by Leigh, Tara
Nash: Yes. How about a pic?
Nixie: My camera is broken.
Nash: I’ll have Jay bring you one.
Nixie: Leave that man alone!
Nash: Believe me, he is well paid for his efforts.
Nixie: If I need a new phone, I will get one myself.
Nash: Fine. Go get one.
Nixie: I’m not going to sext with you, new phone or not.
Nash: Good idea. Let’s drop the t. Sex would be much better. I’ll be back this weekend.
Nixie: Why don’t you go practice with whatever woman is trying to catch your eye? I’m sure it won’t be your first time in the mile-high club.
Nash: I meant with you.
Nixie: I told you, I’m not your type.
Nash: How do you know what my type is?
Nixie: How long does it take you to get from “hello” to “oh yeah, baby”?
Nash: I’ll have you know, my nights do not end with “oh yeah, baby”.
Nixie: How long?
Nash: Depends.
Nixie: How long?
I decided to be generous. Nash: A few hours, give or take.
Nixie: Easy.
Nash: ???
Nixie: That’s your type. Easy.
I stared at the screen, hating that Nixie was right. Hating that I hated that Nixie was right. For so long I thought of my approach toward women and relationships as simply streamlined, but maybe there was a more appropriate adjective for it. Empty. Nash: What’s your type?
Nixie: I don’t have one.
Nash: Everyone has a type.
Nixie: Ok, future.
Nash: What?
Nixie: My type of man only exists in the future. I told you, I don’t want to get involved with anyone right now.
A strange sound alerted me that I was grinding my teeth. I relaxed my jaw. Nash: So, what’s this future man going to be like?
Nixie: My future man will be honest and trustworthy. He won’t treat me like I’m weak and foolish, incapable of taking care of myself.
I frowned at my phone, taken aback by the sharpness of her text. Nash: I don’t think you’re weak or foolish.
Nixie: Just incapable of taking care of myself?
Nash: In a dark alley, with two guys from the streets . . . yeah.
Nixie: Fuck you.
A relieved grin shaped my mouth. I’d take anger over intimacy any day. Nash: Gladly.
Nixie: Goodbye, Nash.
Nash: Is it? Good, I mean.
Several minutes passed, and I figured she’d had enough of me. But then those dancing dots appeared again. Nixie: It is.
Nash: Why?
Nixie: I wouldn’t think a Master of the Universe would need to ask.
Nash: I like to defy expectations.
Nixie: Ha! You like to set expectations.
Nash: That too. So, I’m curious . . . why are you so determined to stay unattached?
Nixie: ???
Nash: Future man is fine but present man is SOL.
Nixie: I told you. I just got out of a relationship. I don’t want to get back into one yet.
Nash: Then I’m your type.
Nixie: You lost me.
Empty had served me well so far. I should stick with it. Nash: I don’t do relationships, at all. Just pleasure, no strings attached.
Nixie: Why don’t you “do” relationships?
I sighed, of course that would be the part of my comment she fixated on. Nash: It’s a long story.
Nixie: You obviously have plenty of time.
Nash: Not on text. IRL. Go out with me and I’ll tell you anything you want to know.
Nixie: Anything?
Nash: I’ve got nothing to hide, Nixie.
Nixie: I’ll think about it. Now, go bother whatever stewardess has been eying you since you boarded the plane. Goodbye.
Nixie
I stared at my screen, tracing Nash’s last text with my fingertip. It had been two days, and I’d started half a dozen texts to him since then. Started . . . and then stopped. What was there to say? Nothing. I should say nothing. What did Nash really want from me, anyway? I’d never “sexted” before and I wasn’t about to start now. And sex, well, that was a non-starter. I mean, one night would no doubt be enough for Nash and then I’d probably never hear from him again. If I was lonely now, I’d feel so much worse then.
I’ve got nothing to hide, Nixie. Maybe he was telling the truth. I’d looked him up online yesterday, spent a few minutes marveling at the sheer volume of links to articles on Nash’s business success, although it seemed as if an equal number of links were related to his personal life, namely the stream of women he was spotted with at any number of New York hotspots. In the end, I didn’t open them. I had no interest in his business, and even less seeing him pawed by some gorgeous model.
