by Loren Walker
“It’s fine,” Phaira interrupted. “We weren’t close, not like you and Emir.”
Anandi gave a tiny smile. “We weren’t always. Only in the past year.”
“Really?”
“Really. It was – “
Then Anandi stopped at the sound of beeping, echoing, erratic and high-pitched, followed by urgent clicking.
Phaira ducked back her head to look down the hall. The door to Emir’s room was open. It was the source of the sound.
Inside the treatment room, Dr. Sabik pumped on Emir’s chest. Anandi gave a horrible, shuddering inhale, and ran to her father’s head. “Papa!” she shrieked, slapping his face. “Papa!”
“Get her out of here!” Dr. Sabik barked over his shoulder at Phaira. But she was frozen in the doorway. She couldn’t stop staring at Emir, how his face drifted to the side, sunken in and waxy like a rubber mask. It didn’t even look like him. Was that the life going out of him? Is that what it looked like when death was slow and up-close?
“Ms. Phaira!”
It took all Phaira’s willpower to take hold of Anandi and pull her away. Anandi fought the whole time, trying to claw Phaira’s hands off her.
Then the girl collapsed, heaving with sobs, her hands in her hair, pressed against Phaira’s legs and pinning her to the spot.
*
Hours later, Phaira held Anandi’s hand as the girl finally succumbed to exhaustion. When Anandi’s breathing slowed, and the grip on her hand loosened enough to slip away, Phaira made her escape.
Outside, the cold thin air made her lightheaded. Phaira flattened her back against the wall, staring across the city landscape, at the buzzing lights of transports and trains. She looked down, past the ledge she stood on, trying to find a streetlight. Some indication of how far down the fall would be. Or where a mekaline dealer might be found, somewhere in the shadows of Liera.
No, I can’t. She gripped the corner so tightly that pain stabbed her palm. I can’t. It’ll ruin everything. One relapse was bad enough, she was lucky that she pulled herself out of the spiral after Kings Canyon.
But the images wouldn’t stop in her head. Anandi screaming, begging for her father to come back to life. The way Emir’s face grew sunken and waxen as the heartbeat stopped, and how long it seemed until the rhythm started again. How Anandi couldn’t stop crying. How Phaira couldn’t help but think of Nox, his own heart slowing, choking with pain and red dust.
She couldn’t stay sober with all those thoughts in her head. She needed to forget, somehow. Maybe with someone.
Phaira activated her Lissome. With a flick of her opposite finger, she searched for the pingback for the last call. The location appeared, right on top of her position. Surprised, she craned her neck to look up; there were no lights on in the floors above. But there was the service ladder, on the side of the building.
And on the fourteenth floor, the window was ajar.
Slipping through, Phaira stepped down onto the lush carpet, kneading her toes into the fibers to muffle her movement. Her body was covered in goosebumps. She willed them to go away.
Despite her efforts at silence, he still heard her. Phaira heard the click of a safety being shut off, followed by an exclamation: “What are you doing? I could have shot you. And -”
Before he could finish his sentence, Phaira was across the room, snatching the Compact firearm away. One snap, and the gunclip fell to the floor. The pistol followed, making a soft thunk on the carpet. Then Phaira climbed on top of Theron, searched for his face with her fingers, and cut off his startled inhale with her mouth.
Finally. Finally. The culmination of a thousand fantasies she’d held on to for weeks, the crushing intensity she remembered, the icy flush over her skin, his solid body underneath his shirt, his incredibly sensual mouth, his unbound hair in her hands, smelling like cedar…
Then his hands were on her shoulders. Pushing gently. Pushing her off.
He was rejecting her.
Horrified, she scrambled off Theron. But his hand found her upper arm and held fast. “Don’t do that,” came his voice. “Just wait.”
Trying to twist out of his grip, she realized she couldn’t breathe. To her horror, her eyes filled with tears. Don’t do it, don’t! she scolded herself. It’s bad enough that you threw yourself at him like a damn fool, don’t cry on top of it. Blinking furiously, she perched on the edge of the bed, but kept her back to him, willing for her control to return, for her lungs to unclench.
“Phaira, what’s going on?”
She stared at the glimmer of the window across the room, wishing she could leap through it.
“Phaira, come on.”
