by S. Ann Cole
It’s like when a newborn falls off the bed, but the newborn doesn’t cry, because in those first few seconds it doesn’t know it’s hurt. Until the mum rushes in and scoops it up and begins to make a fuss. Then the newborn cries. Because the mum’s fright tells the newborn that it’s hurt. She tells it, “Shh,” and “Hush,” and “I’m so, so sorry.” And it knows. It knows that something terrible just happened.
And so, the newborn howls.
“My God, Timber, is that…?” She looks at me, to the scene again, and then back to me. “Is that him?”
“It’s—” I force myself to look away, away from the crime scene, to her. “It’s not what it looks like.”
“Pardon me?” Her head snaps back, the fierce protectiveness coming out. “It’s not what it looks like?”
“You don’t understand.” I need to calm her down before she gets all riled and loses the plot. She’s ugly when pissed. “He’s working.”
“What do you mean, working?” Befuddlement clouds her face. “Wait. He’s a gigolo?”
“No, he’s not a bloody prostitute.” I rub my forehead. I stand. I pick up my jacket.
She stands, too. Comes close. “Look, I don’t care if you tell me or not, but whatever it is, you’re obviously not okay with it. If that scene is hurting me, then it has to be hurting you. This can’t be healthy, Timber.”
As another gale of wind whips around us, I shove my arms into my coat. “I’m sorry, but I can’t talk about it. And I can’t be here.”
“You’re leaving?”
I throw my arms around my sister in a reassuring hug. “I promise you, I’m fine. I just need to be anywhere but here right now. I’ll ring you tomorrow, yeah?”
When I make to pull away, she holds me tight, wanting to object. After a long pause, she gives a reluctant sigh. “If I don’t hear from you in twelve to twenty-four hours, I’ll gather a search party and scour this filthy city until I find you, you hear me?”
I laugh, despite myself.
As I start to leave, I brake and whirl to point a warning finger at her. “Do not lay into him when I’m gone.”
She scowls and mutters under her breath, “Dammit.”
I sink my teeth punitively hard into my bottom lip and tell myself not to look at them, not to torture myself further. To just keep my head down, my eyes averted, and my feet moving.
I try, I really do. Because as painful as it is to see, I know he’s just working. I know he’s not intentionally cheating on me. I know this is what he does for a living.
Yet, no matter how much I tell my heart this truth, it doesn’t refrain from cracking.
Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look.
I look.
Just as I’m passing their cabana, my feet slow, my head lifts, and my heart shatters. Both her long legs are now thrown over his thigh, and he’s gazing down at her like she’s the only woman in the world. One hand caresses her waist, settles at her hip, and squeezes. She melts into him. I know the reaction all too well. I’ve been on the receiving end of that touch many, many times.
Suddenly, as if he senses me, he looks up. Sees me standing there. Staring. Hurting.
Except…he doesn’t look surprised to see me.
Did he know I was up here, all along? I was, after all, sitting with the Saskia Day. Everyone was peeking and taking pictures. How could he not know I was here?
If so, why did he stay? Why make me see this?
There’s no recognition in his eyes as he watches me. I could be a complete stranger, just another rooftop patron with voyeuristic tastes.
Without so much as a hint of acknowledgment, he cups the woman’s face, nips at her lip, and crushes his mouth to hers. He gropes her, pulls her against his body.
It’s all the incentive my feet need to take me the hell out of there.
I wish my heart would stop hurting. I wish my eyes would stop burning. It’s all so bloody annoying. An inconvenience. I cannot cry. There’s nothing to cry about.
It’s just. Business.
As two cackling women step off the lift, I dive in and furiously punch the lobby button. Just as the doors are about to shut, a black thigh-high boot pokes through the narrow gap, forcing the doors to slide open again.
I glance up as the owner of the killer thigh-highs walks in.
Nadine.
Oh, great. She’s here, too.
Why am I not surprised?
