by Elodie Colt
A sardonic huff echoes over the speaker. “Yeah, whatever… Have a great life, Ella.”
The line goes dead, and I stare at my phone for a moment before I plop back onto the bed.
Great. You fucked that one up big-time. And what for? For a man you’ve erased from your future.
Huffing, I slap a palm against my forehead. There’s this picture in my head, one that pops into my mind all the fucking time. A picture of him. A tall, sturdy man with dark, floppy hair, gentle eyes, and a killer smile. Where did we meet? Where did he spot me? Did I spot him, too, and my gaze just moved past him, or did he never show up in my periphery?
It already occurred to me that we might have met at the Crawford Crescent fundraiser. He told me he was working in the jewelry industry. Loads of people had attended. Maybe he’s Nick Crawford, the handsome guy who led the auction? He seemed so familiar, the sight of him tweaked my heart…
No, it can’t be him. His hair was too long, his frame too short, and his voice was totally different—similar in its accent, but not the same. Warm but not hot. Powerful but not destroying. Sexy but not disarming.
Drilling both my palms into my eye sockets, I whine into the emptiness of my room. I could have saved myself all the suffering if I’d just fucking asked him. Now, the mystery of Ross will always haunt me. Torture me to the point I want to scratch the skin from my bones. It’s like recognizing an actor in a movie, the name already hovering on your tongue, but no matter how hard you try to remember, it won’t spring to your mind.
Knock-knock.
I startle out of my reverie, grinding my teeth. I can change the ring tone of my phone, but I can’t do shit about the sound of someone knocking on my damn door.
“Ella, dinner is ready,” Holly’s jaunty voice drifts into the room.
I sigh, peeling myself off the bed. “Coming.”
The scent of onions, fennel, and mushrooms floats in the air as I shuffle out to join Zoya and Holly in the dining room. I’m not hungry, but I already got an earful from my sister this morning for leaving my bowl of cereal untouched, so I drag my feet over the rugs on the floor, trying to look as if I weren’t suffering from the flu. I deflate into a seat at the dining room table just as Zoya places a steaming plate in front of me.
“Sweet potato bowl with spiced lamb and mushrooms with an extra scoop of yogurt sauce just for you,” Holly declares, winking at me.
I reciprocate with a tight smile. “Thanks.”
Forking up a sautéed mushroom with a drop of sauce, I pop it into my mouth.
“I know you two like it spicy, so I added some chili,” Holly says when she sits down next to me.
The meal is as spicy as a pancake with three layers of sugar, but I keep the complaint to myself. I can already feel a heavy argument coming down the pipeline, the same one we’re having every damn day.
“Tastes great,” I throw in, just to appear somewhat responsive.
Zoya plops down opposite me, throwing me an expectant look. “We can cook together next week if you want.”
They’ve been trying to cheer me up the entire week. My mood is still in the dumps, though.
“Sure.”
From the corner of my eye, I can see Zoya sending Holly an ominous look. I pretend not to notice and swallow my bite of red onions. Ugh, too much cumin…
“Zoya told me you make the best tacos,” Holly says for the sole purpose of striking up a conversation. “I’d like to know how you make them. I could use some new recipes.”
My fork grates on the plate as I impale a piece of fennel.
Don’t think about the tacos you made for Ross. And don’t you dare think about the hot sex in the Room he gave you as dessert.
I bop my head, keeping my gaze on the mint leaves drowning in my yogurt sauce. Naturally, my lethargic attitude rubs Zoya the wrong way, and she slams her fork down onto her plate, the loud clank making Holly jerk in her seat. Here she goes…
“God, your face is putting everyone in a bad mood. Stop moping about already, will ya?” Zoya snaps, putting the bite on me yet again. “I wanted you to come here so we can help you, not to watch you pining away.”
Sighing, I plonk my cutlery down and drag my challenging gaze up to her, not gracing her with a comment on my part.
She purses her lips. “What happened to your bike, huh? The left side is full of scratches. Did you have an accident?”
I cross my arms. “Yes.”
