by Tillie Cole
“They delve deep, not sprinkle verbal confetti on a pile of generic shit. Who are these people? What makes them want to do this?” Sally’s gaze skimmed the page and she froze. “You have been the Maître’s pet since the first night?” I thought her jaw might fall off in shock.
“Yes.”
“Yes? Yes!” She laughed but there was no mirth behind it. In fact, Sally’s eyes began to bug out of their sockets so much that I feared her head was about to spontaneously combust. “And you don’t think that’s the story? You’ve been fucking the owner and the most infamous man in New York, and you’re telling me about middle-aged Wall Street assholes with beer guts pretending to be Seabiscuit?” Sally slumped down on her seat. “I’ve made a mistake,” she said, and I felt my hope for the feature begin fading away.
“No, you haven’t—”
“You are fucking the famed Maître of NOX, have intimate liaisons with him. Have access to him in ways nobody else has.” Sally leaned forward, her strangely angular and strict face hovering before mine. I felt like Sigourney Weaver in Alien when it tried to sniff her out, only the alien had slicked-back black hair and hard-edged Prada-framed glasses. “You have the chance to write the biggest exposé of the decade, Faith.” Sally’s taloned finger tapped on the wooden desk, emphasizing each word she spoke. “Find. Out. Who. He. Is.” Sally sat back in her seat and I remained frozen. “That’s our feature.”
“But the NDA…”
Sally batted her hand in dismissal. “We can reveal his identity without explicitly revealing his identity, you understand?”
“Yes,” I said, but something in my heart felt off, expired, like milk going bad.
“Now get out.”
Gathering my notes, I walked to the elevator in a state of shock. By the time I reached Novah, I slumped down in my chair and whispered, “She wants me to reveal Maître’s identity.”
Novah’s eyes widened. “Oh no, Faith…” she whispered and reached out to take my hand. “She didn’t like your notes?”
I let out a sardonic laugh. “Liked? She fucking crucified them, Nove. Hung, drawn, and quartered and sent to the edges of New York to warn other writers not to be so shit.”
I stared unseeing at the carpet beneath my feet. I thought of Maître, his muscled body and his gentle hands, his French accent, which was so suave it made snakes of my clothes—with his words alone he could charm them right off. But more importantly, I thought of the aftercare, when he held me close. When he huffed reluctant laughs at my breathless jokes.
And Sally wanted me to destroy him.
Anonymity is everything, mon petit chaton…I heard his voice in my ear. Sally wanted me to rip right through that anonymity. Expose him and, no doubt, destroy his club and all he’d worked for. The thought of doing that to him…
My desk phone rang and I answered it robotically. “Yes?”
“Get your ass down to the rec center. Michael has food poisoning and can’t cover the charity event that’s taking place. So you’re covering it, serving your fucking penance for disappointing me with that shit you brought into my office. One thousand words by tomorrow afternoon about what the charity does and all that sad crap that will make our readers weep. And get there now!” Sally slammed the phone down and I winced.
“Faith?” Novah said.
“I have to go cover a story at a rec center.” An email with the address and notes came through from Carla. I printed it off, grabbed my jacket and purse, and tucked my useless notes away in my drawer.
Novah reached out and grabbed my hand. “It’ll be okay, I promise.” I gave her a tight smile and high-tailed it out of the building, caught a cab, and handed the driver the address. Of course, when it’s a warm, sunny day, a cab stops immediately. As I stared out at bustling New York, I thought of exposing Maître, who he was, what he did, his face…and I felt sick.
I took a deep breath. Faith, you’ve known the guy for a handful of weeks. Yes, it has been a pretty fucking intense handful of weeks, but that’s all it’s been. It’s a sex club. You are just another siren in a mask. But I wasn’t. Bunny had told me so. As had Maître himself. He didn’t take sirens. But he had taken me.
“Fuck my life!” I shouted.
“You say something, miss?” the old cab driver asked.
