The Arrangement

by Robyn Harding

  She saw him.

  Cole Doberinsky was wearing a smart gray suit. She’d never seen him so dressed up, but she recognized his broad shoulders, his long legs, his rangy walk. His eyes, dark and intense, were unforgettable. And the way they were looking at her, with such loathing, such contempt, was familiar, too. He was coming toward her, his posture tense and aggressive. What was he going to do to her? Slap her? Spit in her face? Call her a whore? Anxiety drew the blood from her face, turned her fingers and toes to ice. She half stood, hands gripping the edge of the table.

  “Natalie?” Gabe’s voice was concerned, confused. “What’s wrong?”

  Cole was almost upon them now. She opened her mouth to cry out, but no sound came. Her throat was dry, parched, raw with dread. And then, Cole walked right past them. She watched him move to the back of the restaurant, headed for the restrooms. Before her eyes, he changed. The man in the suit was not an angry twenty-one-year-old determined to exact vengeance on his ex-girlfriend. This guy was in his thirties, with the same build as Cole, the same sandy-colored hair, but a softer jawline, a less handsome face. Her legs turned to jelly with relief, and she sat heavily into her seat.

  “Are you okay? You’re shaking.”

  “I’m sorry. I thought . . .” Oh shit. Now she was going to cry. Gabe would think she was a lunatic: raging drunk on their first date, blubbering like a baby on their second.

  But her companion’s expression was concerned, not disgusted. He brushed her cheek with two fingers and said softly, “Want to get out of here?”

  She nodded. If she tried to speak, she would fall apart.

  “I live a couple of blocks away. We could go to my apartment. To talk.”

  Her eyes met his then, and she felt that magnetic pull, the chemistry that had so surprised her. She had not planned for this connection, had not expected to feel what she was feeling. Ava’s advice flitted through her mind . . . Keep your distance. Protect your privacy. Set boundaries. She had to refuse Gabe’s invitation. It was wrong, no matter how right it felt. Her voice, when she spoke, was hoarse.

  “Okay,” she said.

  15

  * * *

  The Sleepover

  Nat was nestled in the back seat of the town car again, but this time, it was morning. Her smart phone told her it was 7:08, the sun hovering over the East River. Gabe’s strapping driver—she’d learned he was from Moldova, an Eastern European country bordered by Romania and Ukraine—was shuttling her back to Brooklyn. Their route would take them through Queens, Oleg informing her that this was the quickest route to Bushwick at this time of day. As she watched the drab scenery whisk by the window, everything painted with a patina of winter mud, she let her mind drift back to last night. To Gabe.

  She had not intended to spend the night at his apartment (it was larger and even more luxurious than Ava’s, but distinctly masculine, a bachelor’s pad). She had gone there to talk, and they had. This man, this virtual stranger, now knew everything about her: her father’s abandonment, her stepdad’s resentment, her ex-boyfriend’s creepy obsession. Gabe knew that the police—all the adults in Nat’s life—had dismissed Cole as an innocuous teenager in love. But Gabe knew that Nat was afraid of Cole. And he knew that the boy was in New York.

  “I won’t let anything happen to you,” he’d assured her. “I have ways of dealing with these nuisances.” When he’d leaned in and kissed her, she had let him. At first, out of gratitude, and then, from true passion. Nat had never thought she could be physically attracted to a much older man, but she had never met a man like Gabe Turnmill. He was sophisticated, suave, and, as she had just found out, a little bit dangerous.

  A small smile curled her lips as she remembered the taste of his lips, the scent of his neck, his hands in her hair. She’d enjoyed kissing him so much that she’d allowed him to lead her to his bedroom. But she’d stopped in the doorway, suddenly afraid, overwhelmed. Kissing was one thing; sex with a much older man, a man who was paying her, was quite another.

  “It’s okay,” he’d said, “I just want to hold you.” It may have been naive, but she’d believed him. And when he’d offered her a large gray T-shirt to sleep in, had worn a T-shirt and boxers himself, she began to relax. They’d crawled into the queen-size bed together, he’d wrapped her in his arms and then, with her head on his chest, she’d slept. Warm. Safe. Protected.

