Spotless (Spotless Series Book 1)

by Camilla Monk

  He laughed. “Aren’t we being a princess. Gulfstreams aren’t good enough?”

  “I guess not.” I shrugged with a smile.

  Inside the jet, a tall young woman wearing a pair of black leather pants and a nice black-and-white horizontal-striped T-shirt was waiting for us. She had the most incredible flaming red curls, and greeted us with a thick Eastern European accent. “Welcome on board. I am Ekaterina, I’ll be your pilot today.”

  I extended a hand to her. “I’m Island, and I’m not really a criminal.” Pointing to March, I went on. “This is March. He, uh—” I stopped as I caught a look in his eyes that suggested I didn’t want to detail his rap sheet to Ekaterina.

  She gave me a knowing look. “Don’t worry, I fly and never ask.”

  As she said this, I remembered where I had seen those stripes on her T-shirt before. “Is that the Russian army’s T-shirt?”

  “Yes, telnyashka!” she confirmed, her green eyes lighting up as she proudly slammed her palm against her ample bosom.

  “Awesome . . . So you were in the army?”

  “No, my brother Vitaly. I stole it from him,” she replied cheerfully. Then, looking at March, she gestured to the large camel seats behind us. “We’ll be taking off in ten minutes.”

  He nodded and we settled for a pair of seats facing each other near the plane’s galley. As Ekaterina disappeared into the cockpit, I looked at the small white door with envious eyes.

  “Maybe we could ask Ekaterina for a brief visit of the cockpit after takeoff,” March offered, reading my mind.

  “Uhm, maybe,” I said, not wanting to let him see how much his suggestion appealed to the child within me.

  “Come to think of it, we could say I’m negotiating this for you, after you’ve given me the name of your mother’s contact.”

  I huffed as the engines started. “I don’t think your help will be needed, and I’ll tell you when I feel like it.”

  His eyes narrowed. March was one tenacious bastard. “As you wish . . . try not to fall asleep during the flight, though. You never know what could happen.”

  Remembering the way he had cuffed me to my seat during our previous plane trip, I cracked my neck, deciding not to repeat the incident.

  We had been flying for several hours, high above the clouds in a now darkening sky. The snowy and rocky landscape I could sometimes make out through the clouds suggested we were passing over Russia. March had spent a while reading something on his phone and was now busy doing crosswords, his features frozen in an expression of intense concentration. I fought a grin when I noticed the small label stuck to his magazine. He had a yearly subscription to USA Crosswords Jumbo under the name of Mr. December.

  It wasn’t much, but it made me happy. The fact that he trusted me enough to do what he liked instead of watching me silently like Kalahari’s resident pigeon felt like a small victory. The pencil that had been hovering over the magazine’s last page went down, and he scribbled a few letters, a self-satisfied smile curving his lips.

  “Did you finish the last one?”

  He closed the magazine before laying it on the small table between our seats. “Yes. Are you ready to tell me that man’s name?”

  I let out a heavy sigh, wondering if he had been thinking about that all along. Probably so.

  Since I was in a plane headed for Tokyo, and therefore no longer had any excuse to deny him, I spoke. “His name is Masaharu Niyama. He should be around thirty now. He used to live in Kōtōbashi, but I have no idea if he’s still there. I hope he’s not dead.”

  March had pulled out his phone and typed something as I explained this. After a few seconds, his eyes skimmed through some data on the screen, and he answered me with a smug little smile. “Don’t worry. Your man is still alive. Masaharu Niyama, thirty-three, unemployed. His personal address is the same as his father’s: 4 Chome-14-4 Kōtōbashi.”

  I should have been busy celebrating the fact that I was going to rekindle my old flame and be able to follow Masaharu around again, but I have to admit I had other priorities. “Wait, you have an Internet connection in here?”

  March nodded, and I lunged at him, reaching for his phone. “Can I?”

  He moved the phone away from my eager hands. “Why?”

  “I don’t know . . . to check my e-mails, write to Joy, read the news . . .” I was also thinking of installing Triple Town on his phone and playing it for a while, but he didn’t need to know that.

