by Camilla Monk
Believe me, that single gesture hurt much more than not getting called back by my past dates. I looked up into March’s eyes, and in all that blue, in that sad and gentle smile, I saw everything that would never be.
I remember that I felt a little dizzy.
I remember realizing that neither Masaharu nor Ethan the gorgeous law student had truly broken my heart, but March was. And that just like the day my mother had died, I was powerless to stop the crash: all I could do was watch and count the seconds until it was over for good.
I took a deep breath to fight the strange metallic taste in mouth, the prickling sensation in my nose and in my eyes. “Sorry about that. I guess I kinda . . . I imagined things.”
March’s eyes widened, and once the flash of surprise was gone, all I could find was guilt and regret. We both knew that I hadn’t imagined anything, that something had been there, at hand’s reach, that neither of us were apparently ready for—or more exactly that he wasn’t ready for, because, frankly, if he had offered, I would have gladly become his bitch for all eternity.
In any case, it didn’t work like that.
Life didn’t work like that.
After all, even if it had been possible for us to stay together, would I have been able to live surrounded by lies, wondering if I’d ever see him again every time he left?
His hand moved to take mine, warm and tentative. “Island—”
I shook my head. “In Muscled Passion of the SEAL, in the end, Colt Brannigan tells Destiny that he has to go, because she’ll never be safe around him since the FBI and the CIA are after him for a murder he didn’t commit.”
His fingers’ grip around mine tightened a little, and a line creased his brow. “He’s a very reasonable man. But then again, SEALs often are.”
I couldn’t repress a small smile. “They don’t get eaten by Lions much?”
“They do swim quite fast,” March conceded with a nod, before pursing his lips in apparent respect.
I nodded in my turn, throat tight. “When will you go?”
“I’ll leave Tokyo once I’ve arranged a flight back to New York for you.”
“Tonight?”
He glanced at his watch. “I suppose it’s a little late for this. I’ll ask Phyllis to book a seat for tomorrow morning.”
“Okay,” I rasped out.
He took my hand again as we made our way to the elevator, and I found myself wondering if I should tell him that after Colt has informed Destiny of his intention to leave, she fights him and decides to abandon her entire life to follow him in the shadows.
When we made it back to the Ritz’s lobby, no one dared to comment on our disheveled state, but Fubuki offered to send a doctor to check on us, to which March agreed.
I assume that this doctor too encouraged March to take it easy on the bazooka business, but I was in the living room chatting with Joy over the phone, so I didn’t listen this time. There was, in fact, a crisis brewing. My dad was getting suspicious of the way I hadn’t been answering my phone since the “pocket call” incident, and he had called Joy, only to hear her explain that I had suddenly embarked for a romantic weekend in Paris—no, wait, in Tokyo!—with some forty-something limp-dicked guy who delved into bondage. Joy’s claims that March was reportedly a good kisser had done little to appease my father’s wrath, especially after she had confessed that she had no phone number where she could reach me.
Once I had raided the minibar for snacks and taken a quick shower, I decided to be brave. I called my dad while March soaked in the tub in his turn and watched a BBC documentary about star-nosed moles on the bathroom’s wall-mounted TV—a bit of luck, since these repulsive creatures were March’s second favorite animal after ostriches.
As expected, that was one tough phone call, filled with many occurrences of the words “immature” and “unacceptable” . . . that is until I cut into my dad’s tirade to mention my mother’s will. I asked him if he had ever planned on telling me about my inheritance, and his tone immediately changed. For once, the great Simon Halder didn’t sound so confident; he sounded like a father afraid of losing his only child to long-buried secrets.
I listened as his voice broke, and the tension between us dissipated. “Honey . . . When I arrived in Tokyo, Léa’s apartment had been searched, everything had been wrecked, and then there was that notary, all that money . . . You were so young, and I was afraid . . . afraid of what M. Étienne might tell you about Léa’s life, and about—”
“Dries.”