  Nat had never been able to sleep in such close quarters. With Miguel, she’d felt crowded and claustrophobic, even in her double bed. On the handful of occasions when she’d spent the night with Cole (his parents did not allow sleepovers, but Mr. and Mrs. Doberinsky spent two weeks in Arizona each winter, allowing the young lovers some intimacy), she’d felt restless and antsy. There was something comforting about Gabe, something reassuring in his posh, masculine apartment, the doorman on sentry duty. Oddly, Nat felt at home there.

  Her belly rumbled then, a sick, churning sensation. It’s just hunger, she told herself. She should have accepted Gabe’s offer of whole wheat toast instead of insisting the latte he’d made her was adequate. But it was more than just the caffeine churning in her empty stomach. It was her conscience. Their night had felt so romantic, so special, so meaningful. Until he had handed her the money.

  She’d tried to refuse the cash. It felt wrong after the comfort and reassurance he’d provided, not to mention the car service, the dinner, the wine. . . . When he had handed her the wad of bills, it cheapened what they had shared, made her feel like a prostitute though they hadn’t had sex. She had shaken her head. “It’s fine.”

  “Take it.” He’d smiled and pressed the money into her hands. “I like spoiling you.”

  So she’d accepted it, trying to push away the sick feeling in her gut, reminding herself that she had tuition, rent, and bills to pay, that money was the reason she had contacted Gabe in the first place. If she thought of it as a gift, as a token of Gabe’s affection and appreciation, she felt better about it. Because she and Gabe had something, something that went beyond a business arrangement. He’d asked to see her again on Saturday, and she had readily agreed.

  They were nearing her building now, and Nat suddenly realized how this would look to her roommates. “Could you pull over here?” she asked her driver.

  “We’re still three blocks away.”

  “I know. It’s just . . . my roommates are really judgmental. I know how this looks . . . even though nothing actually happened.”

  The big car slowed to a stop. Nat’s clarification didn’t.

  “I was upset. My ex-boyfriend is in New York. He’s obsessive and angry, and I’m afraid of him. I thought I saw him at the restaurant. I was rattled, and Gabe—Mr. Turnmill—said I could spend the night. He said that I’d be safe there, since my ex, Cole, doesn’t know where Gabe lives, of course. That’s all that happened. We just . . . cuddled.”

  Oleg turned in his seat and looked at her. “What you and my boss do in private is none of my business.”

  “I know. I just didn’t want you to think . . . I’m not a . . . I’m not a whore.”

  “I didn’t think you were.” His expression was impassive. “I know what it takes to survive in this city.”

  His words of understanding moved her. “Thank you,” she croaked.

  Oleg watched her struggle with her emotions for a moment. “Are you really afraid of this boy?”

  “Yes. It’s been three years, and he’s still obsessed with me. He’s said horrible, abusive things to me online. He broke into my house. And now he’s here. He’s looking for me.”

  The man’s hazel eyes stayed on her for a beat, and then he leaned over, reached into his glove box.

  “Take this,” he said, holding out his huge palm. In it was a small pistol.

  “Oh my god.” Nat had not grown up around guns. Derek had a rifle for hunting, but it was locked away in a cabinet in the garage. Nat associated guns with crime, with mass shootings, with gangsters. Not with people like Gabe Turnmill and his kindly driver.
r />   “N-no thanks,” she stammered.

  “It’s just a little nine-millimeter,” he said, like it was a toy, a harmless water gun. He racked the slide. “It’s easy to handle.”

  “I’ve never fired a gun before.”

  “And you won’t need to,” Oleg said, putting on the safety. “Point this at the kid who’s harassing you, and you’ll never see him again.”

  Tentatively, she reached out and accepted the revolver. It fit her hand comfortably, felt heavy and cool. Could she point it at Cole Doberinsky and threaten to kill him? To protect herself, her reputation, and her life in New York City, she could try.

  Swallowing her anxiety, she said, “Thank you, Oleg.”

  “Let’s keep this between us, yes?”

