Kill or Be Killed
Page 31
“A lot’s happened in two years,” he said.
“You can say that again.”
How far I’d come in those 730 days! First I’d been the worried wife, and then the depressed divorcée, and then what? The naughty nympho? The term made me snicker, and Dr. Jensen seemed to prick up his ears.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“I wonder how many times you’ve asked me that in two years,” I said, dodging the question.
He gave a little half-shrug. “It’s a big part of the job description.”
I took another deep breath and let it out slowly. If I had something to say, there was no time like the present. “I have a confession to make.”
Dr. Jensen leaned back in his chair. “All right, then,” he said. “I’m listening.”
Quickly, before I could lose my courage, I said, “I’ve been having sex. Lots and lots of it. With strangers.”
“You have?”
Dr. Jensen had always seemed so unflappable—well, suddenly he looked seriously flapped.
Apparently, asking him about other women’s sex lives was one thing; admitting to my own wild sex life was another thing entirely.
He put his glasses on and peered at me through them, quickly composing himself. “This seems like something we should talk about, Jane,” he said. “It sounds…risky.”
I nodded—yes, it had definitely been risky.
And then, in a rush of relief, everything came tumbling out: my first fling with Michael and my cab ride with Ethan; man-shopping at Eataly and cradle-robbing on the High Line; the Red Room and the radiator.
Dr. Jensen’s eyes widened several times, but he did his best not to react.
“I’m sure you’re judging me,” I said, “even though you’ll deny it. And that’s okay. I’m not ashamed of anything. But I could have been a little…smarter. Safer.”
Dr. Jensen shook his head. “My job isn’t to make judgments,” he said. “My job is to listen, and to draw you out. And, occasionally, to challenge you.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “So tell me, Jane. What have you learned from these…experiences?”
“Besides check a guy’s pockets for handcuffs?” I asked ruefully.
Dr. Jensen allowed himself a laugh. “Yes,” he said. “Besides that.”
I had to ponder the question for a minute. It wasn’t as if I’d embarked on my great sexual adventure because I was hoping it’d be educational.
But, come to think of it, I had learned a lot: about desire, about power, and about human connection—emotional and physical. By taking control of my sexuality, I felt like I’d finally taken control of my life.
Dr. Jensen might be doubtful about my methods, but he couldn’t argue with the results.
“You know how, at the end of Westerns, the cowboy and his girl always ride off into the sunset?” I asked.
Dr. Jensen frowned slightly. “Jane—”
“This isn’t a digression, I swear. And sorry for interrupting you. What I’m trying to say is that I’m happy to spend an hour or two with a handsome cowboy. But when the sun starts to go down, he and his horse can hit the high, dry, and dusty on their own.”
“Metaphorically speaking,” Dr. Jensen said, trying to follow me.
“Yes. Metaphorically speaking, I’m not riding on the back of anyone’s horse ever again.”
Dr. Jensen laughed. “You certainly have a way with words, Jane.”
“Thank you,” I said. “The point is, I like being in control. This summer has been about what I want and what I need—not what someone else wants and what someone else needs. And I can’t tell you how freeing that is.”
“I’m happy for you,” Dr. Jensen said. “You’re not chained to the past anymore—to James and his betrayal.”
“Or handcuffed, as the case may be,” I said.
My therapist laughed again. “Exactly. By the way, I brought you something,” he said. “For the two years.”
He pushed a small cardboard box toward me across the desk.
I leaned forward and looked inside. Nestled in blue tissue paper was a tiny, spiny cactus. A pink flower sat on top of it, just like a little hat.
Delighted, I leapt up and gave Dr. Jensen a hug.
I couldn’t help myself. And anyway, it wasn’t like I tried to kiss him.
Okay, I thought about it.
But only for a second.
Chapter 26
“Whatcha got in the box?” the doorman asked as he pushed the heavy glass door open for me.
The question startled me, and I looked up to see a tall, broad-shouldered young man, his navy-and-gold cap tilted rakishly on his head. I hadn’t seen this doorman on my way in—or, for that matter, ever before in my life.
“Wait—where’s Manny?” I asked. “He was just here.”