Panic gripped his voice. “You know about him?”
“Barely,” I lied. It was better this way. My dad seemed to gather Dries was bad company anyway. “It doesn’t change anything. You’re my father. No one can ever replace you,” I murmured.
“Honey, same goes for me. I never cared about him! I was so proud that Léa had chosen me to help her raise you. You bet no one will ever replace your daddy,” he chuckled anxiously, as if he didn’t believe it himself.
“I love you.” I pretty much never said things like this—my dad and I weren’t too good with big displays of affection—but that night, I felt like it was the only thing he needed to hear.
He breathed a sigh of relief. “I love you too, honey. When are you coming back? Joy scared me out my mind. We’ll find you a good, decent boyfriend when you get home. I recruited this young analyst, and I was thinking—”
“Dad.”
“A Harvard graduate . . . and, hear this, his mother is in the same yoga class as Janice!”
“Dad!”
On the other end of the line, a curt huff indicated that my dad was willing to grant me a five-second slot to speak. Which was all I needed, really.
“It’s over. I don’t want to discuss this,” I mumbled.
A silence; an embarrassed sigh. Did I sound that gloomy? “I understand. When are you back in New York?”
“Tomorrow, I think.”
“Call me as soon as you land. Goodnight, honey,” he said before hanging up.
As I was about to get up and place the phone back in March’s pocket, I realized he had gotten out of the tub and was standing in the bedroom’s doorway, wearing a clean white shirt that wasn’t entirely buttoned, revealing fresh bandages around his torso, a pair of jeans as usual, and, of course, the hotel’s complimentary slippers.
“How bad?” he asked, walking to my bed and sitting by my side.
“Not that bad. He just got scared.” I sighed.
March draped an arm around my shoulders. I shivered. “Rightly so. I’m sorry . . . for everything that you’ve been through,” he said. Then, that gentle smile again that made my chest tighten. “Would you like to get some rest?”
I really missed my smartphone in that moment: had it still been with me, I would have been able to pull together a playlist of super sad Italian songs and cried myself to sleep while listening to Riccardo Cocciante sobbing that he loved me more with every day that passed. I pondered over my state of exhaustion: would I perhaps be able to stay awake until dawn? That would amount to what, ten, eleven hours left to spend with him? The tears I had successfully held back in the garage bubbled back with a vengeance, blurring my vision. I swallowed and squirmed away from him. “I’ll watch some TV.”
THIRTY-FOUR
Good-bye Time
“Shy girls don’t get laid. The solution? I-NI-TIA-TIVE. Remember, though: the line between initiative and rape can sometime thread thin (see our table on p. 78 on what qualifies as either initiative, sexual assault, or rape).”
—Aurelia Nichols & Jillie Bean, 101 Tips to Lose Your Virginity after 25
I still don’t understand: How did I manage to fall asleep in front of a Japanese game show where the contestants get smacked in the balls if they fail to answer the host’s questions?
Fact is, I woke up with a start around one a.m. I was still in my bed, wearing my underwear and a tank top under the hotel’s terry robe, as I had been when my eyes had started to close a few hours earlier. The TV had b
een turned off. My heart sped up when I realized I was alone in the room. Was March gone already? Without a word? The worst part was that I wasn’t really surprised, just hurt and strangely panicked, as if I had just lost a little chunk of myself—yes, kinda like a Potato Head if you will.
I sat up in my bed and squinted in the dark, until I noticed something that made my heart leap again, but for entirely different reasons: the light in the hallway had been turned on, allowing a thin bright ray to filter inside the room from under the set of double doors. Soon dark shapes cut through the light; someone was standing behind the door.
When the lock’s click broke the silence, I lay back in bed and pretended to be asleep. March walked into the suite carefully, making me wonder if he could tell when someone wasn’t really sleeping: if he could, he didn’t seem to mind that I was quietly spying on him the dark. I caught a faint whiff of something sour and smoky. Alcohol. Dammit, here I thought I had been kidnapped by the perfect citizen, and that idiot had gone drinking while I had been asleep.