And besides, even if I read every single word, what would I really learn about Nash Knight? If I Googled Derrick’s name, would I discover that he was a gambling addict? Doubtful.
No, the only way to know anything worth knowing about Nash Knight was to actually get to know him. And I just wasn’t in the right mindset to open myself up to more heartbreak. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Discovering that Derrick had an ulterior motive, that he would exploit me so callously, after we’d practically grown up together, after we’d been in a relationship for years—it was a weight I just couldn’t seem to get out from under, settling onto my shoulders and making each step heavy and ponderous. Would I ever be able to trust anyone again? Just because Nash was successful didn’t mean he was a good guy. And until I felt like I could tell good from bad, I needed to stay away.
So, why didn’t I want to stay away?
Nash terrified me, but texting with him two nights ago had been like taking that first breath after swimming up from the bottom of a deep pool. I barely knew the man, and he was half a world away—how was it possible to feel so close to him?
Nash and I didn’t belong together—we came from different worlds, wanted entirely different things—but being dumped would still hurt.
I sure as hell didn’t want to tell him about Derrick. Why—so he could feel bad for me? I didn’t need Nash’s pity, or his help.
I just needed to stay under the radar for the next three hundred and sixty days, give or take.
Which meant staying away from Pappi, too. I missed him, a lot. No one could ever take the place of my real father, of course. But Pappi had always made me feel loved and wanted, not just an obligation he’d been saddled with. Technically, I was an orphan, but I’d never actually felt like one until now. When I made the decision to run away, I didn’t realize it would be so lonely.
I hadn’t made any real friends at school yet, and I didn’t expect to. Most of them talked constantly about trying to find themselves. Or worse, discover their passion.
I didn’t understand them at all.
What did I want? I wanted to lose myself. And as for passion, that was the last thing I wanted to discover. If I could, I’d take that useless emotion and chuck it out my dirty apartment window. Passion was just an excuse for making a wrong turn and deciding not to change course.
And Nash was definitely a wrong turn.
As if on cue, my phone buzzed from an incoming text. Nash: R u awake?
Ignore it. Ignore him. I reached for my hand lotion, squeezing more than a dollop into the palm of my hands and working it into my skin. My hands weren’t dry, but it gave me something to do. If my fingertips were greasy, I couldn’t very well text, could I?
Nash: How r your stitches healing? I can send Doc to take a look.
I gnashed my teeth, glaring at my phone with narrowed eyes. Couldn’t he have asked for a naked picture again? Something that wouldn’t make me want to text back. Maybe I should have coated my hands in Vaseline.
Nash: If u don’t respond, I will be convinced that you decided to get something off a shelf and fell, ripping your stitches and bleeding out in your apartment. I’ll have to send Doc over
to your place. Maybe Jay too so he can kick open your door . . . 5
Nash: 4
Nash: 3
Rubbing my greasy hands on my legs, I snatched up the phone. Nixie: Quit acting like a brat.
Nash: For checking up on you?
Nixie: No. For threatening to send a very nice man to Brooklyn for no good reason except to get me to respond.
Nash: It worked.
Nixie: To confirm that you’re an entitled, cocky jerk—yes, it did. Congrats.
Nash: What has you so cranky tonight?
Nixie: You.
Nash: Do u have a dog?
Nixie: A dog? No. Why?
Nash: A cat?
Nixie: No. Why??
Nash: Are you allergic?
Nixie: No. Why?????
Nash: Because people with pets have reduced levels of irritation.
Nixie: Have you been watching Dr. Phil?
Nash: Who?
Nixie: Nevermind.
Nash: It was a long flight with spotty wifi. I read a few magazines.
Nixie: I guess it must be true then.
Nash: It’s working. You’re less irritated already, I can tell.
Nixie: I think you may have had some bad sushi.
Nash: Don’t joke, that happened last time I was in Tokyo. I’ve had better luck with the dim sum in Hong Kong though.
Nixie: Don’t you have meetings to go to?
Nash: I’m in one right now.
