by Lauren Rowe
Sarah
The doctor told me I’d feel like myself again by day three of bed rest, and, wow, holy moly, he was right. I definitely feel like me again—a slightly beaten up version of me, true, but undeniably me. I open my laptop. Yesterday, a guy from school texted to say he’d emailed me notes from all my missed classes, and I finally feel alert enough to take a look. I click into my emails and my heart drops into my toes. There’s an email from The Club.
“Dear Miss Cruz,
“It appears there has been an unfortunate miscommunication between us. We regret any discomfort this might have caused you. Please rest assured we have now acquired full information and look forward to putting the past behind us.
“We are interested in your recent proposal and believe you would make a valuable addition to our organization in the expanded role you have suggested. However, the split shall be seventy-thirty in our favor, not fifty-fifty as originally proposed by you. This is a non-negotiable term and quite fair since we will be supplying the clients.
“We will confirm further details through a Dropbox account within the next few days. But first things first, promptly confirm that you have not released the report you’ve described to our female associate. Release of any such report to any third party, including but not limited to the agencies you’ve named, would, of course, preclude the possibility of an amicable working relationship between us.
“Sincerely,
“The Club.”
I can barely read the text of the email through my rage. Motherfuckers! They call almost bleeding me dry an “unfortunate miscommunication”? Really? Gosh, how about we sit down and talk things through? Talking about it doesn’t mean we’re disagreeing—it means I’m going to stab you. If Jonas were here, he’d laugh at that. Well, maybe not. You never know with Jonas.
Jonas. God, I miss him. Three days here at my mom’s house has felt like an eternity, even in my drug-induced haze. I feel like I’m missing an arm or a leg. No, that’s not right—I feel like I’m missing my heart. I’ve never ached for another human being the way I do for Jonas right now. I physically need him.
Speak of the devil, my phone buzzes with a text.
“Hi, baby,” he says.
“Hi, boyfriend,” I write back. “I was just thinking about you.” We’ve texted and spoken several times over the past three days, but always briefly. Each time, I’ve told him I miss him and can’t wait to see him. Every time, he’s told me he’s sorry—for what, I don’t know. “Been keeping yourself busy?” I type.
“Yeah, went climbing with Josh yesterday. Been working on a business plan for Climb and Conquer. Hard to concentrate. I miss you too much.”
“I miss you, too,” I write. Why am I doing this to him? To myself?
“Do you need anything?”
“No, my mom is taking great care of me.” I pause. I can feel his heartbreak through the phone line. He just wants to be with me. I know he does.
“Can I call you later?” I write. “Just finishing something up.”
“Sure.”
I can feel the tightness of that word through cyberspace.
“You promise you’ll call?”
“I promise.”
I feel his torture. I know I’m causing him pain. Heck, I’m causing myself pain. But I don’t know how to tell him what I’m feeling. I feel guilty, ashamed. Downright depressed. I’ve put the man I love through hell. I’ve gotten him involved in something horrible and huge. And now I have to fix things, all by myself—but I don’t know how. A part of me just wants to bury my head in the sand and wish it all away.
My mom comes into the room with a steaming bowl of soup and a tall glass of ice water. I close my laptop as she approaches.
“The soup’s hot, so give it a minute,” she says in Spanish.
“Okay, thanks.”
“It’s time for your antibiotic,” she says. She looks at her watch. “And you can take another pain pill, too, if you want one.”
“No,” I say. “I think I’m done with painkillers. Maybe just an ibuprofen or whatever.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m feeling a million times better. Those pain meds make me sleep too much.”
“Sleep is how your body heals,” she says. She touches my hair. “You look much better today.”
“I feel much better.”
“Are you doing schoolwork?” she asks.
“No, just checking my emails.”
“Don’t do too much. You’re supposed to rest.”
“I’ve been resting nonstop for three days. I’m starting to go crazy.”
“Do you want me to stay in here with you? We can watch a movie.”