“No, sorry.” The cab pulled to a halt, and I climbed out onto the sidewalk. It took me a moment to realize we were in Hell’s Kitchen. I walked to the rec center I’d come to as a kid, and some of the heaviness in my chest was lifted. My parents lived only two blocks away. I smiled up at the sky. Papa always said that when you were in a bad place, God always delivered to you exactly what you needed to be lifted back up again. As I looked at the rec center, a place that had helped mold who I was today, I wondered if this was it.
As I pushed through the doors, the musty smell of sweating teenagers slapped me in the face. Some things never changed; they were the steadily balanced constants you needed so life didn’t get too dizzy.
I heard noises coming from the back gym. As I passed the office, I heard, “Well if it isn’t the troublemaker Faith Parisi herself.” Instantly smiling, I found Mr. Caprio walking around the desk, the baker boy cap he always wore still firmly attached to his head.
“Mr. Caprio,” I said and was immediately wrapped up in a bear hug.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“I’m here to cover the event today. The fundraiser for…” I looked down at my notepad. “Children’s bereavement.” My heart fractured at the topic, and I hated myself for not reading the brief on the way here.
“It’s more an activity day. The new artificial turf football field has just been opened, and it’s the first day the children from the charity have played on it.” I nodded as he led me through the familiar hallways that led to the back gym. “The Charity CEO is through here.”
We entered the back gym and noise of the highest decibels greeted me. Children were running everywhere, sports of every kind happening on every inch of space.
“Mr. Caprio,” I said. “Where’s the artificial field?”
“Near the east entrance. But the photographers have already been. We’re taking all the press in here now.” I nodded but found it strange that the new field would be closed when all of this was for its opening.
“Faith, this is Susan Shaw, the CEO of”—he quickly checked his notes— “Vie.” Who was Vie? Was she the woman the charity was named after?
Twenty minutes later, I had a notepad full of information thanks to Susan. I smiled, watching the children playing soccer or tag, and felt my heart break wondering what they had been through. I loved my parents with everything I had. I couldn’t imagine losing them. Some of the children before me where as young as five. I couldn’t fathom being that young and losing the person you loved most in the entire world, what it could do to an infant soul.
Feeling tears building in my eyes, I waved to Mr. Caprio across the gym and decided to duck out so as not to cause a scene. Knowing the way to the ladies’ bathroom, I walked down the old corridors, laughing, remembering my first kiss against a wall or the time my friend Dina drank her first wine cooler in the bathroom and then vomited all over Billy Day as soon as she stepped out.
After I’d finished in the bathroom, I was about to head home when I heard the unmistakable sound of children laughing. “The east entrance,” I said, realizing the new field would be just down here. Mr. Caprio had said it was closed, but that had never stopped me before. As I got closer to the door to what used to be the old basketball court, the shouts got louder.
Opening the door, I was met with a flurry of activity. Gone was the old cracked concrete of the basketball court, and in its place was vibrant green artificial grass. Children were running around, throwing what looked like a football. No, it was bigger than a football. It was white, and I quickly realized it was—
“To the left!” A voice shouted. A deep, very proper voice, with a very English accent, one I knew very well.
A flash of white whizzed by me. Harry Sinclair. Harry Sinclair in a white rugby jersey with a red rose on the left breast, gray sweatpants, and sneakers. I froze as I watched him pass the ball, hands suddenly thrust in the air when one of the young boys scored a…goal? Touchdown? Home run? Hell if I knew!
As if he could sense my shocked gaze, he looked over at me, and the wide smile he’d been sporting suddenly slipped from his face.
“Harry! Head’s up!” Another boy shouted, pulling his attention away from me. It all happened so fast. The young boy threw the ball and even I, a complete moron at sports, could tell it was never reaching Harry, who was supposed to be the target. Instead, it sailed over Harry’s head, bowing high and wide, and smacked straight into my face. To say I toppled to the ground like a sack of last week’s potatoes would be an understatement.
In typical Faith fashion, I landed on my ass, clutching at the side of my head, which I felt was about to break free of my skull, and fell to the ground. Feeling it was better not to scare the kids with such a gruesome scene, I began crawling back through the doorway. It was a crawl I had perfected under Maître Auguste’s strict instruction.