Her eyes blaze up. “Oh, and when did you plan on telling me?”
I’ve pissed her off. Totally my fault. I’d promised to keep no more secrets from her, yet for some reason, I tend to do the opposite.
Leaning forward, I prop my elbows onto the blue-checkered tablecloth. “You want to know what happened? Fine. After our last fight, I took a tour with my bike, drove too fast because I was stupid and upset, and skid on the ice. I came away with scratches, but in case you forgot, we were not exactly on talking terms, and a short time later, I landed in the hospital with blades and syringes sticking out of my ass.”
A flicker of guilt softens her gaze, but I keep mine hard as steel. She’s hell-bent on worming every secret out of me, so she’s getting the full dose.
“Then I received some more threats from Luka, so I grabbed my gun and met him at Prospect Park Lake. I was about to pull the trigger when a guy showed up out of nowhere, shot Luka in the arm, and chased him off. Turned out Ross sent a friend to keep me from committing a murder.”
Holly has stopped eating, her fork hovering over her plate, her bugged-eyed gaze bouncing between Zoya and me.
“Last time I met Ross, he told me Luka wasn’t an issue anymore,” I continue. “No idea what he did to him, but clearly, not enough. Luka is still here, sticking to me like shit on my shoe. He sent me a text right after I quit Silent Sins.”
Zoya averts her gaze, her lips pinched, and I sag back in my chair.
“You think I’m a coward for bailing on Ross,” I mutter. “You think him digging up my identity behind my back was a grand gesture of love. You think he’s my salvation, that he can get me out of this shithole, and that I’m crazy for not giving the guy a fucking chance. But what you don’t understand is that Ross and I can never be together as long as Luka is my second shadow. He threatened to kill him, dammit!”
I push back my chair, its legs grating on the floor, and dart to my feet.
“I didn’t ask him about his name because I knew I was better off not knowing,” I add, depleted. “I didn’t want to meet him because it would have made things ten times more complicated. I didn’t want to give him a chance because… I knew there was never any hope for us.”
A big lump of pain makes me choke on the last word, and I turn tail before the first tear can betray me.
We all have our demons, but mine follow me at every turn. My monster is real. It’s easy for others to talk, to offer their help, and put in their two cents, but they don’t know what it means to live a life that will never be their own. To have someone pulling the strings, holding the reins, making the decisions for you. To have a leash around your neck, one that chokes you every time you make a wrong move.
Crushed, I retract to my room and walk over to my aquarium. Hopper buzzes around agitatedly when I lean down, his pretty wings flapping against the glass. I wanted to drive to Prospect Park Lake tomorrow to set him free, but why wait? I’m not Luka. I don’t want to keep him in this cage, no matter how much it will hurt to have him gone.
“Ready to explore the big world, boy?” I mutter to him, carefully opening the lid. I grab one of the five remaining vases and catch the full-grown scarlet dwarf, quickly slapping my palm on top to keep him inside.
With a heavy heart, I pad over to the window and open it. The sun is setting, dipping the tops of the trees in an orange glow. The sea sends a salty breeze over Coney Island, rustling the ivy leaves crawling up the façade.
“Have a great journey,” I say before I pull my hand away.
Hopper soars into
the air, his blood-red wings glittering in the sunlight, and flaps away. I follow the insect with my eyes until he disappears on the horizon.
Sighing, I prop my elbows onto the windowsill and let my gaze wander over Surf Avenue. A bunch of kids plays football at Seaside Park opposite the street while a trio of punks hangs out on a bench, passing a joint along.
That’s when a nagging awareness creeps along my skin. I tense, jolting my gaze over to a spot behind a tree. Squinting, I detect some movement, but I can’t make out much from the distance.
I don’t need to. He’s here. I’ve developed a sixth sense for Luka ever since I’d drilled my gun into his chest. If I were a skilled sniper, I could shoot him blindly, but I only have a Glock with a range of seven yards, and I can hardly fire a bullet in a crowded place.
Hanging my head, I close the window.
You had one chance to kill him. One chance to get free. You fucked up.
