Montaine

by Rome, Ada

  We were everything to everyone. We were a microcosm of gender disparities. We were a disgusting symbol of cultural decline. One commenter eloquently referred to me as a “duuuuuuuuuurty fukkkkkkking hoooooooooore,” and another proffered the enticing invitation to sit on his dick while he bit my tits and choked me. Plenty of women vowed to send Trent their “video resumes” in hopes of a “top position” at the magazine. One promised that she could give him a much better time than “that fat disgusting bitch of an intern.”

  If my tear ducts had not already run dry by this point, I might very well have cried a thousand times over a thousand such vicious, twisted, and brutal insults.

  The single bright spot came from an article in the Times that quoted a source at the magazine, described only as a “senior member of the staff.” This source expressed nothing but admiration for both Trent and myself, saying that my reputation had been “unfairly tarnished” and that I fully deserved to have my story featured on the cover of the magazine. He mentioned the contest and noted that he had served as an impartial judge and had selected my story without any pressure whatsoever from Trent Montaine. He added that he was greatly disappointed that we live in world where private life is not permitted to remain private, and that it reminds him oddly of life under the all-seeing eye of the communist regime during his youth. “Trent Montaine and Kat Raney,” he said, “are two fine, young, talented people whom we should celebrate rather than destroy.”

  I knew this unnamed source had to be Miklos. Heaven bless him. He earned a very special place in my heart in that moment.

  With the final batch of articles, the tide turned. Writers began to criticize the media for its fascination with the sexual activities of consenting adults and its quest to ruin lives through the endless echo chamber of social media.

  I closed my laptop and sat in the pitch dark of my room. The only sound was the quiet ticking of the clock on my nightstand. I pondered all of the articles and posts that I had read. Throughout all of the comments and speculation and unnamed sources and rumors, not one of them even hinted at the plain and unremarkable truth. Not one of them guessed the straightforward reality that lay behind the popping flash bulbs and flying accusations.

  Trent and I were simply two people who had fallen in love.

  Chapter 19

  “Are you ready for this?” Trent held my hand in front of the revolving door of the KTFO building on Monday morning. A smattering of photographers perched on car hoods nearby. We studiously ignored them while their shutters clicked.

  “Yes.” I breathed deeply and exhaled slowly. I closed my eyes and tried to steady my racing pulse. I willed my legs to move but remained rooted to the pavement. I was reminded of my very first day at the magazine, when I had similarly stood on the sidewalk and anxiously watched the spinning portal to my future. It’s now or never, Miklos had told me back then. It was only a month ago, but it seemed like another lifetime.

  “It’s now or never,” I repeated now with a determined step.

  Trent continued to hold my hand as we rose in the elevator to the fourth floor and walked through the glass doors to the magazine’s offices. The room was full. Everyone had rushed to work in the hope of a little excitement and fodder for further gossip, something to tell their friends over dinner later that night. As soon as we entered, their chatter fell silent. Heads popped up from desks, faced turned in our direction, and eyes drifted to our clasped hands.

  “Nice to see you all here bright and early,” Trent said in a booming baritone. “Don’t let me disturb you.”

  I released my hand from his grip. He raised a questioning eyebrow.

  “I’m fine,” I whispered. I wanted only to return to the status of a lowly intern rather than the focus of everyone’s curious attention. I began to wind my way through the maze of desks with my shoulders gathered inward and my head bowed.

  The deep and threatening tones of Trent’s voice halted me mid-stride just before I reached my chair.

  “Stop right there.”

  When I turned, Trent was not looking at me. He faced the glass doors to the lobby. I followed his gaze and saw Kill standing in the open doorway with a cardboard box balanced on his palms. He settled the box at his feet and crossed his arms over his chest. His eyes glinted with an evil glee. A catlike grimace turned his face into a pale, leering mask of delighted hatred.

  “You and I have business.” Trent stepped deliberately toward his former friend. His brow lowered with menace. His arms bent at the elbows in a posture of combative readiness.