A short, black turtleneck dress complements her thigh-highs. Her hair’s gelled back in a tight ponytail, her makeup is well done, and she looks—and I say this begrudgingly—absolutely flawless. If I actually liked her, I’d ask to take a selfie with her.
The doors seal shut.
Done ogling her like a horny dyke, I look firmly to the floor.
Nadine is mean. She loathes me. She pokes at me every chance she gets, especially after she found out Jaxon and I were official. So, whatever her reason for following me onto this lift, it can’t be good. And I don’t have it in me right now to go at it with her.
“You’re not running home to cry, are you?”
I don’t answer.
“Pathetic.” She makes a derisive noise. “That’s who he is. That’s what he does. What did you think—that he was just gonna give up what makes him him and start playing house with you?” She tsks. “Stupid, stupid little girl.”
I flick my gaze up to the floor number. I want to be out of here. I’m trapped in hell with the devil’s bride.
“I heard you went with them on the Spain job,” she continues. “Which means you’ve witnessed firsthand just how involved they get. You’ve seen firsthand that there are no boundaries. They do anything to get the job done.”
She turns to check herself in the mirrors, pouts her lips, smooths over her eyebrows, tugs up the hem of her dress. “If you weren’t there, it would’ve been Jaxon in that room, not Col. After tonight, each time he disappears for a job you’ll be wondering, is he kissing someone? Is he having sex with someone? Is he being blown by someone? Chances are, the answer is yes.”
Argh! This woman makes me furious!
I’m a woman of words. Lots of words. I always have words. Too many of them, sometimes. But I find no words to hang her with. Tonight I have none. For her, I have none. For Jaxon, I have none. I’m just done. Empty. Drained.
Always trust your instincts. Your gut. If it tells you to back off, then back the hell off. No hesitation. Run.
Ma’s words ring loud and clear in my head. And I trust her. I trust her.
And slowly, the voice of my heart begins to fade, fade, fade, until I can hear it no more, until it loses its control over me.
“Look,” Nadine says with a tired sigh, checking the floor number. Three more floors to go. “I don’t like you. Jaxon’s all over you, and I’m bizarrely in love with him, so no, I can’t like you. But childish hatred and jealousy aside, I’ll be sincerely honest.”
Oh, God. Here it comes.
“This thing you’ve got going with him won’t work out. You waited twenty-two years to give your virginity to the wrong man. You don’t know him like I do. He’ll ruin you. Just as he’s ruined me. I gave him my heart, and all he did was play with it. He has no feelings. He’s a robot. A liar. A manipulator. An illusionist.” She snorts. “Sadly, I’m all of those things, too. And that’s why I’m hoping you’ll take my advice and go.”
The lift comes to a stop and the doors open. Without a word, I walk right out, leaving her to drown in her own gall and misery.
Jaxon is a liar. He is a manipulator. He is an illusionist.
But while I, too, once thought he was a robot, I now know what she doesn’t—Jaxon King has a heart.
He has feelings.
He’s a vegan because of his fierce compassion for animals. I’ve listened to him go on for hours about animal cruelty. I’ve seen him donate large sums of money to animal shelters. I’ve seen him touch and pet caged animals.
This is the same man who bought thousands of white roses to make my fir
st sexual experience memorable. The same man who was nervous about taking my virginity because he was terrified he would hurt me.
I’ve witnessed him laugh with abandon. I’ve witnessed him green with jealousy. I’ve witnessed him soft with compassion.
I’ve witnessed his humanity.
Nadine’s wrong. No one really knows Jaxon. Not completely, no. But maybe, just maybe, I know him a little better than she does.
Chapter Forty-One
I don’t know why I waited, but I waited.
After getting back to the flat. After showering and stress-eating chocolate. After climbing into bed at 3 a.m. I waited.
I waited the morning after, and the night that followed. I waited as sunlight burned through darkness and as darkness cloaked the sun.
For a total of sixty hours, I waited. For what? Of that, I’m unsure.