  “Nothing crucial, obviously,” he noted wryly. “Since you seem to enjoy bargaining so much, what would you like to offer in exchange for using my phone?”

  Douche alert! There was no mistaking that sardonic smile. I was in for yet another bad time—if I wanted to check my e-mails, anyway. “You know I have nothing—” Well that wasn’t entirely true. There was a little something that had been nagging since our brief encounter with Étienne at the club, but I didn’t want to play that card yet, as it might come in handy if the situation became desperate.

  “Too bad.” He shrugged.

  What can I say? I was a poor little geek who had spent almost three days without her laptop or an Internet connection, and notifications were piling up in my Facebook account. “How about this? You can ask any question you want until we land, and I’ll answer! About Masaharu or what Kalahari told me about you . . . anything. In return, I can use the phone whenever I want, and you’ll let me install any app I need!”

  The way he looked at me when he handed me that phone . . . the cruel glint in those blue pools. I should have paid more attention instead of reading Joy’s account of her weekend in Southampton and how she had met “Vince-the-cutest-photographer-in-the-world” at the Indian deli down the street. I spent a blissful hour replying to e-mails, building a castle in my Triple Town account, reading the weather forecast, and commenting on my stepmom’s latest blog post. Janice has this vegan cooking blog that no one ever visits, so my dad and I are required to leave comments in order to make her feel better about her contribution to the World Wide Web.

  When I placed the phone back in his hand with a grateful smile, his eyes softened, and he gave a gentle, playful tap on the tip of my nose . . . before nuking me. “What did Kalahari tell you about me? Take your time. I’d like to hear absolutely everything.”

  I felt my heart rate increase and my ears redden. Oh shit. Everything? “I . . . she . . . uh . . . Stuff, not much, I guess.”

  “What an ugly little lie. Let’s try this again.”

  I took a deep, calming breath and told myself that, much like an ice-cold shower, this would be better done quickly and without thinking. “She said you’re her ex, that you helped her buy her beauty salon, that you were nice, but you were the control fairy, and that your cleaning . . . peculiarity used to be worse. She said you talked about marrying her, but that you left her so she could fly on her own, and because you knew you were too controlling. She said you’ve been alone for a long time, that you’re not great at selling yourself to women. She also said—” I swallowed. “That you’re uncircumcised, that—” I buried my face in my hands to conceal my flushed cheeks at that point. “That you were a little too classic in bed, not very adventurous.” I stopped, crimson with embarrassment. I knew there were two topics I had left out, though, and I prayed he wouldn’t ask.

  “What a surprising amount of details. Measurements, perhaps?” he asked with that unforgiving poker smile of his.

  “Yes. I refuse to repeat those,” I confirmed through gritted teeth.

  “And I won’t make you.” He nodded. “Is that it? I sense a certain tension. As if you had omitted a couple of things you knew would displease me immensely.”

  He was no longer smiling.

  I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. “I know about the scarification on your back . . . about the Lions.”

  “And?” he insisted, the dark blue depths of his eyes daring me to lie.

  “And about what happened with Charlotte.”

  March seemed to be reli
eved for a brief moment, as if he had been expecting more, but soon his lips thinned. “And what are your thoughts on all this?”

  My stomach twisted into knots. I wanted this little interrogation game to stop, now. “March, I’m sorry, I know this was none of my business, and I shouldn’t have listened to these stories. I’m sure you had a good reason to leave those guys, and Charlotte—” My voice broke. “She . . . I can only imagine how you felt, how you still feel about what you had to do. It doesn’t change anything for me. I don’t think you’re gonna kill me or anything like that.”

  I had no idea what Charlotte might have looked like when she had been alive. All I could picture when I thought of her was a charred body. The same charred body that I pictured when I thought of my mother in our burning car. I wanted to be stronger than this and bear with his questions until he grew tired of tormenting me, but I couldn’t.

  One tear, two tears.

  Before I could stop myself, they were rolling freely down my cheeks, pooling at the tip of my nose like heavy pearls. There was a salty taste on my lips, and I wanted it all to be over. “I-I’m s-sorry!”