  “Do we? What kind of business?” Kill spoke with a mocking sing-song innocence. His beady eyes projected a condescending disdain.

  “You know exactly what kind of business.”

  “You’re the boss, Mr. Montaine. Why don’t you enlighten me?”

  With bullet speed, Trent closed on Kill, gripped his thin throat, and slammed his scrawny body against an adjacent wall. Kill released a swift puff of an exhale as his back hit the plaster. He scratched at Trent’s rigid fingers and gasped for breath. His skin achieved a purplish shade of red. The toes of his oxford shoes squeakily skated for traction on the slick linoleum floor.

  “You think you’re a big man, Kill? Do you feel like a big man now?”

  The rest of the room watched in stunned quiet. A few other writers rose from their seats but then stood paralyzed with indecision. No one leapt to Kill’s defense. No one wanted to become the next target of Trent’s rage.

  Kill’s eyes bulged and watered. His cheeks ballooned with each helpless attempt to draw air into his strangled windpipe. Trent slammed his back against the wall again, raising a cloud of paint flakes. Then just as quickly, he released his grip. Kill’s legs collapsed beneath him. He fell with a hard thud and a wheezing cough.

  “Get up,” Trent commanded.

  Kill stared up at him with a burning fury and massaged the red striations on his neck. He perched on one knee and rose to his feet. His face was still mottled with the strain of each hoarse breath, but his lips parted in another sarcastic leer that showed his sharp yellow teeth.

  With another burst of lightning quickness, Trent’s fist swung out from his side and pounded into Kill’s face with a crackling smack of knuckle on bone. Kill’s head jerked like a ragdoll. He staggered backward, once again careening into the wall and sending paint chips flying. He blinked several times, his eyes unfocused, and shook his head as if caught in a tangle of cobwebs.

  “Enough!” shouted an unexpected voice from the edge of the room. All heads turned to see Miklos, dapper as ever in a light gray pinstripe suit and a pale green shirt. His perfectly shined shoes ticked rapidly across the floor. Within seconds, he stood beside Trent and placed a restraining hand on his forearm. “Enough,” he repeated more gently.

  Trent relaxed his shoulders. His eyes, moments earlier consumed with a boundless rage, now looked down on Miklos with a plea for guidance.

  “You, pack your belongings and leave,” Miklos said to Kill, whose cheek was already swollen from the force of Trent’s punch.

  “That’s what I was trying to do when our fearless leader here got in my way.” He bent to retrieve his cardboard box, which had been upturned and shoved sideways during the struggle. He turned toward the hallway of offices.

  “Wait,” Trent said, walking a few steps forward. Kill noticeably flinched at his approach. “Why did you do it? Why, Kill?” His tone was wounded.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kill responded with a shrug and a sniff.

  “Don’t be a little shit, Kill. You took that video. You released it to destroy me and to destroy Kat. Why? Why do you care? What is your problem? What do you hope to gain from all of this?” He spread his arms wide and shook his head. “I just want to understand. Then you can go on your way and never come back.”

  Kill stared hard at Trent for nearly a full minute and then shrugged again. “I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Fine.” Trent
nodded and flexed his biceps. His canvas of tattoos, bared to the elbow under the rolled sleeves of his light blue shirt, undulated with each shift of his rippling muscles. “I have one more question, though.” He paused, taking one firm step forward. “Who is Hades?”

  My heart beat wildly in my chest. The blood rushed into my ears, temporarily blocking any sound. I placed a steadying hand on my chair to prevent myself from fainting with the sudden surge of fear-spiked adrenaline that rocketed into every extremity.

  A pleased grin broke across Kill’s face. His thin lips stretched wide. His pale eyes danced with genuine enjoyment.

  “Now, that’s a question I am perfectly willing to answer,” he said with a cheerful clap. “So, you know I was at the warehouse fight with Hades. I give you credit for figuring out that much of the story. I really didn’t think you were smart enough.” He crossed his forearms over his stomach and spread his feet wider apart. Each heel click echoed loudly in the tense hush. “Let me tell you the part that you haven’t yet guessed.”