Nixie: Then why are you texting me?
Nash: Because I’m bored.
Nixie: I thought you were a big shot?
Nash: Big shots can’t be bored?
Nixie: Big shots usually run the meetings. You shouldn’t have the chance to be bored.
Nash: You obviously haven’t worked on Wall Street. Meetings r run by underlings. Big shots make the decisions.
Nixie: If that’s the case, shouldn’t you be paying attention so you can make an informed decision?
Nash: I already have.
Nixie: So then you can end the meeting, no?
Nash: But I’m having fun texting you.
I felt the tug of a smile on my lips. Fun. I liked that. Nixie: Do you have a pet?
Nash: I’m not home enough. And besides, I don’t think Greta would approve.
I laughed, remembering the dour faced woman. Nixie: Lol. True.
Nash: Maybe I should get you a puppy. Then I could come and visit.
Nixie: Don’t u dare.
Nash: Why not? Your building doesn’t allow dogs?
Nixie: No, they do. But I’ll bet you would buy one of those snooty purebreds with an attitude.
Nash: What’s wrong with a purebred?
Nixie: If I wanted a dog, I’d get one from a shelter.
Nash: You would rather have a dog no one wants?
I recoiled from my phone. Nixie: Um. Wow. You’re heartless.
Nash: No, I really mean it. Why would you want a dog no one wants? If you buy one, at least you know what you’re getting.
Nixie: Yeah, inbreeding. If you rescue a dog, you’re giving it a better life. Don’t you ever do something good, just because?
Nash: How would you know which one to take home?
Nixie: That’s easy. I’d pick the one with the saddest eyes.
A few minutes passed, and I figured his meeting must have ended. Just as I was about to plug my phone in the charger and go to sleep—try to sleep, anyway—it buzzed again. Nash: Like yours? Why are your eyes so sad, Nixie?
My jaw sagged. How could I respond to that? Nixie: I think I liked it better when you were trying to sext with me.
Nash: You’re deflecting.
Nixie: I’m entitled.
Nash: I have a thing for entitled women.
Nixie: Good for you.
Nash: Entitled women with red hair and sad eyes.
Nixie: Do they have a lot of those in Hong Kong?
Nash: No. I’m afraid they’re extremely rare. My fingers hovered over the keys, again at a loss. Nash: Gotta go, meeting’s over. Goodnight, Nixie. Sleep tight.
Sleep tight.
How could I sleep after that?
Flushed from our heated text exchange, I fell back on my pillow and tried to focus on all the reasons getting involved with Nash would be a bad idea. A very bad idea.
A siren blared outside my window, followed by a car alarm and the murmur of excited voices. As they faded away, an echo from my childhood rattled my ears. Sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite.
My mother’s voice sounded so real, like she was right beside me. With trembling fingers, I dropped my phone and burrowed beneath the covers, my heartbeat pounding against my ribs like a caged inmate shaking the bars of his cell. I’d nearly forgotten her whispered catchphrase as she tucked me in at night.
Mostly, I kept memories like those locked up, stuffed somewhere so deep I could pretend they weren’t there at all. But now a hot rush of tears stung my eyes. Would there ever be a time when I stopped missing them, judging myself through what I imagined their lens would look like? Wondering whether they would be proud of the daughter I’d become?
It killed me to think that they wouldn’t. How could they be proud of me? What had I accomplished? I sat up quickly, turning on the lamp beside my bed and dropping to my knees on the floor. I hadn’t brought much of my old life with me, but there was one photograph I’d thrown in my bag at the last minute. Reaching under my bed, I pulled out a rectangular box filled with legal documents from the lawyer I’d hired to change my name. Nestled beneath them was a picture frame, filled by a photograph taken the day I was born. Bundled in a swaddling blanket between my parents, I was barely visible, but the camera had perfectly captured a look I remembered them sharing often. They were angled slightly away from the camera, looking at each other with wide-mouthed smiles, their eyes shining with happiness.
For the first eight years of my life, their love had wrapped around me, insulating me from any hint that life held dangers beyond a scraped knee or homework-heavy teacher. Until the day that airtight security had been blown to bits. Literally.
