by Ash Krafton
I'd retained at least the basics from our chat in the museum café. Marek described his dual responsibilities as financial overlord and political mastermind (my slant, not his). His words sounded mild and polite but his aura—for lack of a more sensible word—had a taste of aggression I couldn't imagine being faked.
Just as I had that first day we'd spoken in the museum, I received more vague impressions of threat; it felt as if he stood, arms wide, to hold back a tide of danger behind him, protecting me from it even as I knew he could unleash it upon others. I shuddered to imagine what he might do in a stressful situation.
Still, he appeared respectable and polite, if not tremendously cheerful or overly appreciative of the other men sitting near our table.
Here in the sunshine, the mist from the fountain keeping it cool enough to keep my sweater on, he sat across from me in black Ralph Lauren pants and a dark green dress shirt, sleeves rolled to mid-forearm, unbuttoned at the throat. No tie, of course.
Marek didn't favor the metro style favored by most of the stock jockeys who devoured their thirty-minute lunches and chatted urgently into cell phones around us. Yet, he seemed more powerful than all of them put together, even as he lounged in the wire-grid chair, legs crossed and relaxed.
I mulled over his words as I moved on to the other half of my sandwich. He made his work sound stimulating and exciting but it wasn't at all my style. "Not me. I like the confinements of a nine to five. Well, okay, maybe not strictly nine to five. The Mag is pretty lenient with my time card."
"Do you enjoy your work?"
"I like work, it likes me. I'm kind of destined for it. I grew up with a little voice inside me—sort of like emotional radar. Once it makes up its mind about something, it's impossible to ignore."
"Destined. Hmm. Odd word." He pursed his lips in a thoughtful frown. "You are fortunate to have a strong internal guide."
"I'll say. My little voice is entirely responsible for keeping me out of the kind of trouble that makes you turn to someone for advice in the first place."
He gazed at me with a hungry attention, making me feel like I was the most fascinating person on the planet. Nobody had ever been this curious about my life and times the way he was. I didn't even think it was possible to be interested in my line of work. It wasn't like I was an astronaut or an assassin. Marek made me feel worth knowing. It was a nice change.
He shifted his feet and pushed back in his chair. "Reckless people do not give stable counsel. I see why you are suited to your occupation."
"It was a lucky break. I'm not aggressive enough to prove myself every day. I like being needed in a certain place at a certain time to do a certain thing."
The ice clinked in Marek's glass when he lifted it. "You crave security."
I nodded. Boy, did he hit the nail on the head. "Knowing I have a place to go lets me focus on putting everything I have into my performance. I don't have to worry about holding back part of myself as a reserve for my survival."
"What about your freelance work? That's not guaranteed."
My pulse quickened and fizzed like a shot of Mountain Dew. I was pleased he'd remember a tiny detail I'd only briefly mentioned. "No, but it's not my bread and butter, either. I write that stuff because my mind is always going. Typing it out kind of clears my head."
"You make it sound more like a hobby than a trained profession."
"I guess it is. I used to work in nursing but my last job was so stressful that to keep from worrying, I started talking to myself. I imagined dialogs, stories, discussions—anything at all, just to avoid thinking about work. Eventually I'd walked away from it all. Hardest thing I ever did."
I trailed off before my voice could betray the sadness I still felt. All the good I'd done, all the satisfaction I'd gotten from really helping people—I gave it all up because policies became increasingly focused on making money rather than practicing safely. I couldn't work for a company that made me feel I walked into a war zone every day.
Blinking, I glued a grin on my face, hoping he wouldn't call my bluff. "The freelance stuff makes money out of a bad habit I never dropped. I can't believe people pay for my ramblings but I'm glad they do, anyway."
"I wouldn't call them ramblings. Some of your articles are quite... insightful."
My phony grin drooped. "And you would know, how?"
"Internet."
I wanted to fling something at his nonchalant expression. Mental note: Google yourself ASAP. "And you're sure it's all me? I'm not the only Sophie Galen, you know."