And now, you will forever be his slave.
6
Nathan
I hit the enter key on my computer, watching with cool indifference as a six-figure sum disappears from my bank account. ‘Transfer complete’ pops up on the screen. I cock my head to the side, trying to figure out if I feel any better now that I’ve done the world a favor and made the American Cancer Society a few hundred thousand dollars richer.
Nope, there’s still nothing but a yawning void inside my heart.
Maybe it wasn’t enough. Maybe I should have donated a million. The Crawford's are bleeding money out of their asses, and for every million they spend, they get back twice as much. That’s how the machinery works. A snowball effect. If you’re rich, it’s easy to get richer until you reach the point where the snowball gets so big, it’s starting to crush you. Vincent learned that the hard way, and it almost destroyed his family.
God, what a shitty Monday. I’m so tired, it feels as if someone else is controlling my motor functions as I heave myself out of my leather chair and drag my feet over to the minibar to make myself an unhealthy but definitely necessary office-morning-drink. I haven’t slept for more than two hours, and they plagued me with cruel dreams that left a sting in my heart.
I’d dreamed of the fundraiser where I watched Ella from behind the marble pillar. The gallery was packed, thousands of attendees elbowing each other out of the way. I whipped my head around, anxiously searching for her in the crowd until I finally spotted her at the other end of the room, shouldering her way past people in an attempt to reach the exit. I called out her name, but no matter how loud I screamed, the crowd was louder, drowning my voice. The closer she got to the exit, the more I panicked because I knew that if she reached those doors, she would be gone forever. So, I jumped into action, barreling my way forward, desperate to get to her. I was already within reach, inches away from grabbing her shoulder when Vincent appeared out of nowhere, blocking my way.
“You can’t help her, but you can help your sister. Please, help me find her. Please,” he begged.
I tried to shove him out of the way, but he was as robust as a brick wall, not moving an inch. Stretching my neck, I threw a frantic glance over his shoulder just as Ella spared me an apologetic look from across the room.
“I’m sorry.”
Her words, even whispered, were so loud, so pervasive, they carried over the entire space. I screamed her name again, but she was already taking the last step through the door, disappearing into the darkness.
“Get out of my fucking way!” I yelled at Vincent, but he wouldn’t budge, so I ripped his pendant from the chain around my neck and jammed it into his ear. Just like I did with Luka.
As if on cue, the crowd went silent, all heads veering to me as Vincent dropped dead right there in the gallery, but I was already on the move, taking off after Ella.
Just as I busted through the door, a shot cracked the air. I froze, the sight in front of me rooting me to the spot. Blood soaked Ella’s dress, a stain of red spreading right above her heart. The last thing I saw before her eyes closed shut was Luka standing behind her, a wicked smirk on his face and smoke steaming out of his gun.
That was when I jerked awake with the echo of the shot pounding against my eardrums.
Wincing, I toss back my scotch in one go. At the same time, Nick breezes into my office, scowling when I slam my empty glass down.
“Nathan—”
“I don’t give a fuck,” I cut in with a growl.
He should know better than anyone how it feels to hit rock bottom. That sometimes, you just don’t find the strength to get up again. He’s been there when his fiancée took her own life all those years ago, blowing herself up in his own fucking house. If it hadn’t been for Janice, he would have snuffed out his lights, too.
Nick sighs, moseying over to the desk and perching against it. His gaze wanders to the sixth nook in the wall. I haven’t bothered to replace the safety glass yet, and the Buccelatti ring is still collecting dust in a velvet box on my desk.
Nook number six will stay empty. A painful reminder of what I’ve lost, and what I will never get back again.
I turn around to face him. “How are you holding up?”
He scuffs his polished shoe on the floor. “Bad. Damn, I just learned I’ve got a sister out there somewhere. I don’t even know how old she is, and Vincent doesn’t know shit, either. What are the fucking odds of ever finding her?”
Oh, brother, I know what it feels like to chase a ghost.
“Did you talk to Brooke?” I ask.