The new guy grinned, and two deep dimples appeared in his cheeks. “Manny the Silent? He had a plane to catch. Summer vacation—you know how it goes.” His voice held the faintest trace of a Brooklyn accent.
“Wow, I never realized until right this second that I’ve never heard Manny speak!” I laughed. “He just nods and smiles.”
“Wait until he’s off the clock,” the new doorman said, leaning toward me confidentially. “Then you’d better staple his lips together if you want him to shut up.”
I looked at his shiny brass name tag and then peered up into his dark brown eyes. “I take it you know him, Anthony?”
Anthony nodded. “He’s my dad’s best friend. I’m filling in for him for the next two weeks.” He put his hands on his hips, mock-tough, as he stood in the open doorway. “So are you going to tell me what’s in the box or what?”
There was something so charming about his overgrown boyishness that I couldn’t help but smile. “Have a look,” I said. I held out my prickly new roommate. “It’s a cactus of the Matucana genus, and I am absolutely not going to kill it.”
He laughed. “Are you in the habit of killing succulents?”
“Not on purpose,” I said.
“May I?” He took the box from me and gently touched the bloom with the very tip of his finger. “I recommend a good houseplant fertilizer with trace elements. Just dilute it to a quarter strength. Give her plenty of water now, but taper off in the fall.”
I raised an eyebrow at him. “Are you a cactus specialist?”
He ducked his head modestly. “No. But I’m getting my PhD in botany.”
“Wow. That’s really impressive,” I said.
“Manny calls me Flower Boy,” he said, flushing a little.
“Well, you’re a lot bigger than he is,” I said. “So next time, you just go like this.” I held up a fist and shook it threateningly.
Anthony laughed. “That’s a terrible idea,” he said.
“You’re a lover, not a fighter,” I said. “Right?”
“Exactly,” Anthony agreed. He smiled at me. “What about you?”
I tossed my hair over my shoulder and smiled in return. “Both,” I said.
As I reached out and took my cactus back, my fingers brushed lightly against his. I felt the familiar sweet jolt of electrical attraction.
“Have a good day,” I added.
Then I stepped through the door and into the golden morning sunlight.
“Tell me your name at least,” Anthony called after me.
I walked a few feet more and then I stopped.
Might I, someday, want the services of a cactus doctor?
I turned around, hurried back to him, and pressed my card into his hand.
“Thank you,” Anthony said, flushing again. “Can I call you? Can I call you right now?” He was already patting his pockets for his phone.
Laughing, I waved good-bye, and then, still giggling, I strode down the street.
New York looked spectacular this morning. The yellow cabs, the mirrored office buildings, the emerald-leafed street trees: everything was bright and loud and full of life. I was Jane Avery: single, thirty-five, and living in the b
est city on earth.
Maybe my phone would start ringing soon, and maybe it wouldn’t.
Maybe I’d pick up.
And maybe I’d just keep on walking.
Epilogue
“Are you sure—like, really, really sure—you don’t want to meet us at Pravda later?” Bri asked as we stepped out of the Metropolitan offices into the sweltering August evening. “Come on, Jane, it’s Friday! You need a vodka gimlet.”
I smiled and shook my head. “But you and loverboy don’t need a third wheel.”
“S’il vous plaît? You’ll be a major conversational aid,” Bri pleaded. “Will’s amazing, but I really don’t need to hear about his triathlon training again. And also…” She stopped.
“Go on,” I said—even though I was pretty sure I knew where she was going.
Bri ducked her head and looked slightly embarrassed. “I told Will to bring a friend.” Her eyes met mine. “For, um, you.”
“I knew it!” I said. “How many times have we talked about my lack of interest in dating?”
“A million?”
“And this makes a million and one.” I leaned in and gave her a quick hug good-bye. “Have a good time tonight. Ask Will about his fartleks.”
Bri’s eyes grew wide. “His what?”
I giggled. “It’s a Swedish running term, and I guarantee he knows what it means,” I said. “Old fact-checkers never die…”
She grinned. “They just watch TV at home alone on Friday nights, right?”
I didn’t answer—I just waved and headed uptown. For one thing, it was a rhetorical question. And for another, I wasn’t actually going home.
The truth was, I had a date.