I had made it to the far wall in the hallway when Harry came barreling through, searching for me, and ran toward me when I waved my free hand.
“I’d heard rugby was a dangerous sport, but Jesus Christ, Harry! A heads-up would have been nice,” I said as Harry crouched down to face me. He gently took my wrist and moved my hand off my head. It must have been the knock to the brain; I couldn’t take my eyes off him as his blue eyes searched my face and he pressed the wounded area with timid fingers.
“Ow, you sadist!” I snapped, and I hissed at the onslaught of pain.
“It’s not bleeding. But you may be concussed.”
“Awesome,” I said.
“Miss Parisi, has no one ever told you to duck when balls are flying toward your face?”
My head was throbbing, but I was not going to miss that kind of invitation. I held Harry’s hand, which was still on my head, and said, “Harry, usually when balls fly at my face, I have my eyes and mouth wide open.”
Harry’s mouth parted in shock. Then shaking his head, but with a reluctant smile on his lips, he said, “You are incorrigible, Miss Parisi.”
I winced when I saw a bright light above me. Panic flooded my bones. “Harry, I can see a light. Is that the light? Am I fucking dying right now?” The light seemed to expand, growing ever closer to me.
“Relax,” he said.
“I can’t! The light! It’s coming for me!”
Suddenly two hands pressed onto my cheeks, and the light ebbed when a face blocked it out and hovered before mine. A perfect face. The most handsome of faces. “An angel,” I whispered, feeling all kinds of dizzy.
“Jesus Christ,” the angel said. I was shocked to find angels had English accents and also took the Lord’s name in vain.
“Viscount Sinclair will love that the celestial beings of heaven are English. Why do you have to have an English accent? Does that mean that the British have been justified in feeling superior to everyone else this entire time? We’ll never hear the end of it. I always thought an Australian accent would suit angels. G’day, Mate. You’ve only gone and fucking died. But don’t worry, there’s enough shrimp for everyone on this barbie.”
“Faith. I’m taking you to hospital. I think it’s safe to say if you’re speaking with such a terrible Australian accent, you have a concussion.”
The angel lifted me in his strong arms, and I couldn’t stop staring at his seraphic face. Wait, angels were genderless, right? No genitals. No sex.
“Do you not have a dick?” I asked the angel. His blue eyes blinked at me, yet he said nothing. It didn’t matter. “Such a perfect face.” I stroked his cheek. It was rough under my palm, but I didn’t mind. I’d always had a weird thing about liking the feel of sandpaper on my skin.
“Faith, you are speaking aloud. You are saying everything aloud.”
“Will you sing to me?” I asked. I wanted to hear the angel sing.
“Nobody should be subjected to that torture,” the angel said. I wanted to pout, but I couldn’t stop stroking his pretty face.
“I’ve never seen anyone so beautiful.” The angel placed me down on something warm. It must have been his cloud. He sat beside me, and I felt like we were floating. As we moved, I felt my eyes begin to close. “Sleep,” I said, the warmth around me cocooning me in its embrace. “I’ll just have a little nap.”
“No. Faith. Stay awake.” A sudden blast of cold attacked my face.
“No!” I moaned. “Bring back the cocoon!”
“I need you to stay awake. Can you do that for me?” I struggled to keep my eyes open, but the angel wanted me to stay awake. He was too beautiful to say no to. Then I felt his hand in mine. It was so big and strong, but it felt so right pressed against my palm.
“You’re not allowed to let go of my hand ever again, okay?” I said and held it against my face like a pillow. “You smell of mint, sandalwood, and musk.” Someone else I knew smelled that way. “Harry!” I shouted. “Harry smells like this too. But he’s not kind like you. He looks down on people. And he hates me. Like, really hates me.”
The angel didn’t say anything for a while. Then, “I’m sure that’s far from the truth.”
I cuddled into the hand again, and suddenly we stopped floating and the angel took back his hand. But then he lifted me up to his hard chest, and we flew. I heard beeping and something cold being pressed on my head. I thought I’d lost my angel and panic set in, but then I felt his hand take hold of mine again. And as I closed my eyes, I knew that I was safe.