“Emir flatlined,” she finally said, brushing her sleeve over her cheek to absorb any last trace of evidence. “He’s in a coma. They don’t know if he’ll wake up.”
“What about you?”
“Me? I’m fine,” Phaira muttered, fiddling with the neckline of her shirt. “I got overwhelmed, that’s all. It’s nothing.” The last thing she wanted was to talk about her stupid ongoing grief about Nox, her hopeless father, her sickly mother. It was all too humiliating. “It doesn’t matter. I’m leaving. Sorry for…”
She couldn’t finish the sentence. “Sorry,” she repeated, moving to stand up, burning for just one little hit of meka, just one hit, to forget any of this ever happened.
But his hand remained around her arm. “Turn around.”
She shook her head. Her hair brushed her shoulders, the only sound in the room.
“It’s been a really long time since… you just surprised me, is all.”
Phaira didn’t move.
“But that doesn’t mean that I don’t… that I haven’t thought about…”
Listening to him stammer, she wondered how deeply he blushed. They were both grateful for the dead of night, she suspected, the great equalizer. Even as the blackness swirled, and all she could feel were sparks, and all she could hear was breath, running in and out.
Phaira twisted at the waist, seeking him out. The room was so dark that she could only make out his silhouette, two feet behind her on the bed. Outside, she could hear the wind blowing through construction pipes across the alley, a strange, soothing backdrop. The mattress shifted underneath her. His shadow grew. She could make out his shoulders, the planes of his face. The edges of his warmth hit her skin. She moved into it, closed her eyes, and made a wish.
Don’t ask me questions. Don’t make me talk. I just want to forget.
*
A horn blared three times. Startled, Phaira lifted her head. In the dim light, she could see her surroundings for the first time: the pearl-colored sheets and steel gray comforter, the snow-white carpet, the paintings on the immaculate walls, a walnut desk with a keycard. A proper bedroom, and an expensive one at that.
Dammit. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep.
Theron lay on his back next to her, one arm over his head, the other stretched towards her. She stared at his fingers, half-curled on the mattress.
It all came back to her, the swimming darkness, the heightened sensations. Hands under shirts, over faces. A few uncomfortable moments when his long hair got caught underneath her body. But for the most part, their clothes stayed on, until they were overcome with heat and exhaustion. Then they had lain next to each other on the bed, not speaking or touching. Staring in the direction of the ceiling, wrestling with her desire to run and her strange longing to stay, the darkness made Phaira’s eyes heavy. All this slowness, it unnerved her. But there was something delicate about these moments, she sensed.
Now a few hours had passed, and it was daybreak. She had to get back to the eleventh floor before he woke up, and things got even more awkward.
It was bizarre to see Theron so clearly. Despite the early hour, he was still striking. She could only imagine how puffy-eyed and messy she must look. It’s not fair, she wanted to yell at the universe.
Then he opened his eyes. “You’re leaving?”
“I’m goi
ng back downstairs.”
He nodded. “I should head back North, too. Things to do. People waiting.”
A strange weight pushed on her sternum. “You don’t have to go yet.”
Did I really say that out loud?
“Or at all,” she added in a hurry. “You’re already so far away. Just disappear. Run away.”
Theron smirked, stretching his arms overhead. “I’m a little difficult to hide.”
More than anything, she wanted to shut the curtains and press against him. Instead, Phaira curled her body into a tight ball. “You said you wanted to build your own life,” she said, a little louder than she meant to. “That you weren’t like them.”
“You remember that?”
“Yes,” Phaira said pointedly. “So why go back?”
“Are you asking me to run? Or to stay in town?”
Flustered, Phaira turned to lie on her stomach, her arms folded underneath her torso, and let her hair swing in front of her face. “I have to take care of Anandi,” she told the mattress. “And Emir.”
“I’ll stay if you ask me to.”
His directness made Phaira even more nervous. “Well… do you want me to come back tonight?” she challenged.
“Only if you use the door next time.”
Phaira’s mouth dropped open. Then she let out a laugh, pushing her hair behind her ears and peering over her shoulder. “Don’t kid yourself. You loved it.”
“Like I said.” She couldn’t quite place the expression on his face as he gazed at her. “Long time.”
V.
Within the hour, Phaira was back on the eleventh floor. When Anandi stirred, and opened her swollen eyes, Phaira was lying next to her, propped on pillows, waiting.