Gah. I love my mom with all my heart. She’s the best mom in the whole world, she really is. And this whole situation has to be her worst nightmare, even worse than what my father put her through. But oh my God, I’m going frickin’ crazy staying here with her. The woman is smothering me with motherly love. Or maybe I just want Jonas.
“Yeah, that’d be great,” I say. “Give me twenty minutes to finish what I’m doing on my computer and then we’ll pick a movie.”
“Okay. Don’t do too much. The doctor said you need to rest.” She kisses my cheek and leaves.
I open my laptop again. What the hell am I going to reply to these bastards? I can’t show weakness, that’s for sure. I’ve got to buy myself more time—time to figure out a game plan. I place my hands on my keyboard again.
“To Whom It May Concern,” I type, biting my lip.
My phone buzzes with an incoming call and I grab it. Georgia. Wow, I’m elated Georgia’s calling me back so soon after our phone conversation yesterday. “Hi, Georgia,” I say. I didn’t expect her to get back to me so fast. “How are you?”
“I’m great,” she says. “How are you feeling today? Better?”
“Much better. Each day the pain gets less and less.”
She sighs with relief. “I’m so glad to hear it. So, I’ve got the information you asked for.” She sounds excited. “It was easy to get.”
Yesterday, when I called Georgia (allegedly to tell her about Belize), I asked if she’d be willing to gather a teeny-tiny bit of post-office-related information for me. When she asked me why I needed the information, I told her a watered-down version of the truth, but the truth, nonetheless: I used to work for an online dating service that I’ve recently discovered was engaged in illegal activity (the nature of which I didn’t specify), and I fear the attack on me at school might have had something to do with my discovery. “So I’m doing a little investigation to see if I’m right.”
Of course, Georgia agreed to help me, if she could, although she was understandably worried.
“Okay, here’s what I’ve been able to find out,” Georgia says. “There are twelve Oksanas with post office boxes registered in the greater Las Vegas area—Las Vegas, Henderson, Winchester, etcetera. I’ve got their full names plus the physical address each Oksana provided when she signed up for her post office box.”
“I owe you big, Georgia. Thank you. Can you email me the list?”
“Of course,” she says. “But, hey, maybe you should go to the police with all of this?”
“I gave the police a statement in the hospital.” True. “They think my attack was a random mugging.” Also true (because that’s what I led them to believe). “Hopefully, this information will lead to something helpful for the investigation.” Also true—but helpful to whom and for what investigation I’m not exactly sure.
“Okay, just be careful,” Georgia says.
After thanking Georgia profusely and assuring her I’d be careful, we say our goodbyes—and then I sit and ponder the situation for a moment. Twelve Oksanas? How am I going to find the right one? Knock on each Oksana’s door and say, “Hi! Are you the Oksana who tried to kill me?”
It looks like my strongest play right now is buying myself time. What else can I do? I need time to figure out what to do next and that money I gav
e them isn’t going to protect me forever. I open my laptop and continue typing my reply:
“I sincerely regret any discomfort caused by our ‘unfortunate miscommunication,’ too—seeing as how it left me dying in a puddle of my own blood on a bathroom floor. To answer your question, I haven’t submitted my report to anyone yet, though it took a Herculean effort to stop it from automatically releasing to several agencies, as I’d previously arranged. Luckily, I was able to put the brakes on things at the last minute this time, but I won’t be able to stop its widespread and immediate dissemination next time—nor will I even try. So there better not be a next time.”
I stop for a moment and consider deleting that last sentence. It’s pretty ballsy. Eh, screw it. I’ll just go balls to the walls—big risk, big reward, just like Jonas always says.
I continue typing:
“Thank you for your interest in my business proposal. I look forward to finalizing our arrangement, too. A fifty-fifty split is what I’m willing to do. Yes, you supply the clients, but I’m the one who’s going to make them pay up. You can lead a horse to your watering hole all you like, but it’s me who’s going to make him slurp up gallons and gallons of water. In fact, I’ve recently learned I’m uniquely talented at making horses drink. Fifty-fifty. Take it or leave it, people. But be advised: If you decide to ‘leave it,’ my report goes live—no second chances. I’m done fucking around.
