by M. Leighton
She gets out, pays the cabbie and waits for him to disappear from sight before she turns and walks across the street and down a block to a different motel. There, she heads toward the last spot at the end, gets in a white sedan, and pulls out.
We follow her as she makes her way back the way we came, then on past it and toward the airport. She doesn’t stop until we reach a club called Zanzibar on the West side of the city. It’s very apparently a strip club and, there, she pulls into the alley beside it. She doesn’t move to get out of the car, though. Just sits inside it, headlights turned off, engine running, as if she’s waiting.
We can’t hover in the street at the mouth of the alley without being seen, so I have my driver circle the block and come back to park on the street, hoping that she hasn’t left already. After exactly six minutes, the white sedan exits the alley.
If I hadn’t known Simone was driving, I wouldn’t have recognized her. She changed her clothes and her wig while she waited. She was a blonde with long, wavy hair when I followed her down the sidewalk just over an hour ago. Now she has a short, brown housewife bob and it looks as though she’s wearing a severe, button-up blouse. And glasses. Black-rimmed glasses.
She could be an assistant, a teacher, a church secretary. She could be anybody, which I guess is the point. She’s made herself so ordinary looking, she’s practically invisible.
She’s not invisible to me, though. Never to me.
“Follow her again, please. Keep a safe distance.”
The cabbie doesn’t even respond. He probably thinks I’m a deranged stalker. He’ll do as I ask for the money, though. It’s the universal tool of persuasion. A numbing agent for the conscience.
As we make our way through the streets of the city, my mind keeps returning to the sight of Simone in her disguise. I think the glasses are what did it for me—threw me for such a loop. I knew Poppy wore contacts, but I never saw her in glasses. Simone either for that matter. It’s a startling transformation. She looks so…normal.
I tear my mind away from that train of thought, focusing instead on what Simone is up to in that car up ahead.
She has a passenger. From the glimpse I got when they pulled out of the alley, it’s a man, mid to late thirties, Caucasian, average in every discernible way from the looks of him. He’s wearing a tie, which isn’t all that unusual considering how many businessmen visit places like this, located so close to the airport, but it’s the odd pattern that I find notable. It’s got what looks like white circles on it. Not your typical staid, conservative tie.
Now he’s sitting beside Simone staring straight ahead. Not once has he turned to glance at her. From what I can tell, they’re not even talking. They act like strangers, which spawns a whole slew of questions.
Who is he?
Who is he to her ?
Where are they going?
Why did she meet him there, pick him up the way she did?
Why did she change her appearance?
On and on, they roll in, rattling around, unanswered, until my hands are fisted in frustration where they rest on my thighs.
We follow Simone back across town, to another string of cheap motels where she and her passenger get out and get into another car—a small, silver compact. Nondescript in every way, just like her, just like her passenger.
From there, she drives them to a third destination. It’s at this motel that she pulls into a spot like she’s going to stay. She cuts the engine and gets out in front of door marked 109. They don’t enter that room, though; they walk up the stairs, down the breezeway and into room 206.
I watch the window. My guts draw into a tight knot when the light never comes on. What would they be doing in the dark?
A large part of me doesn’t want to know.
But I don’t leave.
I can’t.
Instead, I sit in the back of a dirty cab and I stew for every long minute that they’re in there, cursing both of them for every second they don’t come back out.
I can imagine all sorts of unsavory things they might be doing in there, things that would require this sort of cloak-and-dagger routine. None of them are good. All of them turn my stomach.
When the door does finally open, some twenty minutes later, it’s Simone alone who exits. She looks exactly as she did when she went in, which gives me some strange, vague amount of comfort. She walks back to her car, starts it up and drives away, never once looking back.
She retraces her steps, via yet another circuitous route, parks the white car back where it was to begin with. She’s inside it for a few minutes longer this time, and when she emerges, she’s dressed as she was when she left her apartment—like a seventies hooker. And just like she did coming in, she walks up the street, but rounds the corner this time, and hails another cab.
I wish I’d made note of the license plates of the various cars. Normally that would’ve been one of the first things I committed to memory, but I was preoccupied. Simone…she was distracting me, her and her illicit activities. I wish I could not care. But I can’t. I can’t not care, because I care too damn much.
Simone takes the cab to a coffee shop where she gets herself a cappuccino to go (I know this because I can see the girl make it) and then goes back out to hail yet another taxi to take her back to her apartment.
Back where we started. And for what? What the hell just happened?
I’m befuddled.
I’m angry.
I’m grudgingly impressed.
Whatever Simone’s doing, she’s taking all sorts of well thought-out precautions. They’re evidently very effective, too. The fact that she hasn’t been caught doing it speaks to how clever her method is, how clever she is. One more facet to the woman I love. It seems the layers are infinite, each one equally fascinating in its own way, but it’s the whole that captured my heart.
Still, I need to know what she’s doing, which means I need to get back into her computer. My gut tells me there’s more to find on it, information and processes and maybe even reasons, buried deep within all those zeroes and ones. Like why the hell was she covered in dirt the other night? It had to be Simone that came back to bed that way, but what had she been doing?