  The cold mask that had been etched on his features for the past five minutes vanished, leaving an expression I had never seen on March’s face before—a combination of sadness, guilt, and worry that made him look almost vulnerable.

  He rose and moved to kneel by my side, resting one of his forearms on my seat’s right armrest while his free hand touched my cheeks tentatively, wiping the tears there. He spoke in a soft voice. “Island, I’m a rather private person. I live alone, I don’t have many friends, and there’s nothing particularly glorious about my life, as you probably gathered from Kalahari’s stories.

  “I don’t like being exposed, and I’ll make sure she understands that. I shouldn’t have taken my anger out on you; I apologize.”

  “But you’ll stay friends with her, right?” I sniffed.

  “Of course. Kalahari and I will have a frank discussion, and payback is on its way, but I know her. I know she meant well, and I suppose it won’t be the end of the world.” He smiled.

  “Payback?”

  “Do you know how long she’s been waiting for that crocodile bag Ilan ordered for her from Hermès?”

  I shook my head in response.

  “Seven months. Do you know when it will be completed and delivered?”

  I shook my head again.

  “Never. Some ‘asshat,’ as you would put it, had his PA inform the boutique that the order was canceled.” Now those eyes seemed positively evil.

  I couldn’t help but chuckle at their antics. March was pissed, but not too pissed, and I felt damn relieved. Reflecting on what had happened, I took his hand without thinking. “Again, I’m sorry. You’re pretty strange, but you deserve to find someone who’ll make you happy, March, and I’m sure that will happen. That being said, I stand by my words: you’re an arrogant ass most of the time.”

  His thumb wiped one last tear that had been outlining my jaw, and I shivered at the feeling of his fingers trailing across my skin, lingering one, maybe two seconds longer than needed.

  “I used to think about Charlotte all the time, used to wake up in the middle of the night thinking of her . . . but I realize I no longer do,” March said wistfully.

  I had no idea what to reply to such an intimate confession. In fact, I almost felt like I shouldn’t have heard it. He had, after all, said that he was a private person and didn’t like for people to pry into his life. Hoping to drop the issue, I got up from my seat with a weak smile. “I-I’ll go get myself something to drink.”

  March moved, allowing me to reach the galley, and followed me, perhaps to get a glass for himself as well. Now, I think that at this point, I should mention that I don’t believe in fate, predestination, or whatever: I have my own theory, which involves trollish subatomic particles ganging up to push you into awkward situations. In any case, those particles did their job—or maybe it was just air pockets. As I grabbed a bottle of mineral water in the mini fridge, the plane started to shake and undulate on the dark clouds, up and down like a fairground ride. I stumbled backward in a fit of panic, my shoulders hitting the galley’s plywood wall, and March lunged to steady me.

  There was that feeling of the plane swaying, the water bottle rolling on the gray carpet a few feet away from us, and I could no longer think. March’s body was pressed against mine, flattening me against the wall, and he had bent a little, his face inches from mine. I could smell him, the mints, his faint laundry scent, and I didn’t dare to look up because his chin was brushing against my forehead.

  He remained silent.

  I listened to his peaceful breathing and squeezed the sleeves of his shirt with trembling hands, as if he had been the only thing that kept me steady.

  He shifted, and on my temple, the rough touch of the stubble on his chin was replaced by a much softer one, that of his lips.

  That damn bottle was still rolling around, the water inside hitting the plastic walls with faint sloshing sounds, and my head was spinning in tune with its movements. When his fingers tilted my chin upward, I had no choice but to look him in the eyes; their dark, mesmerizing blue reminded me a lot of what had happened in the car. Gone was the calm confidence: all I could read was confusion, as if he himself wasn’t certain what was happening.

  Okay, this was definitely like in the car.

  March’s lips brushed mine for the first time since we had met, one of his hands pulling me closer while the other steadied me against the wall.