"I read through some of your published work. Why are you upset? You're a writer. Isn't it the goal to be widely read?" As he suppressed a laugh, the edges of his eyes crinkled.
I didn't know if I should feel flattered or infuriated. Truthfully, he was right about wanting to be read, so I grudgingly restrained myself from lobbing something at him. Besides, the only thing within reach was my lunch and that was too good to waste.
"I don't know, Marek, I guess... I guess it seemed so personal to hear you talk about it. I mean, I do want to be read; it's my job. More readers equal more paychecks. But the freelance stuff tends to be kind of personal. Soul-borne. The people who read it don't know me so it's no big deal. But maybe if you read it, it is a big deal."
Marek gently held my gaze, his eyes full of warmth and acceptance. "Are you afraid of what I'll think? Is my opinion important? Do you fear I'll see more than you want to show?"
Bravely, I maintained eye contact. Answer, letter D: All of the above.
I wasn't ready to reveal so much so soon. Truthfully, I already was seriously in like with him. His company seemed to satisfy a need inside me I hadn't realized still existed. At first I had been drawn to him because he seemed so dark, so melancholy, another person to "save." It put me in complete control of the relationship.
I was surprised to discover the real chemistry between us, an attraction that seemed to be mutual. It changed things entirely.
I should have felt happy and confident spending time with someone who felt like all sorts of right to me. Instead, it terrified me. Wanting more from him made my soul feel exposed, wide open to the hurts I tried so long to avoid. Being with him made me fear for my heart's safety.
I didn't know how to take chances like that anymore.
Swallowing hard and trying to look cavalier, I nodded. It was a big giant step to admit my vulnerability but I wouldn't cheapen whatever chance I had with him by lying.
Marek reached across the table toward me, pressing his hand to mine in a gesture that was both comforting and intimate. "Don't worry, Sophie. I'll never judge you by what you write. Words are just words. Right?"
Relieved, I nodded again, more enthusiastically.
He squeezed my hand before letting go. Standing up, he flicked his shoulders to smooth his shirt down into place.
"I've got to keep reading then." The smirk he wore was nothing short of playful. "There must be some really interesting stuff out there for you to look so worried."
"Marek," I whined. "I thought you understood."
"But I do." He chuckled deep in his throat. "I can't wait for you to reveal yourself to me, inch by maddening fraction of an inch. I want to know your entire splendor, your bared soul, your wellspring of inner self. I want it all and I want it now. If this helps me get it, then I'll do it."
"But they're only words—"
"Yes, but words tell stories. Even if the stories aren't true, they reveal much about the one who tells them. Perhaps your writing is not autobiographical, Sophie, but there surely is a bit of you in everything you write." Marek's eyes flashed, a green glint of amusement, a hint of tease that pierced his somber expression. "I seek the back story."
Defeated, I dropped my hands into my lap. "I can't change your mind?"
"I want all of you. This is another part to want."
"Can't I just distract you with more obvious parts?"
"You do more than distract." He regarded me with intensity. As his eyes swep
t over me, I felt a nearly-physical caress that made my pulse quicken again. "But my mind must be sated, as well."
Sated. The word invoked sudden images of strewn and tangled sheets, perspiration and exhausted satisfaction. Thank God he wasn't a mind reader.
I busied myself with gathering the remnants of our meal onto the plastic tray. "All right then. Satisfy whatever curiosity you have but, please, I'm not comfortable discussing those writings. I'm not ready to hear what you think of them."
"Agreed." He flashed a triumphant grin, completely ruining the usual severity of his expression. That quick smile, so rare for him, stole my breath away and left me feeling off balance.
As if I could ever prevent him from doing anything or from being smug about it.
Some things I just knew by instinct.
St. Joseph's Cathedral was an ancient stone and stained glass Catholic church standing smack-dab in the middle of downtown. The stout giant seemed to have been transplanted into a sleek, modern garden of steel and diesel fumes.