I need to make contact with Poppy, too. Badly. I need to make things right with her. I’m just not sure how to go about it.
She’s hurt, which is probably why Simone is the dominant personality right now. Maybe appealing to her through my love of Poppy could help. If I can’t talk directly to Poppy, maybe I can talk indirectly to Poppy.
20
Poppy
N oah keeps texting, and it’s getting harder and harder to be strong, to leave him behind.
Mainly because I don’t want to.
Not really.
I love him.
Even though he hurt me.
I asked Simone about it, about him, and she just laughed. And kept on laughing. Why would she do this to me?
The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that it was all her, just like Noah said. As much as I hate to say this about my best friend, she’s warped where men are concerned. I don’t really know why, but it’s getting worse. She’s obsessed with them, and I’m pretty sure she’s doing things that would horrify me if I knew about them. I don’t ask, though, and, luckily, she doesn’t offer details.
But I know.
Something is off with her.
I suppose that’s why when Noah texts again, I’m not only tempted to respond, I actually do.
You awake?
I have to grin. Does he think I aged forty years over night? That I’m a seventy-one-year-old woman who can’t stay up past nine?
It’s 9:00. Why wouldn’t I be?
There’s only a short pause.
Oh right. I guess time seems kinda messed up. Another pause before I see those three bubbles pop up again. Poppy, I can’t stop thinking about you. Can I come over? Please. I just want to talk to you.
I almost type out an immediate yes, but I figure I sh
ould at least make a show of contemplating.
It’s late.
Even though I’m still heartbroken, unable to get the image of those pictures out of my mind, I’m already smiling, like I used to do all the time when things were good between us.
It seems like a lifetime ago, rather than just a few days. I’m sure that’s what the rest of my existence would feel like without Noah—long and excruciating.
Okay, then how about tomorrow? You name the time and the place and I’ll be there. Wherever you want.
No, I want to see him tonight. I need to see him tonight, to tell him it’s all right and that I believe him. And that I should’ve believed him from the start.
No, tonight is fine.
My stomach is already curling in anticipation. I just want to be close to him again, to look into those beautiful eyes.
Can I come now?
Yes, the time for anger and resentment is over.
Yes.
I wait for a response, but none comes. I realize why when, less than three minutes later, the intercom buzzes. My heart thunders as I press the button to let him up. He must’ve been close. Waiting.
And that makes me happy.
I hear the soft thud of his footsteps as he takes the stairs two at a time. I try to hide my pleasure as I open the door for him.
When he reaches the top step and sees me, I see him exhale, I see the relief as his body relaxes. He walks toward me, those long legs eating up the distance in just seconds.
“Thank you for letting me come over,” he says when he stops in front of me.
I nod, staring up at him. In just these few days, I have forgotten what it feels like to have those eyes focused on me, to feel that intensity pouring off him. It washes over me in thick, nearly tangible waves.
I’ve missed this. God, how I’ve missed this. I’ve missed him. How could I think I’d be able to walk away? How could I imagine that I’d survive without him?
I’m lost. Swept away.
I was right. Noah Williamson is the hurricane, and I am helplessly trapped within the eye.
“Is something wrong?” he finally asks.
I shake my head, unable to speak past the lump in my throat. I belong to this man and all I can think is please don’t hurt me, please don’t hurt me.
“Poppy, what is it?” He reaches out and cups my cheek in his broad palm. The heat of it leeches into me, chasing away the cold that has been my constant companion since I saw those pictures on his phone.
I feel wrecked. Exhausted. Vulnerable.
I’m incapable of pretense, of anything less than honesty. The time for lies has past. It’s all or nothing now.
“I’m in love with you, Noah, and that should be a good thing. It should feel like a good thing, but part of me is so scared. I can’t imagine my life without you, so what does that mean for me if you hurt me? I’ll be destroyed. An-and I’m afraid of giving you that kind of power, but I don’t think I have a choice.”
I cover my eyes with my hands when I start to cry. I can’t help myself. I’m so relieved and so in love and so absolutely terrified that the only thing I can feel is overwhelmed. It’s like I don’t know which way is up.
I feel a gentle tug on my wrists as Noah eases my hands away. When I look beyond them to his handsome face, he sinks to his knees, his fingers curling around mine to hold them tight.
“I will never hurt you. I swear to God with everything in me. You’re safe with me, Poppy. Your heart is safe with me. I’ll protect it until my dying breath.” I see him swallow hard. “My life isn’t worth a damn without you. You wouldn’t believe how miserable I’ve been. You’re all I want in the world. If I don’t have you, I have nothing. I’m hollow and empty and everything is gray. You bring color. You bring light. You bring sunshine and flowers and every good thing. And when you go, you take them with you. So please, please don’t go. Don’t leave me in the gray.”
I know how he feels. I feel the same way, I just haven’t been able to put it into words.