Chapter Eleven
“Holy shit,” I groaned, feeling like I had an ill-tempered groundhog burrowing inside my head. I blinked, eyelids like ten-ton weights, and tried to open my eyes. The view of an unfamiliar white-tiled ceiling met me. “What the hell?” I said, as I tried to remember something, anything about how I got here. A hospital? I could hear the familiar beeps of machines and smell the strong scent of Lysol and pine disinfectant.
Then I felt something in my hand, something warm. Something that was gripping me tightly, keeping me centered. I rolled my head to the side, and my eyes rounded in shock at seeing Harry Sinclair sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair. His eyes were closed and his breathing was even, chest rising and falling under his white rugby jersey that had “England Rugby” on the left breast underneath a bright red rose.
I was glad I wasn’t hooked up to a life-support machine, as I was pretty sure it would have been belting out the melody of “God Save the Queen.”
Harry? What the heck was he doing here?
Then, as if a dam wall had broken, a flood of memories crashed into my already bruised brain—the rec center, the charity, Harry playing rugby with children on the new artificial field…then taking a smack to the face with that fucking ball. After that, the memories became sparse, like scattered pieces of a jigsaw puzzle I was desperately trying to fit back together. Something about an angel. A light? I didn’t friggin’ know.
But there was a hand. There was the tight grip of a hand that had wielded its way through all the white noise. I looked down at Harry’s hand tightly holding mine, even as he slept. And I stared. I was pretty sure I stared for too many minutes to be normal.
As if feeling the weight of my confused gaze, Harry began to stir. His dark hair was mussed, a mass of waves on his head, and his full lips were slightly pursed. Cracking open his bright blue eyes, he immediately sought me out. “Faith,” he said, and something in my stomach flipped hearing him call me by my first name again. Harry sat up straighter and leaned toward the bed. “You’re awake.” I kept flicking curious glances to our hands, but he didn’t let go. I wasn’t even sure he realized they were still clasped. “Are you okay?”
“Just peachy,” I said, wincing again when I lifted my free hand to my head. Just as I hissed at the lump jutting from the side of my skull, as i
f I were a motherfucking lopsided unicorn, a nurse came through the curtain that wrapped around the bed.
“How are you feeling?” she asked and handed me a pill. “Take this. It’ll help with the pain.” Moving around to the other side of the bed, she tapped Harry’s shoulder. “Do you mind if I give her a quick examination?”
“No, no, not at all.” Harry dropped his hand from mine. I watched him for a reaction. Had he even realized he was holding my hand? Was it some traditional English act of chivalry I wasn’t savvy to? He groaned slightly and, as he positioned my hand back on the bed, gave my fingers a quick squeeze. His eyes flicked to me, and I saw a slight burst of red on his cheeks. What did that mean? Was he embarrassed? Damn, my head hurt too much for all this thinking. Harry ducked out of the room and shut the curtain behind him.
“Bless that man,” the middle-aged nurse said, and she started timing my pulse. “He has not left your side since you came in earlier. He was barking orders at us to be sure you were okay.”
I wasn’t sure if my pulse started racing too fast because of the head injury or because of what the nurse was telling me. “When we were sure it was just a nasty hit to the head and slight concussion, nothing worse, he sat by your side, held your hand, and never took his eyes off you as you slept.” She smiled my way, clearly oblivious to the fact that right now, fuck the head injury, I was pretty sure I was having a coronary. “You have one dedicated man there, girl.” The nurse wrapped a blood pressure cuff around my arm. “He’s British?”
“Yeah,” was all I could say. He isn’t my man should have followed, but my naughty little tongue didn’t quite fess up.
“Love that accent.” She shined a light into my eyes. I flinched. The penlight felt like a laser beam burning straight through my retina and piercing my brain with white-hot heat. “Sorry,” the nurse said. “You’re okay, just will have a headache for a while. We’ll give you medication for that.” She pressed the button on the side of the bed and raised the head of the bed so I was in a sitting position. “We will monitor you for a bit longer, then you’ll be fine to go home.”