I fingered the phrase engraved into the wood. Life Is Who You Love. Who did I love? I thought I’d loved Derrick. And I had, but it wasn’t a forever kind of love. He said he loved me, too, but it had been a lie. He wanted to control me. And he wanted my money.
I loved Pappi. But I’d been betrayed by him, too. Derrick was his son—shouldn’t he have known that Derrick was up to no good? Protected me from him?
And where did all this armchair psychoanalysis leave me?
There was the rub. Nowhere.
With a sigh, I put the picture frame back in the box and closed the lid, returning it to its hiding place. Some things are better left in the dark.
CHAPTER SIX
Nash
“Mr. Knight, I just pulled up in front of the address you gave me.”
An idea had come to me over lunch, and I’d been working on it since seven a.m. New York time. Nixie Rowland had embedded herself inside my brain and I couldn’t stop thinking about her. It was driving me fucking nuts. I’d never felt this way before. Not with Eva, not with anyone. I’ve pursued companies, and important contacts at the Fed and the SEC, even white collar criminal lawyers, because . . . well, I wasn’t above taking my business to the edge and one day someone might accuse me of going over it. And as for women, they usually came to me.
But with Nixie, I was like a goddamn dog in heat. An analogy that had given me an idea. “Good. Wait there and I’ll let her know.”
Ending my call with the manager of a New York based animal shelter, I pulled up my text feed with Nixie. Now for the fun part.
Nash: Wake up.
I counted to ten, then twenty, then thirty. It was still before nine in New York, and Nixie hadn’t exactly seemed like an early riser when she woke up in my apartment the other day. A nervous feeling came to life inside my gut. What if she wasn’t home? Nash: Wake up.
Nerves morphed into jealousy. What
if she was with someone? I clenched my jaw, thumbs stiff as I jabbed at the tiny electronic keyboard. Nash: Nixie, get up. Now. I mean it.
Finally, I saw those three dots and exhaled a relieved sigh.
Nixie: I don’t have class for two hours. Go away.
Nash: You have to go downstairs.
Nixie: I will. In about 90 minutes.
Nash: No. You need to go now.
Nixie: No, I don’t. Go away.
Nash: Nixie, I give you my word.
Nixie: Your word? Isn’t that kind of old fashioned?
Nash: This coming from the woman who called me a cad?
Nixie: Touché.
Nash: Does that mean you’re on your way downstairs?
Nixie: Do you know that it’s raining here?
Nash: Are you going to melt?
Nixie: I might.
Nash: It’s very very very important that you go downstairs. Right now.
Nixie: And I know this because you’ve given “your word”?
Nash: Yes.
Nixie: How do I know your word means anything?
Jesus fucking Christ, glaciers move at a faster pace. Nash: Because I’m telling you it does. It means everything. Go. Downstairs. Now. When she didn’t immediately respond, I mumbled a curse. Nash: Please.
Nixie: Please? Wow. Is this some version of Punk’d?
Nash: What?
Nixie: Never mind. Ok, fine. I’m going.
Hallefuckinglujah. Nash: Thank you.
Nixie: But if this is a trick, I’m never talking to you again.
Nash: Deal.
For the next ten minutes, I paced the floor of my hotel suite checking my phone every few seconds. What was it about Nixie that made me want to do nice things for her? I was Nash Knight. I didn’t do nice. At least, not with anyone besides Madison and Parker.
Then again, glancing through this morning’s text stream, I realized I’d passed nice ten minutes ago. Please? Jesus, I’d downright begged.
Pussy.
Scratching at the back of my neck with my free hand, I looked out over Hong Kong’s skyline. Like Manhattan, the island city was surrounded by water, and packed with tall, modern buildings. New York would always be home, but aesthetically, Hong Kong was known as the Pearl of Asia for good reason. Right now, however, I might as well have been staring at a brick wall.
Finally, the phone clutched in my hand came to life, chirping with an incoming call. The second I swiped to answer, Nixie’s high-pitched squeal hit my eardrums. “Oh my God, Nash. I can’t believe you did this!”