  He didn’t want Gabe to know. “Of course,” she said.

  She placed the gun in her purse and got out of the car.

  16

  * * *

  Facebook

  As Nat let herself into the apartment, she practically bumped into Mara in the hallway. Her roommate had a wool hat over her red hair, her winter coat on, and a backpack full of books slung over one shoulder. She was off to class.

  “Morning,” Nat muttered, sliding past her.

  “Morning.”

  Nat felt Mara’s critical eyes on her as she continued down the hall, clocking Nat’s high heels, tight skirt, and bed head. Nat knew exactly what the angular girl was thinking: this was the walk of shame after a one-night stand. Her roommate’s judgment brought to mind the sneers, the whispers, the disapproving glances Nat’s dates with Gabe elicited. Since their first meeting in DUMBO, Nat had decided to ignore them. Because Nat didn’t feel ashamed. She’d had a delicious dinner at a delightful restaurant with a charming, handsome man. A man who had listened to her hopes, her dreams, and her fears. A man who had held her, kept her safe in his arms, allowed her to sleep.

  A man who had given her five hundred dollars the next morning.

  If Mara knew that Nat had accepted money for a date, she’d have been horrified, disgusted, repulsed. And if the ginger-haired girl learned about the firearm in Nat’s possession, she’d have gone ballistic. But there was no way Mara would ever know what was nestled in Nat’s purse. Nat would wrap the weapon in a T-shirt and hide it in the back of a drawer. And that’s where it would stay—unless Cole Doberinsky came for her.

  In her room, Nat stripped off her clothes and jumped into her sweats. She would not go to school today. It would be pointless. Her mind was swimming with warm thoughts of Gabe, anxious thoughts of Cole, and of the weapon now hidden in her sock drawer. Ava, Keltie, or Ivan could provide the notes she missed. She had an illustration to work on at home. And she had research to do. She needed to find out, for sure, if her ex-boyfriend was in New York City. If he was there to find her. If he was there to hurt her.

  Logging on to her laptop, she opened Facebook. Her peer group was not active on the platform; posting vacation photos and memes and political articles was for old people. But Facebook was a utility, a database of everyone she knew (or had met once or twice). And while Natalie had blocked Cole from seeing her social media activity, he allowed her full access. Of course he did. He wanted to stay connected to her anyway he could.

  Cole’s profile picture featured the two of them at prom, evidence of his continued obsession, his inability to move on. That was over three years ago! Nat felt like a completely different person than the girl in the royal-blue satin dress, her hair up in what she’d considered a sophisticated chignon. Was Cole still the same boy who stood, handsome but awkward, in a rented black suit and a blue bow tie? How could he not have changed? Have grown or matured?

  As predicted, Cole hadn’t posted anything on his Facebook wall in over a year. There were a few outdated birthday wishes (from his aunt, a couple of their high school classmates), but nothing that provided a clue to his whereabouts. She tried Instagram. Cole hadn’t posted, but he’d been tagged in a few photos. In one, he was with a bunch of men—older, rough guys, not their high school crowd—standing in front of a bonfire. Their eyes shone in the firelight. They looked drunk. They looked mean. Is this who Cole spent time with now? Was this who he had become?

  Nat’s mind drifted back to the day she’d told Cole she’d been accepted to the School of Visual Arts, the day she’d ended their relationship. She’d tried to minimize the hurt, had chosen her words carefully. “It’s not about leaving you,” she’d said, “it’s about seizing this opportunity.” But the truth was, she’d been so excited, so full of anticipation, that she’d struggled to contain it. Like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon, Natalie was about to be reborn. She was going to live a stimulating life of creativity and adventure in New York City; it was her destiny. Cole Doberinsky was just collateral damage.

  The slightest twinge of guilt, of pity pinched her chest, but she brushed it away. Cole did not deserve her sympathy. He’d tried to hold her back, to take the joy out of her success, to guilt-trip her into giving up her dreams. And then, he had broken into her house while she slept. Even before that fateful night, he’d been possessive and controlling. He’d assumed that Nat, the girl from a broken home, the girl with the absent father, would amount to nothing. That Cole was her last best hope at a decent life. But Nat had a new life now. She was attending the best art school in the country. She was riding in town cars, eating at French bistros, sleeping in an Upper East Side apartment. She would not let Cole Doberinsky take all that away from her.