Ever since I was young, I believed the Church offered some sort of sanctuary; St. Joseph's completely re-affirmed those feelings. A broad public garden sprawled from front steps to sidewalk, while its walled-in cemetery gathered behind; the grounds helped to set it apart from the surrounding wilderness of office buildings and parking lots.
Once safely inside, I was submerged in tranquility, like a cool touch on an anxious brow. Relax and find peace, no harm shall find you; no trouble shall reach you here. Even the most obstinate soul could sense the asylum.
I passed the main entrance and rounded the corner, following the sidewalk to a flight of steps on the side of the building. These led down to a basement-level set of rooms that housed the Adoration Chapel, open from dawn to sunset. I often visited when I needed a little drive–thru sanctuary.
I'd spent a good part of the morning on the phone with Marek, who'd agonized over difficulty with clients or coworkers or somebody. Apparently his work involved a lot of ethics. Funny, since I thought his work was politically-inclined; politics and ethics usually avoided each other like plague.
To make matters worse, his dark mood spread an overtone of damned if I do and damned if I don't upon every word.
Since a degree in counseling wouldn't manifest itself and help me cure Marek's self-image problems, it couldn't hurt to ask the Big Guy for some guidance. Slipping inside, I dropped my bag on a chair and crossed the room to a kneeler.
The air was faintly perfumed with the spice of incense, a soothing fragrance that settled me into serenity. I blessed myself and knelt, reaching to light one of the votive candles. Peace nestled near the little flames warming blue glasses in front of a contented statue.
When the flames leapt and danced in place, I knew someone else had entered. Rising, I turned to see the priest holding out his hands and greeting me with a warm smile.
"Father Jared..." Peering up into his eyes, I noticed with a twinge of sadness the weariness in them, the little wrinkles beginning to bloom. I'd known him since high school but sometimes I forgot how many years had passed. To see time etched in an old friend's face is to acknowledge those years that slipped by, nearly uncounted.
Grasping my hands, he smiled wide enough to show his crooked bicuspid. That one tooth, only slightly misaligned, gave his smile a hint of adolescent innocence. "All these years and it still sounds strange to hear you call me that."
"Sorry, Jare. It's the collar."
"I know, I know." He tipped his head in rueful agreement. "But please, friends first, Sophie."
"Friends 'til infinity," I replied.
"So what's brought you here?" He settled into one of the folding chairs. "I thought you worked all day on Tuesdays."
"I quit early. I've been trying to help a new friend out. After a morning of that, I couldn't seem to get anything else done."
"Ah," he nodded. "A new friend. Do you go looking for these strays or do they just manage to keep finding you?"
"I don't know." I smiled wryly. "How was it with us?"
"Hmm." He leaned back, tapping his chin in a parody of deep thought. "I think you found me. You were suddenly there, shaking sense into me. My little savior."
"Some savior. Cigarette hanging out of my mouth, leather jacket and an Ozzy shirt..."
"And the boots! Remember the blue bandana you wore around your ankle? And don't even get me started on the hair. I mean, Holy Bon Jovi, Batman!"
"Knock it off." I chuckled, remembering the cruel big-haired late 80s and the things we wore for the music we loved. "So, yeah, another stray, I guess. But this one is different. He's so dark, Jare. It's like he stands at the edge of some great abyss and part of me is saying if I get too close, he might grab me and jump off."
I tried to make a joke of it but the ominous dreams I'd been having made it difficult. The comparison felt too close to the truth and my voice betrayed me. I rubbed my fingernail against my lower lip, trying to prevent anything else from emerging.
"I've told you before your soft heart could lead you to trouble one day. You have to walk away if he's dangerous."
I shook my head. "I mean, some of the things he's told me, okay. He definitely isn't Playing-It-Safe Guy. I can... I can feel he's dangerous. But not to me."
"How do you know? You aren't psychic and you aren't a shrink. Worse yet, you trust people too easily."
I looked away, watching the candles flicker and sway. "You're right. All I know is there's good in him and he needs me to help him find it."