  He stepped in a wide arc around Trent, who now resembled a cornered lion. Trent stared at Kill with a barely contained ferocity. Kill clearly savored the chance to prolong Trent’s uncertainty and stoke the fires of his anger.

  “Does Hades seem at all familiar to you, Trent?” He tilted his head to the side and gripped his chin between his thumb and forefinger in a gesture of professorial inquiry.

  “You know that he does,” Trent seethed. “Just tell me who he is.”

  “Now, now, I’m getting to that,” Kill said with a dismissive flutter of his fingers. “Patience was never your strong suit. You’ve spent years covering your body with those ridiculous tattoos. The four elements. Balance in the universe. It makes me fucking barf. And here you are, a coiled spring ready to pounce.” He clucked his tongue. “Tsk, tsk. What would Rosie think if she could see you now?”

  At the mention of Rosie’s name, Trent’s eyes widened with a dawning realization. He flipped his head toward Kill and squared his shoulders.

  “Ah! I see that you are getting closer to the truth! Have you guessed it? Should I tell you?” The words slithered from Kill’s mouth with a reptilian hiss. “Hades is none other than our good friend of days gone by, Mr. Peter Haverford.”

  “Why?” Trent’s voice was faint and rasping.

  “Really? Why? Have you forgotten that you nearly beat poor Peter to death back in college?”

  A few shocked gasps could be heard from the assembled audience. Trent shifted his gaze to Miklos, who merely raised his eyebrows. Trent gave an almost imperceptible nod, just the slightest dip of his chin in confirmation of the truth of Kill’s accusation.

  “I was the hero who courageously came between you and Peter and prevented you from murdering the boy in cold blood.” Kill now strutted in a wide berth like a ringmaster relishing the rapt attention of the crowd.

  “That’s not the whole story,” Trent mumbled. His eyes searched the room and met mine. I wanted to save him, but I didn’t know how.

  “See, the problem was,” Kill continued, “that Peter didn’t remember you. Your assault put him in a coma and wiped clean any memory of that night. He had no idea that you were the one who attacked him. That is, until I told him.”

  “Why?” Trent repeated weakly. “Why now? Why the elaborate plot with the fights? Why not just confront me one-on-one? Why go after Oscar?”

  “Oscar was collateral damage,” Kill spat with disgust. “It’s unfortunate, but that’s another ruined life on your hands. As for the fight, who doesn’t love a little drama, right?” He looked around the room with a satisfied air.

  “And as for the timing,” he continued after a brief pause, “that was really just a coincidence. I recently interviewed a trainer out of the Bronx. He mentioned Hades, this beast of a fighter who’d recently appeared in his gym out of nowhere. Through a little research, I made the happy discovery that Hades was our old pal Peter Haverford. With a little more digging, I learned that he’d been cut loose by his powerful family after a few too many violent outbursts. Peter was definitely the black sheep of the proud Haverford clan. Turns out he was never was quite right up here,” he tapped his cranium, “after that beating you gave him. So I tracked him down. We had a nice chat about the past. I told him that you were the one who destroyed his life all those years ago. He wanted revenge. Imagine that. I hatched a plan to take you down at the fights. The rest is history.” He slapped his hands together as if shaking off a coating of dust. “Everything would have gone exactly according to plan if that idiot Oscar had not gotten in our way.”

  Trent lunged with a furious growl. Kill jogged out of reach and wagged a chastising finger.

  “Peter killed Rosie,” Trent seethed. “That’s why I attacked him. You skipped that part.”

  “Oh, really? Did he?” Kill asked brightly. “Do you have proof of that, Sherlock?” He lifted his lip in a hateful snarl.

  “What did I ever do to you, Kill?” Trent’s voice was quiet. “Honestly, what? I’ve been your best friend for fifteen years.”

  “My friend.” Kill huffed once through his nose. “You’re not my friend. I’m just the dipshit who lives in your shadow. The rich and successful Trent Montaine who has the world at his feet. The handsome and desirable Trent Montaine who can fuck any woman he wants. You didn’t keep me around because you valued my friendship. You kept me around to be your puppet, your lapdog, your object of pity.”