A text? A call? An apology? A goddamn acknowledgment, maybe?
For crying out loud, I let the man into my body, my head, my heart. Don’t I deserve even a smidgeon of acknowledgment?
Sadly, this is the wake-up call my soul needed to return to me.
Jaxon cares about me. I’m not delusional for believing he does. He just doesn’t care enough.
He’s not a mistake, and I don’t regret being with him. The mistake was getting attached to him, even knowing it was forbidden, knowing the end would be bitter.
I can’t resent him. I can’t fault him. I knew the situation and the inevitable outcome. Which is why my surprise is so surprising.
I should not be surprised. I should have been prepared. My heart should never have been involved, should never have been in a position to be caught off guard or suffer pain.
I might be letting go of him with reluctant, scraping claws, but I’m letting go.
On the sixty-first hour of silence, I re-hack into Jaxon’s secret room. It looks just as I left it, as though he’s not been back in here since then. The necklace, the knife, and the music box are still there beneath the floorboard.
I take them all.
I also take the first issue of Xxendra, the Virgin Warrior.
All these things I pack in a travel bag, along with the lingerie Collin bought me—I’ve grown to love those. Yes, but why have I grown to love them? Because Jaxon fancies them? Because he delights in snapping pictures of me in them while I’m asleep so he can text them to me when he’s thinking of me?
Maybe.
But, aren’t these also reasons I should be leaving them behind?
Ha. And while I’m at it, I might as well put back his pillowcase and the worn T-shirt I stole from his hamper because they smell of him.
Nope. Not a chance.
I keep them all, because I’m not strong enough to drop him like hot chips with no evidence of struggle. I’m letting go, sure, but there’ll be claw marks left behind.
Once I’m all packed, I adjust my bag on my shoulder and walk right out of there. Not a soul questions where I’m headed. Because as far as everyone’s concerned, I’m no longer a hostage.
I’m the boss’s girl.
Not until I’m across the bridge to Brooklyn and securely inside my haven, do I shoot my partner a text update.
Say your good-byes.
I have the prize.
Chapter Forty-Two
We’re scheduled to meet with Markus in two days.
It’s been more than a week since we snagged the music box and vanished. We notified Markus of our success, but he’s been out of the country and has arranged for an immediate meeting upon his return.
Melanie and I have been using the time to ease back into our old life. We used to believe all our escapades and shenanigans were a real rush, but after living with the Unseen over the past few months, we both agree that life with them was far more exciting.
Melanie, for the most part, has been quiet and moody since we got back. If I didn’t know her, I’d think this brooding disposition is because she misses Jo. But I do know her. I know what makes her come alive, what excites her. So, I know it’s not Jo she misses.
She misses the missions with Jaxon. She misses that rush. The fear of getting caught. The exhilaration of not getting caught.
No need for her to say the logical conclusion out loud. I’ve known her long enough to guess. With absolute certainty. She might’ve started out pretending to want the open position in the Unseen, but somewhere along way, that pretense died.
She wants that position, for real.
As we move around each other in the flat, I can actually see her longing. I hear her unspoken thoughts, I smell her possibilities.
But I pretend not to. This is a huge can of worms I’m terrified to open.
I don’t want to hear it spoken in words. I don’t want to think about her leaving me to go be with him. I don’t want to believe that this might be the end of us—Mel and Timber.
So, I pretend not to notice.
Maybe, after our meeting with Markus, when we exchange the box for what he promised us, she’ll remember us and what we wanted.
Withdrawal, that’s what she’s going through. Withdrawal.
I should know. I’m going through withdrawal of my own. Withdrawal from Jaxon. The man who holds my innocence. And, I thought, my heart.
I’ve still not heard from him.
I tried convincing myself that the more days passed, the better I’d feel. But I don’t.
I don’t feel better.
At. All.
Time is not healing me. Time apart from Jaxon is wrecking me. I feel sick. Every day. I feel uninspired and unmotivated. Every day. I’ve not been able to resume any of my projects—as opposed to Melanie, who’s thrown herself into her research and new ideas.
