by Ella James
The paint is undisturbed. My throat feels knotted as I pace the room. Where the hell could she have gone? I’m walking back toward the stairs, thinking I should check if they’re even wet, when I notice a door behind them. It’s got a coat rack pushed in front of it.
That’s sketchy.
I try to think of something this girl could be doing in this obviously out-of-the-way place that would be okay. I want an excuse to leave, but I can’t find one.
The door is short and narrow; it opens into a narrow hallway with a low ceiling. I’m six-foot-one and my hair is brushing the top. Right away, I feel the walls trying to close in on me. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, and it’s that scent that keeps me going. And the way she was creeping around.
Women are as strong as men. I think a lot of the time, stronger. But they’re easy prey for cowards. I can’t say how I know this girl, the one running, is young—but I do. Must be something about the way she moved. I take a few more steps in and am relieved to find the small space expands into to a regular-sized hallway.
The floors are deep red marble with gold veins; they’re framed by tall walls papered pink and white and pocked on each side by gold doors, all closed. I shake my head at the flashy gold doors.
To my right, in an alcove between the second and third door, there is a painting of a man in a white gown, small amidst a nighttime forest. Someone in brown stands before him, more shadow than man, pricking his finger with a knife or needle. Overhead, a moon glows behind gray clouds so real-looking that I have to blink to reassure myself it’s just a painting.
Fuck, I’m getting spooked like a kid.
I jerk my eyes away from the thing and glance on down the hall. It’s dimly lit.. I glance quickly behind me then take a few slow steps, being careful not to make sound with my dress shoes.
Just a little ways, and then I’ll have to turn around if I don’t see her. I don’t care how good she smells, I don’t want to get caught in here. Whatever this place is, it’s not intended for me.
I close my eyes and listen with intention to the space around me, listen for her feet or her breathing or for some sound that indicates that she’s in trouble. I don’t hear a thing.
I tell myself she’s fine, but I can’t make myself turn back yet. I wait another two maybe three minutes. Could she be hiding behind one of the closed doors? What if she’s waiting here for one of them?
The thought sickens me, and I shake my head to get rid of it. Then I hear a murmur, and my pulse surges.
I take a few steps. There’s a sound like something hitting the floor. Holy shit, I can’t breathe. I move toward a door where I think the sound came from. I stop outside it. I hear something else—someone moving around. Followed by another muttered curse. I’m sure of it. She’s on the other side of this door.
I listen for another minute, and then I open the door quietly. Slowly. With such care, I feel almost incorporeal. Then the door is open wide enough for me to see the whole room.
Most of it is done in black. There’s a big-ass painting on one of the walls. These people like their big-ass paintings (I get it, though; I like art, too).
That’s the last thought that crosses my mind before my gaze lands on her.
The girl I pursued is standing at a wall of built-in bookshelves, her dark head down as she flips through some sort of album she’s got propped against one of the shelves.
I’m fascinated by the profile view I have of her. Her slightly parted lips, the slight blush high on her cheek. The way her black hair falls down her slim back, over her flowing dress, which must be an angel costume because there are ribbons in the back shaped into angel wings. She looks like a porcelain doll, and with a silver mask over her eyes… A bolt of lust moves through me, and I draw a breath in, feeling strange about myself, at my reaction.
I don’t want to fuck her, I tell myself. It’s just…animal appreciation. We’re complimentary opposites of the same species. She looks soft and small and regal. Maybe even familiar. As I watch her, her mouth tightens and she blows a breath out.
Then her head turns. She looks right at me. Whoa.
I’m gripped by a strange sensation. Like I’m frozen, kind of, but my heart is beating harder and my face and chest feel hot.
Holding my gaze with her wide, masked eyes, she turns fully around to face me, revealing her flowing white gown. It tightens at her waist and hugs her bust and ties around the back of her neck. Another bolt of heat prickles through me like some kind of fucking drug.