He went to the bathroom, and I suppose he splashed some water on his face—that’s what it sounded like—and brushed his teeth. After that, the light in the bathroom remained on for a few seconds, but there were only very faint sounds: I assumed he was wiping the sink and cleaning after himself.
I’m not sure what I had expected: maybe that he’d rest on the couch with his clothes on, like he had in Paris . . . Certainly not for him to actually follow Curly-prune’s advice and get some actual sleep. My eyes widened as I watched him undress, his silhouette outlined by the faint glow that penetrated the room, the product of Tokyo’s millions of lights. He folded every single item of clothing neatly on the back of a chair, until all that was left was a pair of dark boxer briefs clinging to his skin.
From what I could make out, the rest of March’s body lived up to my first impressions: he didn’t just have a fine chest, he had fine everything, and I couldn’t remember having ever entertained that sort of thoughts about a man’s butt before, not even Masaharu’s. He walked to the second twin bed and lay down, sliding silently under the covers and rolling on his side so all I could see was a dark lump I gathered was his back.
His breathing slowed down until I figured he was either asleep or doing a great job at pretending to be. I, however, was nowhere near following suit. This was one of those moments where you know what you have to do—sleep—and all you can think about is doing something stupid instead—like sneaking into his bed and snuggling against that broad, inviting back. Of course, after he had made it clear that he didn’t want to take things any further between us, that would have been inappropriate.
No doubt about that.
Don’t judge me, I was a victim! I was traumatized and stuff. I crept out of bed like a shadow, scared that the mere sound of my hand pushing the sheets away might wake him up, and tiptoed to his bed, the air coming to my lungs in short, trembling breaths.
He didn’t move. Not a single muscle. Not when I lifted his covers, not when I lay close to him in the bed, not even when I covered us both with those same covers, still warm from his heat. I molded my body against his still one, pressed my stomach against that wonderful butt, brushed his legs with my feet: it was pure heaven. Resting my cheek against the skin of his shoulder blade, I couldn’t resist the temptation to cop a feel too: I traced the valley of his spine and explored the firm flesh surrounding it, careful to avoid his bruises. Dents, ridges: each scar was like Braille under my fingertips, telling the story of his body. Traveling higher and higher, my palms eventually met the rough, tormented lines of the lion on his shoulder, losing themselves in the maze of thin and blistered scars. As my thumb lingered on the threatening jaw and the perfect circle encasing the design, a powerful emotion washed over me, like my chest was being crushed, but I didn’t want it to stop. Before I could think, my lips made contact with the lion’s cheek.
I breathed in March deeply, his scent a combination of many ordinary and wonderful things: the alcohol he had been drinking, soap, skin, a little sweat—which, oddly enough, I found incredibly erotic. My mouth resumed planting soft kisses all across the scar, as if that might somehow heal it, make it disappear. I was unconsciously massaging his arm with my right hand, and when his triceps contracted under my fingertips, it dawned on me that his breathing had changed.
March was awake—well, had likely never been asleep in the first place.
Like all those people who show up at the ER in the middle of the night with strange things stuck up their butt, I had a thousand of good excuses ready—most of which sounded nearly as convincing as “I was cooking soup naked at two a.m., tripped in my kitchen, and fell back on a butternut that had been standing on the floor all along.”
I never had the time to test any of these on him, though.
“Island—” His voice was quiet. He sounded exhausted.
Like I said, don’t judge me. I lost whatever was left of my dignity.
My voice cracked. “Please . . . I don’t want to spend the rest of my life wondering—”
“How it would have felt?”
I swallowed and nodded, even though March couldn’t see that. Maybe he just felt it against his back. With a single, fluid movement, he rolled around to face me and pinned me under him, his hands closing around my wrists. A hot flush spread throughout my body that only got worse when I felt his knee force mine apart, settling between my legs.