“The emergency room doctors I’ve recently visited, thanks to you—did I mention our ‘unfortunate miscommunication’ left me bleeding out on a bathroom floor?—have told me to take a solid two weeks strict bed rest to recuperate from my injuries. When my health returns and I’m able to walk, let alone ride the horses you plan on bringing to our mutual watering hole, I will let you know. I want this new venture to be a success as much as you do, I assure you—our interests are completely aligned—but I’m only human after all, and having a stab wound on my torso and staples in my head isn’t all that conducive to sexy time.
“Sincerely,
“Your Faithful Intake Agent, Sarah Cruz
“P.S. By the way, I’ve described our recent ‘unfortunate miscommunication’ to the police as a random mugging. (I’m not fucking stupid.)”
Before I can change my mind, I press send.
Holy crappola. What am I doing? I’m insane. I’m not James Bond. I’m not a superhero. I can call myself Orgasma the All-Powerful all I like, but I’m still just me. A girl made of flesh and bones—and blood, as my body so recently proved in spades. I don’t know what the heck I think I’m doing. Damn. I need help. I need Jonas.
Or maybe I should throw in the towel and just call the FBI already? If that means I won’t pass the ethics review for my law license, then I guess I’ll just have to live with that. But I don’t want to give up on my legal career. Tears rise up in my eyes. I’ve worked too hard to get here. My mother is counting on me and so are the countless women my mom helps. I can’t let them down. I’ve got to figure this out. I wipe my eyes.
I need Jonas.
I have a stomachache.
I need Jonas.
Jonas. Jonas, Jonas, Jonas. Oh my God, Jonas. My heart and body and soul ache for him. He looked so sad when my mom drove me away from the hospital. I wanted to hurl my body out of the car and leap into his arms right then. But I didn’t. I just closed my eyes and cried as the car peeled away, too overwhelmed and in pain and jumbled and depressed and anxious to do anything else.
I need Jonas.
My heart pangs violently. I miss him. I can’t be apart from him for another minute. I thought I needed time away to remind myself who I am when I’m not in his intoxicating presence—to battle my addiction to him and regain my sense of self, to get a handle on my studies and figure things out and let my body heal without distraction. I thought I needed to take a break from the madness for a little while. But I was wrong. Oh God, I was so wrong. I need him. My sweet Jonas. The man I love with all my heart and soul. For better or worse.
I pick up the phone and dial him. He answers immediately.
“Baby,” he says softly. He sounds out of breath, like he gasped when he saw my name come up on his screen.
At the sound of his voice, I lose it. “Jonas,” I bawl.
“What is it, Sarah? Tell me.” He lets out a pained exhale. “Whatever it is, we’ll handle it.” He sounds like he wants to leap through the phone line.
“Come get me, Jonas. I want you. I need you. Please, Jonas. Bring me home.”
Chapter 12
Sarah
“I can walk,” I say. But Jonas ignores me, as usual. He scoops me up from his car and carries me into his house, straight to his bedroom, and lays me down on top of his white sheets like I’m a porcelain doll.
“Welcome home,” he says softly. He’s triumphant—the picture of pure elation.
I smile at him. “It’s good to be home.”
“Say that again,” he says.
“Home.”
“You’re forbidden to leave ever again,” he says. “I’m gonna install bars on the windows and doors.”
“I’m so happy to be here, I’m not even creeped out by that statement.”
He lies down next to me, on his side. “You’re so beautiful,” he says, softly tracing my eyebrow with his finger. “I missed you so much.” He takes my face in his hands. “Never leave me again.”
“I won’t.”
“Never, ever, ever.”
“Got it.”
“Ever.”
“I’ve learned my lesson. It was physically painful being away from you—or, wait, maybe that pain came from the knife in my side.” I smile, but he doesn’t. Clearly, it’s too soon for knock-knock-who’s-there-I-got-stabbed humor.