As I stand above him, looking down at this big, strong man who is on his knees before me, I realize that he’s giving me his heart, too. He’s giving me the ability to crush it if I choose, to destroy his world. Yet here he is, doing just that. Leaving himself open to my blade if I decided to cut him off, excise him from my life.
In this one way, we are equals. We are equally weak, equally defenseless. Equally helpless against this hurricane.
I thought it was him, but it wasn’t. It’s what’s between us. That is the hurricane, threatening to carry us away. But he’s willing to go. He’s willing to brave the storm of the unknown for me. He will if I will.
Slowly, I get down on my knees in front of him, leaning forward to brush my lips over his. I don’t have the words that he does, just this indescribable feeling swirling through me. A sense of rightness. A sense of providence. A sense of inevitability.
“I would follow you to the ends of the earth,” he whispers, pressing his forehead to mine. His tone is a wound, bleeding, and a promise, healing. “I will never let you go. I will never give up on you.”
“I love you.”
I feel the huff of his breath as it kisses my cheeks, my chin, my mouth.
And then he is standing, lifting me into his strong arms, carrying me into the safety and privacy of my home. Making me every promise I’ve ever wanted to hear.
Loving me like I’ve always wanted to be loved.
21
Noah
I wake to the tender touch of a warm hand to my balls. It cups them and then moves up to stroke my shaft, which springs to life within seconds. I crack my lids to see Poppy smiling at me from my side, her golden eyes dark with desire.
I will never get tired of this.
Never.
I reach between us to toy with her nipple, tugging on it, rolling it, pinching it. She arches against me. I know what she likes.
Her grip on me gets tighter, more forceful. Our lips get more ravenous, our tongues more insistent. Our bites get harder.
Her mouth leaves mine, her tongue trailing a hot, wet path down to my nipple, which she laves and sucks at, then sinks her teeth into.
It’s almost painful.
Almost, but not quite, and I find myself balanced on the threshold between pleasure and pain.
Her hand leaves my shaft and she scrapes her fingernails up the inside of my thigh, making me jump.
I’m panting. Excited.
I’m just about to roll over onto her when she brings a hand to my chest and presses me into the mattress, levering herself onto me.
For a tenth of a second, I think of a condom, but when she moves on me, when she lifts that tight body off mine and then slams back down, all thought goes out the window.
I close my eyes, reveling in the feel of her moving on me, over and over again.
I feel her teeth again, biting at my nipple, her nails ripping at the skin on my sides. Pleasure pain. Pain pleasure. The line is hazy.
Then she’s moving away from me, her heat gone, her touch removed. I open my eyes just in time to see her beautiful ass as she reseats herself on me, her back to me, riding me once more.
The only sounds are her moans, my pants, and the slick sound of her body like a glove on mine.
“Oh shit,” I groan, the pressure building, building, building.
She takes my hand, leaning forward and pulling me with her until I, too, am on my knees, poised behind her. Without a word, she reaches back and guides me back into her. One stroke, two. And then she’s slamming her body back against mine, skin slapping skin, breath matching breath.
I grab her hips, pumping into her as hard and as fast as I can, completely out of control, abs clenching, heart racing.
“Yes, yes, yes!” she cries, her nails digging into the back of my hand where I’m still gripping her hips, her body convulsing around mine.
My vision is blurred for a few seconds, the pleasure is so intense, but I do catch the movement of her head as
she whips it around to look back at me.
It’s her smile that gives her away. There’s something unmistakably feline about it, something unmistakably Simone about it.
She was Poppy when this started. I know it. I feel her differently. But the switch happened so fast, happened when I was too excited, too damn focused on that delectable body and the way it makes me feel, that I didn’t notice the shift. I didn’t feel the change.
But it happened.
And now I’m left with Simone, who I just ejaculated inside.
“I knew it would be like this,” she says, squeezing around me one last time before I pull out.
I keep a tight hold on my temper as I roll away from her to sit on the edge of the bed.
“I won’t tell Poppy if you won’t,” she whispers in my ear as she climbs off the bed and walks, proud and naked, toward the bathroom. “Just don’t lie and tell me you didn’t like it. Because I know you did.”
I say nothing, just wait for her to close herself in the bathroom. Regret and concern mingle with determination in my gut. The time has come. The risk of me messing this shit up is too high. I’ve got to get this woman some help. I just need to know what she’s doing as Simone before I do. I have to control as much of the damage as I can.
I know what I have to do.
22
Noah
I know it’s just a matter of time before Simone has to tend to her…business. I just have to ride this out until she does. When she comes out of the bathroom, I feign sleep on the sofa.
I hear her moving around, but I can’t risk trying to watch her, so I listen as closely as I can, trying to discern what she’s doing.
She moves through the kitchen, opening the refrigerator and closing it. Then a cabinet. I hear the clink of glass and realize she’s getting something to drink. I keep my breathing steady and even, and I wait.
I hear the rustle of paper and imagine that she might be standing at the counter reading the paper, which they still get because I’ve seen it lying on the coffee table a couple of times.