Instead, I’ve gone out and purchased all the issues of Xxendra and gotten even more hooked on their author. The graphic novels are insanely good, and it’s nearly impossible to believe that such art came from Jaxon—the drawings and vivid creation of it all. I wonder why he chooses to hide this part of himself in the closet. Literally.
There’s so much to him. So much he doesn’t give. To anyone. He doles out the bad and hides all the good. And I wonder, is he hiding from the world, or is he hiding from himself?
I want so much not to care, but I do. I want so much not to miss him, but I do.
Try as I might, I can’t stop thinking about him, wanting him, missing him. Truth is, it’s hard to breathe whenever I force myself to accept that I will never, and cannot ever, see him again.
This has to stop.
These thoughts. These feelings. This pain.
I want it all to stop.
Chapter Forty-Three
I answer the door and pay the deliveryman for my vegan lunch.
Most annoyingly so, I have been craving nothing but vegan food ever since I left Jaxon. I’m not sure if it’s an unconscious attempt to feel close to him, but all of a sudden, vegan food is life.
As the delivery van drives off, I poke my head out to check if Monty, our homeless mate, is in his usual spot.
He is. Sitting cross-legged as he tears into a fast-food box.
I’m about to duck back inside when he shifts, and I glimpse something familiar on a sheet of newspaper under his right thigh.
“Hey.” I step out the door and walk over to him. “Can I have this page?”
He looks down to where I’m pointing, looks ups at me, and down to the paper again. Then pulls the paper from under his thigh and thrusts it at me. “Of course. Anything for you, English girl.”
“Thanks.” I grasp the newspaper and go back inside.
At my work station across from Melanie, I set my food bag aside and straighten out the page on the counter.
Priceless Eighteenth- Century Qianlong Dynasty Vase Recovered. Chinese Pay Double.
Below the headline is a photo of two middle-aged Chinese men with austere expressions holding the vase between them, no smiles for the camera. After skimming the whole article, I check the publication date, then set the newspaper d
own with a frown.
It was published the day after we returned from Spain.
While it’s possible that Jaxon got the vase to Yineris’s husband on the same day of our return, it’s impossible that Yineris’s husband was able to contact the Chinese, have the vase authenticated, and make sale arrangements—let alone have it all official and printed in the newspaper the next day.
Which means…
Jaxon didn’t steal the vase for Yineris’s husband. He got the vase for the Chinese. Who, according to the article, rewarded an “undisclosed amount” to the U.S. government—because, apparently it was the government who recovered it.
Not to mention the press release surrounding the vase took place at the White House.
Who the hell does Jaxon work for? It can’t possibly be the U.S. government. Would the government encourage stealing and other illegal tactics?
Hard to believe.
Though…it would explain the beefy guys in the Escalade that picked us up from the airport, and the mysterious Bentley that was waiting outside the flat. It would explain his enervation that evening, his being late, and his professional attire.
It’s possible…
But the more I think about it…
Nah. Jaxon is, too…Jaxon. I can’t picture him being a mule—or a thief—for the government.
“That sure was a big job.” Melanie’s voice tugs me from my reveries. “Collin got a whopping twelve-million-dollar paycheck from that, plus a half a mil bonus. Jo was still mad and stewing about it the evening I left.”
I blink, astonished at the dollar amount. “I had no idea.”
She looks at the newspaper with longing. And I know what’s coming.
In an attempt to escape, I hop off my chair, snatch up my food bag, and start to leave.
“Tim.”
Crap.
“Don’t, Mel.” I stop, but I don’t turn. “Just…don’t say it.”
“You know.”
I sadly turn to face her. “Of course, I know. You’re my best friend. Which is why I can’t let you finish that sentence.”
“But…Tim, it feels like that’s where I’m supposed be.” She takes off her glasses and rubs her eyes, then gives me a please-understand look. “I want to be there, Tim.”