to be sick. Oliver stays behind as he is intersected by a pack of guests kissing his cheek.

  I’m stunned by the yacht...not by its volume or elegant appearance, but because I’m on it. We pass the cavernous main deck and settle inside an art gallery. The seating area—equipped with the most beautiful, exotic furniture and materials—is where the arriving guests are greeted with champagne.