He ran a hand over his short sandy curls. "Sophie, I've always admired your compassion. But you can't put yourself in harm's way. You can't save everyone. You have to understand that."
"I've never given up on anyone." I put my hand on his arm. "I didn't give up on you."
Jared seemed to consider that and something unspoken passed briefly between us before he leaned forward to kiss my forehead. "No, you didn't. If it wasn't for you, I probably never would have gotten my soul back."
Peering up into his eyes again, I thought I glimpsed the shaggy-headed seventeen-year-old boy I had once known, but it was only a trick of my memory. That boy had grown up a long time ago.
Jared's expression settled with resignation, the mature patience he'd developed after many years of tending his ever-straying sheep. "The look in your eyes says you're going to help him anyway, no matter the price. Okay. You need anything at all, call me. But at the first sign of bad, you turn around and you run. I can't always be there to fight the bad guys for you."
"And I can't afford to bail you out of jail anymore."
He scratched the back of his head and grinned. "I guess we outgrew the whole Bonnie and Clyde phase, didn't we?"
"Hey." I raised my hands. "I was only guilty by association and you know it."
He laughed. "You still are. Anyway. There's real danger out there these days. If you get close to it, you turn and run. Promise?"
"Yes, Father." A visit with Jared was always a return to happiness. It was so easy to love him and, quite frankly, I liked being with a man who wasn't out for something more. No pressure, no need to impress. Plus, I figured I scored bonus points with God because my best friend was a priest.
I found my purse where I'd dropped it and hoisted it onto my shoulder. "I have to go, Jared. Thanks for being here for me."
"Sophie, be careful," he said. "I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you."
"But the Mass would be lovely, I'm sure." I smiled over my shoulder before I sprinted up the stairs and back out into the sun.
A few days later, I leaned back in my desk chair, reading over some text and thinking. Well, trying to think. A loud and obnoxious conversation took place on the other side of my partition. Normally the office noise doesn't distract me. When I'm working on my column I kind of zone into it, tuning everything else out. It's probably why I got too involved with the work.
I couldn't block this out, though. Donna's voice was a Zen killer for me.
"There i
s something so mysterious about him," Donna said. "I love the bad boy attitude. When I'm with him, all I can think about is sex and danger."
I gagged. I hurried to print my work so I could go hide in Barbara's office until lunch. Listening to Donna's sexcapades ranked dead last on my list of Things to Do Before I Die.
A rude beep from the printer told me I forgot to load paper and I reached desperately behind me for a new ream.
"Where did you meet him, Donna?" I couldn't match the voice to a face. That might be for the best.
"At Folletti's," Donna said smugly. Small wonder. No place but the best for Donna. "He's upper management there. Usually, we just go upstairs to the club."
"Ooh, I heard of it. It's pretty exclusive."
"It is but this guy is on the inside. He's smooth, suave, and so seductive. When we're together we nearly incinerate. He told me I'm so hot, I smolder."
Ugh. Beyond gag and two seconds from throwing up into my mouth. He'd have to be dead if he thought Donna was hot, because she was one cold bitch. Printer refilled, I clicked OK and managed to keep from shaking the monitor to speed it up.
"His mouth... there are no words to describe what he does with it. It should be illegal. You know, he's got a friend who is just as tempting... you could double with me sometime."
I guessed the unintelligible squealing the other girl emitted represented agreement. Then again, I didn't speak Pig. The printer spit out the sheet and I grabbed it, scrambling out before I heard anything else about Donna's love life.
No wonder I preferred working from home.
My mood didn't improve despite the prospect of a quick date with Marek that afternoon.
"I don't get you," Marek said. We sat at a high table near the front window of Abbie's Ice Cream Emporium. I had an hour before The Mag's monthly issue review meeting and Marek had met me on my break.
It would be a long meeting. It always was, hence the ice cream. Abbie's Chocolate Buzz contained enough caffeine and sugar to help me fake an alert and interested look. A single cup of coffee during the meeting would push me over the edge to the realm of "engaged."