by Leigh, Tara
As I begin walking uptown, I call a real estate agent I’ve worked with in the past. I explain what I’m looking for and she agrees to send me a few potential listings. We make tentative plans to meet up tomorrow.
I know I should probably call a headhunter, but I’m in no rush to get back to politics just yet.
I reach the restaurant a few minutes early and order a tea. Davina arrives just as I’m taking my first sip. She kisses me on both cheeks and pulls me into a warm embrace. I linger for longer than I normally would have, and when we pull apart, I am blinking back tears.
She slides in across from me, glances at my tea and says to the server, “I think we need something stronger. Two Belvedere martinis. Straight up, with a twist.”
I break into a laugh. “It’s been that kind of day?”
“Frankly, yes. How about you?”
“It’s been that kind of week. Month.” I push my teacup and saucer aside. “But things are looking up.”
She smiles. “I’m glad to hear that.” She lowers her voice. “Are you ready to come back to work again?”
“I am.” The waiter returns with two chilled martini glasses, pouring them directly from the cocktail shaker. We clink glasses and I take a grateful sip. “I’d also like to become more involved in your charity work and advocacy efforts. I believe I can be of value, given my political background. I understand the issues involved and am a passionate advocate for domestic violence survivors. If you will consider—”
Davina stops me by covering my hand with one of her own. “Yes.”
“Yes?”
“Yes. You are a capable, courageous woman. I would be honored to work with you.”
The warmth that fills me isn’t from the vodka. I return her grin. “Thank you, Davina. That means the world to me. I was worried my situation would have changed things.”
“What situation?”
I hesitate for a moment. “Damon and me. We were together for a hot minute and now we’re not. I thought you might …”
My voice trails off and Davina intervenes. “The women and children who need our help take precedence over personal drama, always.”
I breathe a sigh of relief and take another sip. The vodka is a cool, bracing splash over my tongue. “Yes, of course.”
She spends a few minutes talking, in vague terms, about the newest package that needs to be delivered outside of New York. It’s obvious that this work takes a toll on Davina. The responsibility isn’t an easy burden to bear, and their stories weigh on the soul. “I’m going to check on them after leaving here, would you like to join me?”
“Absolutely.” I’ve only had brief interactions with the people we help, and I know it’s significant that Davina has asked me to join her tonight.
We order our meal, and over dinner we discuss upcoming legislation affecting abused women and children, a grant Davina would like to apply for, and some new advocacy work I might be interested in pursuing. It is after the check has been paid that she asks, “So, where do things stand with you and Damon right now?”
“I don’t know,” I answer with a dejected shake of my head. “I don’t think I can live in his world. What he does goes against everything I believe in.”
“Everything? Do you know how many women and children would be dead right now, or living lives of shame and abuse?” Her voice is gentle, but each word lands with the force of a mallet striking bone.
“Of course. That’s not what I object to. It’s … everything else,” I finish lamely.
“And you don’t love him enough to attempt a compromise?”
A knee-jerk denial turns to dust before it leaves my mouth. Instead, I say, “I’m not sure if it’s enough.”
“You know, Aislinn, I’ve seen love twisted in too many unrecognizable ways. Love is used as a weapon, a threat, an excuse, a defense.” She pats my shoulder, staring into my eyes. “That said, when it’s true, it’s worth fighting for.”
45
DAMON
We are born with two hundred and seventy bones. As we age, some fuse together so that by the time we are adults, we have two hundred and six. Theoretically, you can break almost all of them without actually dying. But in reality, your body will go into shock sooner rather than later.
This cop has a file nearly as long as most criminals. He’s been written up for excessive force, coerced confessions, racial profiling, tardiness, drinking on the job, unwarranted search and seizures, insubordination … And the list of every injury sustained by his wife and children—every reported injury, that is—is even longer.
The beating Burke and I mete out is methodical and precise, designed to inflict maximum pain. I don’t feel even the tiniest shred of remorse as his ribs crack beneath the force of my fist. Not when blood streams from his face and ears and my cracked knuckles. Not when his screams and pleas become unintelligible because his teeth are just bloody shards scattered on the ground.
Like the cold-blooded killer I am, I feel nothing.
Later, after a shower, I decide to visit the people I did it for. Hoping that something, anything, will penetrate this fog I’m in.
The fog that has become my home since Aislinn left.
Unannounced visits to those who have been living in terror are best avoided, so I text Davina to say that I will be stopping by.
I knock once and then use my key to enter. Davina is sitting with the wife, no doubt going over their escape itinerary.
I sense Aislinn before I see her. It is the faint sweetness that perfumes the air, the heightened energy that makes my heartbeat kick up a notch, the almost imperceptible lightening of my steps. My eyes are drawn toward the window. Aislinn is sitting on the floor, bookended by a girl coloring in a sketchpad and a boy peering at what looks like an instruction book to a Lego set. The other daughter is sitting on the couch nearby, reading a book.
Aislinn looks up, swatting at the molten river of blonde impeding her vision. Instantly, her full lips curve into a grin, her blue eyes beaming with happiness. But just as quickly as her joyful expression appears, it is gone.