  Her breath was rapid and shallow as she returned to his Facebook page, to the photo of those two naive kids in their almost comical prom outfits. With a shaky hand, she clicked the messenger icon. A small screen popped open, inviting her to type a message to Cole. She took a breath, and then she began.

  I know you’re in New York. I have a gun. If you try to hurt me, I’ll kill you.

  Before she could think better of it, she clicked the send button. The threat went flying through the ether to Cole.

  17

  * * *

  Emily

  Gabe would stay in the city that weekend. He’d spent an extra day in Sagaponack earlier in the week to watch his daughter’s ridiculous play, so catching up on work was a suitable excuse. Not that he needed one: his wife and daughter seemed largely indifferent to his absence or presence. Once, they’d waited for his car to pull into the drive, bursting out of the house to greet him. Now, Violet was busy with her weird friends and her plethora of causes; Celeste with a myriad of appointments devoted to her physical, mental, and spiritual health. Their ambivalence had wounded him, at first, especially Violet’s. How could she adore him one day, ignore him the next? At least their apathy afforded him a certain amount of freedom.

  He was looking forward to seeing Natalie on Saturday. The girl was stuck in his head like an ant in honey. He liked her dark hair, her fair skin, her full lips. He appreciated the natural grace that compensated for her lack of sophistication. Even her problems and drama were compelling: the terrified look in her eyes when she’d told him about the jilted high school boyfriend out to get her. When she’d melted into his arms, Gabe had felt like her hero, her savior, her white knight. No one had made him feel that way in a very long time.

  On their next date, he would ask her to make things official. This was the trajectory of these relationships. A couple of dates to gauge chemistry, and, if all went well, an allowance would be offered, a schedule set. He would see Natalie twice a week subject to his availability. Natalie wasn’t greedy; she’d be satisfied with a $3,500 monthly stipend. Add in a few nice dinners out, a Broadway show or two, maybe a weekend in Vermont, and she’d be over the moon. But first, there was something he had to take care of. Or someone.

  Emily.

  They’d had an arrangement for about four months. Gabe had found her on the sugar website. Emily was sweet, sexy, and exotic. Her mother was from the Philippines, her father, Brazilian. Or maybe he was Argentine? Gabe couldn’t recall, hadn’t really been listening. He
was attracted to Emily, and the sex was good, but their relationship had never felt genuine. The petite woman said and did all the right things, almost like she was playing a part. Emily had been around the block; she knew the drill. Natalie wasn’t like that. She was innocent, fresh, real.

  The sugar website offered tips on ending relations with one’s sugar baby. Do it in person, over a nice lunch. This rustic, Italian restaurant in the financial district was one of the best in the city. Give her a goodbye gift. A white-gold-and-diamond necklace rested in his pocket. It had set him back almost five grand, paid on his personal credit card attached to a secret account. He never left any evidence for Celeste to find; not that she was suspicious. Be gentle with your sugar baby’s feelings but firm in your resolve. Gabe was an attorney, a master negotiator. He could handle this.

  Emily would not cause him any problems. Gabe was her fourth or fifth sugar daddy; she’d been open about that. It hadn’t bothered him. In fact, it had provided him some comfort. This girl wouldn’t expect too much or make too many demands. And when he cut her off, she would take it like the pro she was.

  He watched her enter the bustling restaurant on sky-high heels, looking hot in a tight dress the color of desert sand. His groin tingled pleasantly as he thought about the body beneath the clinging fabric: tight, compact, strong. She taught some kind of exercise class—kickboxing or boxercise—and it showed. For a beat, he considered keeping things going with Emily on a more casual basis. Financially, he could probably swing it, but the time commitment would be too much. He stood to greet her.

  “Hi, Gabe.” She kissed his cheek, then took a seat across from him. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”