“I’m drunk. Is this what you want?”
This near-growl was a far shot from the kind of tender intonation I had envisioned for my first time. I nodded again, almost mechanically.
The fingers around my wrists tightened, and the corners of his lips trembled with what appeared to be barely repressed anger. “Is this what you want, Island?”
Just a drunken mercy fuck, huh? He was right. I didn’t want that.
“No.”
March released his grip and shifted away. “Good. I can’t think of a worse scenario for a first time.”
A little part of me wanted to punch him for ending our time together with the same words with which it had begun. I sighed and snuggled against him—yes, I did seize the opportunity to caress that wonderful chest hair: it was at least something, and God, it was even silkier than I had dreamed.
One of the hands that had been pinning me seconds earlier rose to wrap around the base of my neck and force my head up. I remember thinking that it had to be true love, because when March kissed me, I didn’t even care that he was still reeking of alcohol.
“Good-bye, Island.”
Oh.
I processed his words, my lips searching for his clumsily in the dark.
I felt his fingers squeeze my neck.
And that douche choked me out.
THIRTY-FIVE
The Vanilla Jumbo
“Lucy, I’m your father.”
—Dyanna Carlyle, War in the Stars
That sneaky bastard had packed sometime during the night, and when reception called to wake me up at seven sharp, I was alone. There was no note, nothing that would have served to at least make a clean cut, just his scent lingering on the sheets and a faint imprint on the pillow suggesting he had spent a few hours in the bed by my side. As usual, there was no questioning his organizational skills: a one-way ticket for JFK and some cash was waiting for me on the nightstand; room service showed up with breakfast at seven thirty.
I didn’t touch anything on the lavish tray that little spy groom brought me; I was too brokenhearted. Around eight, I had already showered and packed everything March had bought me in the precious Monoprix bag, fake passport included. My flight would take off at eleven: I had more than enough time to find a cab and head to Narita Airport. I checked out, said good-bye to Fubuki, and my chest heaved a tiny bit when she called me Mrs. June.
After I had taken my first steps alone in the open, I was submerged by an incredible sense of freedom, which seemed to momentarily soothe my heartache. I had spent almost five days as March’s “p
risoner,” depending entirely on him, watching my world shrink until it consisted of only him and the deep bond forming between us, and, as intense, as life-changing as these days had been, I had felt smothered, caged like a bird.
I missed him badly already, almost like he had always been there. But at least I was now free to wander in Roppongi’s streets among salarymen and tourists. Inhaling the cool morning air, I looked around until I spotted a Lawson convenience store across the street. Maybe it was time for some self-medication.
Ice cream, here I come!
Dammit, so many brands, so little time! I hummed the tune coming from the shop’s speaker, some happy, catchy J-pop hit, as I tried to make a decision: Vanilla Jumbo or Giant Chocolate Cone?
“Make your choice, it’s my treat.”
Oh.
Fuck.
I didn’t turn, in hopes that the deep masculine voice that had offered to buy me ice cream was, in fact, a figment of my imagination, much like the whiff of spicy sandalwood cologne and the presence I could feel behind me. If I didn’t see him, he didn’t exist, right? A long arm, covered with a dark gray fabric that suggested an expensive suit, a tanned hand grabbing two Vanilla Jumbo ice-cream sandwiches from the freezer. So many little moles. Dries.
Straightening my back, I tried to act natural as I turned to face him. I doubt that really worked, though, since a sheen of sweat was already threatening to form on my brow. I looked into his golden hazel eyes, taking in the transparent strips and bruises on his face. He responded with a sardonic smile and greeted me with a curt bow of his head, barely cocking it. “Shall we?” he said, gesturing to the combini register.
“If you try to kidnap me again, I’ll scream for help, and I swear you’ll have to tear the whole place down to catch me,” I hissed, baring my teeth. I thought maybe this was what I needed to look like a bad guy too.