Leaving me wondering if it had ever been there at all.
I blink, and Aislinn is wearing an aloof mask. The ice princess I remember well. The ice princess that set fire to more than just a bed.
She built a blaze that consumed my willpower, my ambitions, my heart.
I cross the room. “Legos, huh?”
The little boy peers up at me. “We’re trying to build a spaceship, but I don’t think girls are good at Legos.”
I sit down on the floor. “I think girls, especially this one in particular,” I dare a glance at Aislinn, pleased that her expression has softened somewhat, “are good at anything they put their minds to.”
But he shakes his head mournfully. “Not spaceships.”
I make an effort to contain my chuckle, but it slips through the corners of my mouth anyway. “You think we can teach her?”
His face lights up at the suggestion. “We sure can. I’m a good teacher.”
“And what about your sisters? This is a pretty big set, we can probably use some help.”
They both appear surprised to be included. The older one on the couch gives a quick shake of her head and shrinks back into the couch, tugging her sweatshirt over the cast on her wrist. The younger girl whispers something into Aislinn’s ear.
“Kara would love to help,” Aislinn murmurs, sliding one of the Lego-filled plastic bags over to her side.
For the next hour, we divide and conquer. Danny and I work on the first three bags while Aislinn and Kara build the other two, combining sections as needed.
The children are quietly cooperative. They keep their voices low and don’t fight with each other.
“You know,” Aislinn offers, not glancing up from her part of the ship, “Mr. King played with spaceships when he was a kid.”
I haven’t built a Lego set from scratch since my grandparents were alive, but the methodical nature of it is soothing. Every piece, n
o matter how small, has a place and a purpose. The directions must be followed exactly and in order.
Danny eyes me curiously. “What do you play with now?”
Kara interrupts. “Adults don’t play. That’s why they’re so mad all the time.”
“Sh. Mr. King isn’t mad, and he’s playing.” Danny shoots his sister an annoyed look before looking back at me. “Maybe you can ask my dad to join us. Maybe if he sees you playing, he’ll want to play too.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Kara edging even closer to Aislinn. “Sure,” I agree, despite knowing that their father, even if he manages to crawl out of the gutter Burke and I dumped him in, will probably never have the fine motor coordination to build Legos. Or the ability to make a fist. He will never hurt anyone, ever again.
It’s not until the spaceship is built and the kids are settled in front of the TV in their pajamas, that Aislinn and I make our goodbyes. The unexpected rap at the door has me instantly on alert, despite knowing who it most certainly isn’t.
Davina stands up. “It’s just Juliana, I asked her to drop off a few things on her way home.”
“Juliana?” Aislinn repeats her name like a question. “I thought she was assigned to the team covering Los Muertos communications.”
At my surprised glance, Aislinn adds, “I used my time wisely. Another day and I would have had a name for you.”
“There is no mole,” I say. “And since Juliana knows what it’s like to be a kid on the receiving end of our services, I approved her request to become involved.”
The frown creasing Aislinn’s brow is still there when Davina opens the door. Juliana doesn’t come in, merely handing over a bag containing the necessary documents to Davina.
By the time we exchange a few last words with Davina and the mother and step into the hall, Juliana is nowhere to be seen. As we wait for the elevator, Aislinn regards me thoughtfully. “I’m going to be working more closely with Davina. Would you mind if I meet with Juliana, get her perspective?”
A chime sounds just before the arrival of an empty elevator car. “Her perspective?”
“She must have some thoughts as to what these kids are going through, and ideas to help them start their news lives off on the right footing.” We step inside and I jab at the button for the lobby. “Have you ever asked Juliana about her experience with The Network? If there’s a way for us to ease the strain on these kids?”
I blink at her. “We do that by getting them away from the assholes making their lives hell.”
“I guess.” She sounds reluctant. “I wonder if there’s a way we can keep in contact. Make sure that their lives have truly improved. That their mother doesn’t fall for the same kind of guy and that they’re not—”
“I think you’re overthinking things.”
Aislinn rubs at her forehead, a soft laugh trickling through her lips. “Probably. But it can’t hurt.”
I shrug. “Knock yourself out.”
Aislinn beams as the doors open and we walk outside to the sidewalk. “Great, thanks.”
“Come on, I’ll give you a ride,” I say, once we’re standing on the sidewalk. What I really want to do is bring Aislinn back to my place.
She scans the street for a moment then looks up at me strangely. “You know, maybe those kids are onto something.”
I tilt my head to the side, not following her train of thought. “What?”
“Adults think too much and don’t play enough. Maybe that’s why we’re so cranky.”
I frown. “I’m not cranky.”
“Do you prefer curmudgeonly?”
“Possibly,” I shoot back.
The corners of Aislinn’s mouth edge upward into a wistful smile that makes my chest ache. “Good night, Damon. I’m going to walk.”
“It’s late, and Finley’s place is twenty blocks away.”
She turns around. “Twenty-six. But I’m tired of hiding behind tinted glass.”