“Who are you?” she asks me, at the same moment I say, “You look like a princess.”
I blink as the words leave my mouth, because I didn’t plan to say them. And they were kind of stupid. Obviously she’s an angel.
“I’m an angel.” She holds out her wings. “But I’ll take princess.” She peers at me like a dark-haired angel queen. “And you’re a robber prince.” She says it like an edict, but her lips twitch at the corners. At the last second, when it looks like they’ll tug into a frown, she gives me a shy smile.
“Do I know you?” Her tone sounds like she suspects she does.
“I don’t know.” I widen my eyes at her, waggling my brows. “What do you think?”
She stretches, casting her gaze around the room before her eyes land back on me. “I don’t think I care,” she says. She yawns likes she’s tired, and I step back, away from her and away from the door—so I don’t make her feel cornered.
“I think I’m too sleepy to care,” she says softly. “But I hope you’re a nice guy, because we’re in here alone together.”
Elise
When my mother was ten, someone hurt her as she walked home from her elementary school. Because of that, I think, when I was eight, I began receiving instruction in Kalari.
So I’m really not scared of this boy, even though he’s on the big side.
I am curious. I pretend I’m sleepy, but I’m making plans. He steps away—from the door and me—and I watch as the corners of his eyes tilt in what I think is a smile. I can’t tell for sure because he’s got a black bandana covering the lower half of his face.
“I am,” he says, and his deep voice sends shockwaves over my skin. They erupt into goosebumps which I ignore as I straighten my spine. I look him over once more.
“You’re a server.”
His eyes squint again as he smiles behind the black bandana. “I’m a train robber.”
“And I’m an angel,” I say softly, stepping closer to him. I don’t know why my feet move me. I watch as he rubs a hand back through his hair. Black hair, darker than mine. His eyes, I see after a few more steps, are ice blue.
“Are those your real eyes?”
I love how they squint and his cheeks curve, another smile under the bandana. “No. These are just for parties.”
They’re amazing, I almost say. But I have self-restraint. I say, “They’re very blue.”
“Are those your real lips?” His voice is so soft I strain to hear it.
“Lipstick.” I smile.
“What’s it called?”
“What?”
“They all have names, don’t they? Like ‘Cherry Bomb’ or ‘Lust Duck’ or whatever.”
“Lust Duck?” I barely manage to not burst out laughing.
He shrugs. “Slut Swan?”
I can’t stop my lips from curving, but I can twist them into a smirk. “This one is called Scandal.”
His eyes drink me in, brows notching as he seems to consider me. “I didn’t know angels caused scandals.”
I lift a shoulder. “Princesses do.”
“Do they?” he asks, so low and quiet.
His gaze holds mine, and my chest goes tight and weird, like I can’t get enough air. And it’s because of him.
My heart is racing as our eyes stay locked, and then he shuts his, and I see him swallow. When he opens them again, he gives me a little smile. I know it’s a smile because I see his eyes squint at the corners.
The sharp rap of foots
teps in the hall breaks our spell, and his eyes widen.
“Shit,” he says, at the exact moment I say, “Let’s go behind the wall!”
Seconds later, we’re crouching behind a folding privacy wall to the right of the bed—one of the ones they sometimes have in tailors’ alteration spaces, so you can duck behind and swap your clothes out. This one is made of dark wood; it’s just large enough to hide us both. He’s behind me, in the space between my back and the wall. As we freeze in our positions, one of his hands goes to my shoulder.
“In a second,” he begins quietly—but I don’t get to hear what will happen in a second.
The door opens, and he shushes. I hold my breath and try to listen to the footsteps. It’s more than one person. I think two, but I’m too scared to peek through the gaps between the privacy wall’s slats and confirm this. I can tell it’s men—and that they’re speaking Italian. My stomach slow rolls as their gruff, low voices rise. They’re speaking quickly, forcefully. I don’t know Italian, but I know one of the voices…
The blood drains from my cheeks when he speaks in English. “Please.”