  The kiss itself wasn’t wild—I gathered from Kalahari’s flowery confessions that he wasn’t exactly the volcano type, regardless of how worked up he was—and he seemed a little hesitant at first. Once he had found his bearings, though, he proved to be a smooth criminal, patiently waiting for an opportunity to make it past the enemy lines.

  I’m afraid my own performance was probably underwhelming, but I prefer to remember it as some super passionate and sensual demonstration. I mean, I didn’t turn my head away when I felt his tongue dart at my lips, which made for considerable progress. I just closed my eyes, opened my mouth, and let March take the lead, allowing him to conduct a meticulous exploration of recesses usually reserved for toothbrushes and chocolate cake. I did try to kiss him back a little, but my timing never seemed to be quite right, so when our teeth collided for the second time, I gave up on that and simply held on to him for dear life.

  I almost wished I had been in a state to formulate rational thinking, because there was so much to learn and file from that first proper French kiss: the strange, mineral taste of saliva, the flavor of the mints, and so many improbable nerve connections I had never heard about. Was it even normal to feel it all the way down to your breasts when someone tickled the roof of your mouth?

  March eventually slowed down on the whole tonguing business—perhaps to breathe—but it took him a little while to fully let go of my lower lip. Not that it made much of a difference: I was in such a state of daze that I actually forgot to close my mouth. I stood there, still pressed against him, my fingers gripping his arms, lips parted in a silent O. His right hand cupped my cheek, and with a tender smile, March delicately brought my jaw up, manually closing my mouth after that complete system breakdown.

  When the magnitude of the incident finally registered in my neurons, it took thirty more seconds of frantic blinking before I was able to form a complete sentence.

  “You kissed me.”

  Nobel Prize–level scientific conclusions, people!

  “I did.”

  “Isn’t that kind of a big deal?” My voice broke, and I must have sounded a little distressed by this turn of events, but in truth, I was more unnerved by his apparent cool. I pushed him away weakly, my arms and legs little more than sticks of jelly. I could no longer meet his eyes, so I focused on a fascinating point on the carpet.

  Above me, he sighed. “This is going too fast.”

  My gaze jerked back to March. That had b
een no question, rather an affirmation. He still had that same peaceful expression, and there was a knowing glint in his eyes, which almost made me want to contradict him for the sake of it. But he was right. It was too early for me to put words on whatever twisted bond was forming between us, and March was quickly filling my chart with things I wasn’t entirely certain I was ready for.

  Outside, the sky was almost dark on one side of the plane, while on the other side, a fiery sunset painted the clouds with vivid orange and pink hues. We were chasing daylight. The plane would land in Tokyo in late morning, and if I didn’t sleep during the flight, I’d spend the day like a zombie.

  “Maybe I’ll try . . . to get some rest before we land.”

  “Excellent idea.” He nodded, wrapping his arm around my shoulder as we returned to our seats. “We have a long day ahead of us, and if I recall, well, I still owe you a romance-book date.” The corners of his eyes crinkled. “Perhaps this is where we should start.”

  I looked up at him as I sat back and reclined my seat until it was in sleep position, trying to figure the appropriate response. Was there even an official term for the stage of March’s and my . . . proceedings?

  Curling to my side, I watched him leave to retrieve a cover from one the galley’s closets. He came back and draped it over me with a smile that made my chest tingle. As he moved to return to his own seat, I grabbed his hand, holding him back. “March . . . how does it work? Do we trust each other now?” I whispered.

  There was the same blend of tenderness and confusion in his voice that I had witnessed in his eyes before. “I’m afraid so, Island.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  The Ice Coffee

  “Love is all-powerful, limitless, blind, Roger thought. Yes, his love was blind to the fact that Bernadette was, in fact, a man and his long-lost half brother, Bernard.”

  —Dany Butters, Last Tango in Louisville

  If you don’t mind, the official version will be that I landed the jet in Chōfu Airport, which is almost true. Ekaterina let me sit in the empty seat on her right and pull the landing gear lever—a decision March expressed considerable concern over. Don’t worry, the gear worked fine, and my story doesn’t end with a gruesome plane crash on the tarmac of a small regional airport in Japan.