Because I didn’t want to be early, I dawdled on my way north. I window-shopped, ducked into a bodega for a Perrier, and stopped to watch a street musician at Columbus and 70th. And then somehow, by the time I looked at my watch again, I was late.
I half-jogged fifteen blocks and arrived at the restaurant flustered and sweaty. Pausing outside to catch my breath and smooth my now-frizzy hair, I spied my date through the window.
Anthony, wearing a dark button-down shirt open at the collar, was sitting in a cozy little booth—waiting for me. A server came over and placed a tall glass of beer in front of him, and I watched as Anthony looked up and smiled a bright, boyish smile of gratitude.
There was something so sweet in that look. Something so…open—like he was ready to love just about anyone.
And right then, I realized my mistake. Dating someone so young and enthusiastic and affectionate would be like dating a puppy. Albeit a puppy who could nurse my cactus back to life, should the prickly little thing ever require it. (But hey, so far it was doing just fine.)
And that’s how I found myself turning on my heel and hurrying away, leaving Anthony to drink his frothy craft beer—as Bri would say—tout seul. All alone.
I wasn’t proud of myself, not for one second. But I knew that what I was doing was right.
I was almost back to my apartment when it occurred to me that I was starving, and that my refrigerator contained only apples, pita bread, and a takeout container of Al’s hummus: nothing that would make even a halfway acceptable dinner. So I ducked into a little Italian place on the corner of Columbus and 98th. Immediately I was met by the comforting smell of a garlicky, tomatoey ragù.
Most of the tables were occupied, so I took a seat at the narrow marble bar. The bartender—black-haired, potbellied, with a name tag that said FRANCO—greeted me graciously.
“I have a beautiful Amarone on special tonight,” he said, his voice a deep baritone. “Would you like a glass?”
“I’d love one,” I said. I scanned the menu quickly. “And can I have the agnolotti with the taleggio and wild mushrooms?”
He gave a small smile and an even smaller bow. “Of course, miss,” he said. “Excellent choice.”
When the pasta came, I devoured every cheesy, mushroomy molecule of it. And then, sated, I leaned back, took a sip of my wine, and looked around the room. I noticed the lovely orchid display at the hostess stand, the pretty, faded prints on the wall, and the tiny crystal chandeliers dangling from the ceiling, illuminating everything with a warm golden glow.
How many times had I walked past this place? And I’d never noticed it before, though it had obviously been here for years.
New York City: it slowly kept revealing itself, unfolding like one of those old-fashioned accordion postcards. A person could never see half of its secrets.
When I turned back to my wine, I noticed that the seat next to mine was now occupied. By—you guessed it—a man.
He was a few years older than me. His dark hair was cut very short, and his eyes, behind a pair of excellent vintage glasses, were almost black. He was drinking a scotch, neat.
Was it my imagination, or did the room suddenly get warmer? I took a quick sip of ice water and pretended I hadn’t seen him.
But he had obviously seen me.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him lean, ever so slightly, toward me. “Hi,” he said quietly. “I like your dress.”
I inhaled. Exhaled.
Then I slowly uncrossed my legs under the smooth black chiffon of the Dress, and I turned toward him. “Oh, this old thing?” I said, smiling.
About the Authors
James Patterson has written more bestsellers and created more enduring fictional characters than any other novelist writing today. He lives in Florida with his family.
Maxine Paetro has collaborated with James Patterson on the bestselling Women’s Murder Club, Private, and Confessions series. She lives with her husband in New York State.
Rees Jones (also known as Geraint Jones) is an ex-soldier who served in Iraq and Afghanistan. He earned the General Officer Commanding’s Award for Gallantry for his actions in Iraq. His first solo novel, Blood Forest, will be published by Michael Joseph in 2017 under the author name Geraint Jones.
Shan Serafin is a Los Angeles–based writer who began his career with his first novel, Seventeen, before adding screen work to his repertoire and eventually collaborating with James Patterson.
Emily Raymond is the co-author, with James Patterson, of First Love and Witch and Wizard: The Lost, as well as the ghostwriter of numerous novels for young adults. She lives in Portland, Oregon, with her family.
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Copyright © 2016 by James Patterson
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ISBN 9780316431187
E3-201609071-NF-DA