The other man grumbles something—in Italian. Then, as quickly as they stepped in, one of them leaves. Below the divider wall, I can see the shoes of the one who remains. I watch as he shuffles his feet, and when he sighs, it’s unmistakably familiar.
Seconds later, he, too, leaves.
A moment passes. I can feel the boy behind me, feel his chest warming my back and feel the tension in his coiled muscles.
He lets out a deep breath, seeming as shaken as I feel—but I assume for different reasons.
“What were they saying?” I whisper, feeling nearly faint with my shock. “Do you know?”
He rises to his feet, holding out a hand for me, which I take.
“I do know,” he says as he helps me up.
“Well, what was it?”
He looks at the door. “One of them was warning the other. Telling him to get in line.”
“Which one was doing the warning?” I try not to sound too desperate. “Was it the one who left first, or the one who left the room last?”
He frowns at me. “The guy who left last.”
I can feel my pulse throb at the base of my throat. “You mean…mafia stuff?” The words are whispers.
“I don’t know.” He looks down. When he glances back up, I can tell from his eyes that he’s troubled. “I…” He shakes his head. “Let’s get out of here.”
I nod, and he takes my hand. He holds it carefully, and my whole body buzzes beside him as he peeks into the hall, then leads me out as if it’s his job to protect me.
We walk in silence until we reach the door into the weird, small space. Then he disentangles his fingers from mine and moves in front of me. He has to crouch a little so his head won’t brush the low ceiling. I watch the fabric of his dress shirt tighten over his shoulders as he listens at the door then cracks it open before nodding over his shoulder at me.
“We’re good.”
His voice is low and soft and rough. He steps through the little door and turns back toward me, holding his hand out. I don’t know why I take it. I don’t need help walking. But it feels good to move through the coat room with his big, warm hand around mine. Especially after what I just saw. Who I just saw.
My suspicions are confirmed…maybe. I don’t know how I feel, but I feel better walking through the darkened hallways with this guy beside me. He gives me a look that I think is supposed to be reassuring. Maybe even a little smile, although of course I can’t be sure because of the bandana. When we reach the polished wood stairwell that I think he stepped into after me a little while ago, he lets go of my hand.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“Grazie, bella.” He gives me a slight nod—like a greeting…like an agreement.
“Thank you,” I whisper again. It feels so strangely inadequate.
“Be careful, okay?” he says. “You’ve got friends here?”
I nod.
“Don’t be wandering around tonight without them.” He wraps his hand around the door to the stairwell and then looks back, his piercing blue eyes widening. “Sei bellissima e gli uomini sono mostri.”
I don’t understand his words, but they feel like a warning.
I watch as he disappears into the stairwell, my mind rolling outward like a rug unfurling, vast and empty all in the same moment.
Chapter Three
Elise
Two Months Later
There’s a photo on a shelf in our home’s library. It’s a Polaroid, which may be why I’ve always liked it so much. Some Polaroids are bleary, but this one is strangely clear—like a window to another time.
In the snapshot, it’s spring or summertime. I know because the grassy field we’re standing in is brilliant green. There are lots of us—thirty-four, to be exact. Arranged in four rows. Everyone is wearing dressy-casual clothes: flowing dresses for women, trousers and button-ups for men.
On the front row, surely just a few feet from the photographer, are six women. Each one holds a baby, and all around their feet are young children
If you look closely and you know Liberty State Park, you can see the lower part of the Statue of Liberty behind us. If you look closely and you know my family, you can see my mother among the six women holding babies. There’s a chunky monkey in her arms, a big-cheeked drool machine wearing a lacy bonnet and, for some reason, only a cloth diaper. My mom is eighties-tastic in a navy sundress, gold beads, hoop earrings, and point-toe espadrilles. Her hair has got to be permed. I’ve never seen it curly like that.