“I—,” he chokes out. He stuffs down whatever he was about to say. “When I saw you on the bathroom floor, I thought you were dead.”
“Oh, Jonas, I’m so sorry.” I can’t even imagine how that must have affected him.
He kisses me gently. “I thought I’d lost you.” He wraps his arm over me and kisses every inch of my face. His muscles are taut against my body.
I close my eyes. My fingers find his bicep. “I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizing,” he murmurs. “I’m the one who’s sorry.” He sighs. “Sarah, I need to—”
“Jonas, wait. Listen to me.”
He pulls back and stares at me. He waits.
“I know we have a ton of stuff to talk about. Like, tons and tons. But before we start talking and probably never stop, can I ask a favor?”
“You can have whatever you want, my beautiful, precious baby. Forever and ever and ever and ever, whatever you want.” He strokes my cheek.
I pause. That was a big statement. Wow. He just made my heart leap out of my chest. I clear my throat.
“Name it, baby,” he says, kissing my cheek. “Whatever it is, it’s yours. I’m yours. Forever and ever and ever. Whatever you want, it shall be yours.” He kisses my nose.
Wow, he’s making me giddy. Not to mention turning me on. I can hardly speak.
“Tell me,” he says.
“I want you to kiss all my booboos.”
He smiles. “Your booboos?”
I grin broadly. It’s hilarious hearing that silly word come out of his mouth. “Yeah. I want you to give me besitos on my booboos and make ‘em all better.”
“Besitos?” he repeats. Jonas always loves it when I speak Spanish to him.
“Mmm hmm. Little kisses. On my booboos.”
“Besitos on your booboos, huh?”
“Mmm hmm.”
He bites his lip. “Whatever you say, my precious, pretty baby. My Magnificent Sarah.” His cheeks are flushed.
How did we survive these past three days apart? Why did I feel the need to pull away from him? I can’t even remember why I thought I needed space.
I sit up and raise my arms over my head, and he takes off my tank top.
“Oh,” he says, wincing at the sight of me.
<
br /> I look down at myself and shrug. The wound on my ribcage looks way better than it did three days ago. But I imagine Jonas doesn’t appreciate all the healing my body has done—all he sees is my current state of disrepair.
I lie back down on the bed, inviting him to kiss my body. “It looks worse than it feels, I assure you.”
He leans down to my torso and softly kisses me. “This booboo right here?”
Goose bumps erupt all over my skin. “That’s the one.”
He runs his fingertip over my stitches and then over the black-and-blue-and-yellowish skin surrounding the gash. “Does it hurt?”
“Not too bad.”
He kisses my wound again and I shudder as my skin comes alive under his touch. His lips move up from my ribcage to the stitched-up gash on my neck.
“And this booboo here, too?”
“Mmm hmm.” I shiver. I’m aching for him.
“Does it hurt when I kiss it?” he asks.
“No, it feels really good,” I say. “Your besitos are making me all better.”
“Can I see the back of your head?” he asks.
I sit up and turn my head. He moves my hair and gasps.
“Am I Frankenstein?” I ask. I’m anxious. I haven’t actually taken a peek back there.
“Holy shit. They stapled you back together, Sarah.” He lets out a groan of sympathy. “It looks like they used a staple gun from Home Depot on your head.”
I quickly lean back, intending to lie back on my pillow. “You don’t have to kiss that booboo—I’m not a sadist.”
He puts his hand on my shoulder to stop me from reclining. “Hey, sit back up, Frankenstein. I want to kiss all your booboos—especially that one.”
I pause. My heart is racing. I don’t know what it looks like back there, but it’s got to be pretty nasty looking. “It’s okay. I don’t want to gross you out.”
“You’re not grossing me out,” he says, turning my shoulders away from him. “I love every inch of you, Sarah Cruz, even the disgusting parts.”
I swivel back around and stare at him. Did he just say he loves every inch of me?
He meets my gaze. “Come on,” he says, his eyes smoldering. “Let me show you how much I love every inch of you.”