  “That’s not true. You know that’s not true.”

  “But the joke’s on you, isn’t it?” Kill ignored Trent’s protest. “Your investigative skills were not sufficient to find out Hades’ real identity. I suppose that makes me the better journalist.” He stood with his feet spread wide, hands on his hips and elbows pointed outward. “You were right about one thing though.” He raised an index finger and pointed it straight at me. “That little piece of ass, Kat Raney, is a pretty good journalist too.”

  I felt the blood drain from my face. I knew what he was about to say. My heartbeat stuttered with terror.

  “She figured it out. She knew that Hades and Peter Haverford were one and the same. I’m surprised she didn’t tell you.” Kill’s tone dripped with venomous sarcasm. He turned to me. “You should really be more careful about deleting the browser history on your laptop, my dear. That was a nugget of gold just waiting for me to uncover it.”

  Trent spun on his heel. His eyes sought mine across the room. “Kat? Is that true? How long have you known?”

  I opened and closed my mouth. Words failed. Tears stung my eyes. I managed a few shuddering breaths.

  “It’s true,” I finally said with a trembling voice. “I found out a couple of weeks ago. I didn’t want to tell you. I couldn’t.”

  Trent’s jaw hung loose. He looked at me, then at Kill and Miklos, and then out over the sea of curious faces. Without another word, he turned and stormed through the glass doors.

  “Trent! Wait!” I stumbled a few steps forward and crashed into a desk. I heard the ding of a departing elevator. He was gone.

  ***

  “Would you like to take a walk with me?” Miklos’s voice came from behind my right shoulder.

  I had been sitting at my desk, staring into space for most of the morning, unable to concentrate on anything but my need to explain myself to Trent. My numerous texts and phone calls to him had gone unanswered. I wanted to tell him that I was only trying to protect him by keeping Hades’ identity a secret. In retrospect, harboring that secret grew to feel more like a betrayal than an act of love. I saw the situation from Trent’s perspective and knew that I had been wrong. Now I may have lost him forever. I had no one but myself to blame.

  I brushed wet smudges of mascara from under my eyes and tried to muster a smile for Miklos. The result probably looked as feeble and half-hearted as I felt.

  “Sure. I would enjoy that.”

  A few minutes later, we strolled through the early afternoon foot traffic of Fifth Avenue.

&n
bsp; “There is a coffee shop where we can chat.” He ducked down a side street. I followed him toward a red awning that sheltered a few scattered bistro tables and wicker chairs.

  “I wanted to thank you,” I said as we were seated and a waitress with a glittering row of lip piercings wrote our order for two black coffees on a small notepad. “I read what you told the Times about me. You said that I deserved to win the cover contest. I really appreciate that. It was the one good thing that I read amidst a lot of really terrible things.”

  He patted my hand with fatherly affection. “You’re welcome. But I believe that was an unnamed source. I cannot claim credit.” He winked and flashed a warm grin.

  “So, what did you want to chat about?” The waitress delicately set two white saucers and mugs of dark steaming coffee on the table. I stirred a lump of sugar into my coffee, waiting for the heat to dissipate before I took a sip.

  “I know why you didn’t tell Trent about that man, Peter Haverford. He knows too, even if he is very angry right now.”

  I nodded and lifted my mug, blowing softly over the top. “Do you think he’ll forgive me?”

  “I do.” He lifted his mug to his lips, sipped lightly, and set it down on the saucer with a tiny porcelain clink. “We all do strange things when we are in love. We make mistakes, sometimes terrible mistakes that cannot be undone. This is not one of those mistakes. Trent will forgive you because he knows that you love him and that you acted for his best interest. Also, because he loves you too.”

  Hearing these words nearly sent tears to my eyes all over again. I had done enough crying in the past few days to last me a lifetime. I sipped my coffee to steady my nerves and my emotions.

  “You sound like you are speaking from experience,” I ventured. “Did you make mistakes in the name of love?”