“Yeah. After mumbling a half-assed sorry, she said I should just forget about it and move on. I exploded, but as usual, she turned the tables and played the victim.” He shakes his head, staring out the window. “Honestly, I don’t blame her. After all, she drew the short straw, but she should have told me first. No offense, bro, but I’m sick of being the last in line.”
I heave a long, low sigh. “Me, too.”
There’s a knock on the door before Janice pops in her head.
“Sorry to interrupt, but do you have a minute?” she directs at Nick. “I’ve finished the new bracelet designs and could use a second opinion.”
“Sure.” Throwing me a heads-up-bro look, he pushes away from the desk and files out after Janice.
I open the fridge underneath the minibar and grab a bottle of water, kicking it shut with my foot. Just as I set the bottle to my lips and take the first sip, another knock on the door resounds. Before I can swallow my gulp of water and invite the person in, the door swings open, and I choke on the liquid running down my throat, almost snorting it back up through my nose.
You bored up there, God? Killing your time playing pranks on me? Must be the case because I definitely remember praying for you to send Ella, not her. You should get your ears checked, buddy.
She hasn’t changed much since I last saw her. Same designer clothes, same I’m-above-you poise, same dangerously haughty smile. Flaunting her size zero figure like a supermodel on a catwalk, she swaggers over to me in a pair of heels with a needle-sharp, pointy tip that makes me wonder how more than two toes can fit in there.
She halts in the middle of the room, her pear-shaped diamond danglers swaying underneath her glossy, raven black hair as she throws me a cheeky smile.
“Hello, Nathan.”
I set my water bottle down, cocking an eyebrow at her as I grace her with a lukewarm, “Aiko.”
She bites her lip at my brusque tone. “Long time no see.”
“Not long enough,” is my crisp remark, conveying that I want her here as much as the tax inspector who dropped by last week.
She dismisses my snarky remark with a low chuckle and glides over to the sofa in her black business dress that resembles an overlong blazer with thick lapels. Flicking her hair, she sits down and folds one leg over the other, the high side slit in her dress showing her naked leg. With puckered lips, she roams her gaze over my office to stop at the sixth nook in the art niche.
“This place hasn’t changed,” she remarks,
subtly pointing out that the alexandrite ring is still MIA.
“What do you want, Aiko?”
“A drink, if you’d be so kind.” She nods to the arrangement of bottles next to me. “Red wine, please.”
“Remember the bar around the corner on Fifth Ave?” I make a show of glancing at my watch. “They open in about two hours.”
I turn away, but she grabs my wrist, pulling me to a stop. Frowning, I glance down at her hand. The last time I saw her, she was brazen enough to flaunt my wedding on her finger. Not so now, but the thin, white stripe on her forefinger tells me she’s just removed it for the occasion.
“Nathan, come on,” she says in a soft tone that’s meant to charm her way into my good graces. “Just because we got divorced doesn’t mean we can’t have a nice talk from time to time. We don’t need to be enemies. Remember what we—”
“I remember damn well, Aiko,” I grind out. “Six-months after our wedding day, after our meeting with Cartier, in the restroom down in the gallery, right next to the last stall. I wouldn’t have checked if I hadn’t heard that guy moaning like a horny cow when I passed, and what did I find? My wife screwing a client in my gallery.”
She drops my hand. “I don’t need a reminder, Nathan. That day, I made the biggest mistake of my life, and I will never forgive myself for how much I hurt you.”
I scoff, shuffling back to the minibar to get another hit of liquid patience.
“Listen, I don’t want to reopen old wounds,” she goes on. “I came here because I found a piece that might be of interest to you.”
I open a bottle of scotch, watching as it splutters into my glass. After our divorce, Aiko resumed her career as an independent curator for antique and vintage jewelry. A shiny title, a seductive smile, and a plunging neckline was all it took for her to snatch a good portion of our client base. Vincent is trying his damnedest to win them over, but alas, he can’t compete with Aiko’s sex appeal.
“And what piece might that be?” I drawl, heading for my desk to gain some distance and opening my laptop.