I exhale a deep sigh and jog until I catch up with her. “I’ll walk you.”
“It’s a free country,” she responds.
“Freedom is an illusion.”
“Isn’t that what you said about privacy?”
“That, too.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
“Enjoy what?”
“The life you’ve created. Smoke and mirrors. Security cameras and tinted glass. Secrets and lies.”
I scratch at my jaw. “I don’t understand the question.”
Aislinn stops in the middle of the sidewalk. “Are you happy, Damon?”
“Happiness is—”
“An illusion? Overrated?”
“No, I was going to say that happiness is elusive. Am I happy that those kids have a shot at a good life? Yes, that makes me happy.”
“Did I—” She breaks off, turning away. “Forget it.”
But I can’t forget it. And I sure as fuck can’t forget her. I wrap my hand around the silken curve of Aislinn’s neck, my wrist disappearing within a glossy blonde waterfall. “Yes, you did. You do. Happy and miserable and angry and scared and hopeful and …” I tear my eyes away from Aislinn’s glorious face to look at the sky for a long moment in an attempt to find clarity. When I have it, I look back down at my wife, my voice a gritted rumble. “Everything, Aislinn. You make me everything.”
46
AISLINN
You make me everything.
What do I say to that?
Not a clue. I want to drop my panties, jump into Damon’s arms, and offer him my body in return for those words.
You make me everything.
I’m so taken aback, so bewildered by what those four little words actually mean—by what I want them to mean—that I just start walking again.
Is it the same as “I love you”?
No. It’s better.
One block passes in silence, then another. The tall high-rises of Midtown give way to the shorter, mostly older buildings of Finley’s neighborhood. There is silence between us, but the noises of the city are a soundtrack all their own. Wheels on asphalt, the hum of music from open doors, the wail of sirens, pedestrians walking and talking, hailing cabs, swearing at cab drivers.
New York is a movie set with the camera constantly rolling. Are Damon and I just bit players in each other’s lives? Because if we’re meant to be together … shouldn’t I know what to say right now? If this were a rom-com, shouldn’t this be the part where our problems evaporate in the night mist? Love conquers all and we live happily ever after.
Right?
Clearly, someone needs to fire the director.
We arrive at Finley’s apartment building. “Here we are,” I mumble.
“What are you doing tomorrow?”
Damon’s question is a surprise. “I’m meeting a realtor to look at apartments.”
His brows pull together over the bridge of his nose. “You and Finley aren’t getting along?”
“No, we are.” I pause. “You knew we were sisters, didn’t you?”
“Yeah.” He nods. “Figured it was her truth to tell.”
I can’t fault him for that. Finley’s prickly, and I’m glad she told me the truth herself. “I don’t think she’s your mole.”
“There is no mole,” he shoots back.
I decide not to argue. It’s not as if I have proof to the contrary. “Anyway,” I say, changing the subject, “it’s time I get back to normal. A new normal. I’d like to feel settled before I start working with Davina. I’ve had enough of politics.”
His deep chuckle sends a rush of goose bumps down my spine. “I don’t blame you.”
“What about you? Now that I’m not your problem anymore, have things gotten back to normal for you?”
His expression hardens. “Yeah. Guess they have.”
The air between us becomes heavy. “Thanks for walking me back.” I start to turn away before changing my mind. “That laptop I was using to research your employees—do you still have it?”
“Of co
urse. It’s in my office. Why?”
Because I never finished my work. “Because it probably has the appropriate security firewalls I need to take care of The Network business. Would you mind if I swing by to pick it up tomorrow?”
“No need, I’ll bring it to you.”
I push my hair behind my ear and allow myself a relieved smile. “Thanks.”
“We’ll do dinner. Drinks.”
I cough. “Are you asking me on a date?”
He shrugs defensively. “Maybe.”
“You don’t date, remember?” I throw Damon’s own words at him. “One, I don’t date. And two, I’m the filthiest motherfucker you’ll ever meet.”
His lips twist into that darkly seductive smirk that sends a rush of heat between my thighs. “Two is true enough. But as for one, you are the exception. For you, princess, I’d do anything.”
47
DAMON
I’ve come a long way since my sloppy efforts to incriminate my stepfather backfired on me. I’ve learned that often, less is more. A few keystrokes. A wire transfer from a known criminal syndicate. And presto—a dickhead cop becomes a dirty cop.
This morning’s headline proves it. Dirty Cop Latest Victim of Gang Violence
The investigation into the circumstances surrounding his death will be quietly abandoned. And there will be no elaborate hero’s funeral for an officer who tarnished his uniform, no cameras pointed at the faces of his widow and children.
They are safe now.
And they are gone. Passengers on a pre-dawn flight to the destination of their choice.
I’ve come a long way, but in many ways, I’m not very different at all. I’m still that scared kid who’s lived through the deaths of everyone who has ever mattered to him. My grandparents, my mother, Ace. Sure, I’m close to Finley and Burke. And I’d take a bullet for anyone on my team. But there’s a difference between letting someone into your life and giving them a piece of your soul.