What I like most about this picture—and, I think, what I hate, too—is the look on my mom’s face. Her head is tilted slightly in a dreamy fashion, showing off her swan neck and her elegant collarbones. Her lips, as red as ever, are curled into a little smile, as if she has a secret. A good secret. I’m sitting up straight like a young meerkat, smiling, I think—though I can’t tell for sure. Her arms are wrapped snugly around me.
The woman to my mom’s left, Isa Arnoldi’s mother, looks similarly pleased. Or maybe proud. It’s a look that I don’t understand, but she’s smiling. She’s wearing a pale pink dress, a cross necklace baby Isa is pulling on, and a straw hat with a dark ribbon around the juncture between crown and brim. I can’t see her feet to know what vintage shoes she’s wearing, because Isa’s older brother Gabe is sitting on them. His face is parallel with the sky, as if he’s looking at a bird or plane above us.
To my mom’s right is a smaller woman, also dark-haired, though her hair is shorter. She’s not looking at the camera, but at the baby in her arms, who is a boy. He’s wearing a blue outfit, with the mother in a white dress. I don’t know her name. When I asked my mom and dad, they said they didn’t either.
“Someone at the charity picnic that day.”
The other four babies are my friends Dani, Max, Loren, and Jace. We’ve all known each other since we were in diapers. Our parents have sat on the board of the Most Holy Redeemer Catholic charity since before we were born.
The charity is for bragging and one-upmanship, and also for tax breaks. Now there is no summer picnic, only Christmas dinner at The Beekman, and an Easter egg hunt, although everyone in this picture is too old to hunt for eggs now.
At the lunch and hunt this year, held indoors at Gotham Hall, Dani and Max got drunk and kissed in a bathroom, and Isa offered me a cigarette on one of the balconies. I hate the smell and taste, so I declined, but I stuck by her as she smoked.
I look at my mother’s buoyant smile one last time before setting the frame back down and stepping over to the tall window behind my father’s desk. Objectively, I know that it’s a stunning view of the Hudson. It has a stunning price tag attached, and it’s only one of the homes my parents own.
Despite myself, I step back to the picture and look again. This time, I find my father. He’s near the back, standing beside Isa’s dad. I look from his face to Mr. Arnoldi’s a few times, searchin
g both their features. Is there any resemblance? I can’t see Roberto Arnoldi well enough to know. Does it matter if they actually resemble? My dad speaks Italian. My Irish father speaks fluent Italian and he…well, I think he threatened someone.
My eyes well as I smile at his smile in this photo. It looks so real. It’s a smile I haven’t seen in years, and I can’t understand that even when I try. Which is why I keep coming back to this snapshot—and a few others, which are tucked into my baby book in my room. Years ago, my father used to spend time with Isa’s regularly. The men in this photo were his friends. And now they aren’t. Years ago, my father was an attorney for Isa’s, and now he isn’t.
A few years ago, something changed. And then that one time I asked about Mr. Arnoldi, my mother told me not to again.
“Ever?” I’d pressed, being a pest.
“Not around your father,” she’d said.
Sometime shortly after, Becca started to decline, and Mom told me my father was dealing with “challenges at work.” Over the months that followed, Dad was home less and less, until finally, we only saw him at dinner—if then.
It’s still like that.
I don’t understand. Maybe I don’t need to, but the whole thing makes me sad. Both my parents seem to have their own lives, sans kids.
I look at the picture of Becca on my father’s desk. It’s a tiny snapshot—just her face—before I leave. I grab my backpack from the chair outside the library door and slip it on. Then I hurry down the hardwood hall, hating that I wasted even one second that I could have spent with Becca.
Luca
I thought of fucking off today, but here I am—ass parked on the old, familiar F train. Jane in Pink has her usual falafel breakfast clutched against her pale pink blazer, so that’s mostly what I smell as I pull out a paperback and shift against the hard plastic seat.