They changed their clothes, and went to check on Emir’s condition. No change. Sabik wasn’t there; some unknown nurse was monitoring Emir’s machines. The old man’s face was still rubbery. Phaira stayed in the doorway as Anandi crawled into bed with her father and pressed her face into his shoulder.
Phaira patrolled the floor, took note of any changes in staff, ensured that Anandi ate something, and committed to a full fourteen hours of support, from seven to nine. Then she brought Anandi back to their borrowed bed, locked the door from the inside, and waited for the girl to fall asleep. Sabik had offered sedatives, so it didn’t take long.
Though, when the girl finally succumbed, her clenched jaw growing slack, Phaira was overwhelmed with uncertainty. She stared out the window, feeling the pull of that access ladder on the side of the building; she could imagine its rungs, the rusty feel of them under her palms, the cold air on her face.
He might not be there, she reasoned, as she stepped onto the ledge. He could have left.
Or, even worse, the window could be bolted, and the curtain drawn.
No, she determined. He’s there. He’s waiting by the window for me. I know it.
And when she finally made the climb to the fourteen floor, he was holding it open for her.
“Hello,” she said, a little shy.
“Hello.” His low voice made her skin prickle. She kept her head down as she climbed over the windowsill. Inside, the room wasn’t quite as dark as the previous night, some faint light now, more shadows this time. Her nerves rippled. Instead of stepping down onto the carpet, Phaira settled on the windowsill, her back in the cold air, neither here nor there, just in case. Theron didn’t object; he leaned against the wall, next to her.
“You’re still here, I see,” she said lightly.
“Still here.”
“What did you do all day?”
“Slept a bit. Not much else.”
Phaira swung her feet, her heels lightly tapping the wall. Then she glanced into the room again. “What is this place, anyways?”
“Safehouse,” Theron said. Then he shrugged. “I broke in,” he added, a little sheepishly.
“Will you get in trouble?”
Theron shrugged again. “Doubt it. Don’t care.”
He pushed off the wall and stood in front of her. His fingertips touched her knees, and his hands began to lightly slide up her thighs. “Is this okay?”
Tiny, pleasant ripples coursed through her body. “Are you asking for permission?”
“I keep thinking you’re going to put me in an armbar or something.”
That made her smile. “Maybe I should,” Phaira quipped, running her hands down his arms. “Have you been practicing?”
“No.” There was a smirk in his voice.
“Bastard,” she accused, holding his right wrist, like she might twist it at any moment. “You’re asking for it.”
The challenge hung in the air. Phaira stared up at the angles of his cheekbones, the light in his eyes, the curve of his ear, drawn in shadows and dark lines. The whole situation was so surreal, and wicked, that Phaira couldn’t help but grin.
“I’m so glad you stayed.”
The sound of her voice surprised her.
Him, too, by the look on his face.
So Phaira kissed him before he could make any comment.
*
Over the next week, a routine was established. Phaira roamed the hallways of the eleventh floor during the day. Emir had finally stabilized, enough for the procedure to resume. Anandi spent her days at her father’s bedside, her fear and paranoia spilling over to Phaira when they met for meals. Even Dr. Sabik pulled Phaira aside, warning her of all the possible outcomes, doom in every word, as if she were Emir’s daughter and needed to prepare for the worst.
When the night came, and Anandi slept, it was a relief to scale the ladder to the fourteenth floor. The window was always open a crack, and Theron was always there, waiting on the other side for her.
And any prior hesitation was long gone. On the third night, Theron picked a surprised Phaira up from the windowsill, drew her legs around his waist and pressed her to the wall, pulling at her scrubs. He kept saying her name between breaths. It made her feel powerful. She loved having such an impact on him; she loved how lean he was, strong shoulders and hard arms; how they both preferred the window open, so the rush of cold air mixed with hot skin.
On the fourth night, when they lay entwined on the floor, burned up and drifting, Phaira’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. What are you doing? Stop crying! she scolded herself, mortified. What is the matter with you? Why are you thinking about all that now?
“Are you okay?”
She could tell him to mind his own business. She could stroke his ego and say that the tears were happy ones.
“My father died,” she finally muttered. “Two weeks ago.”
Theron said nothing. Phaira was tempted to lift her head, to try and make out the expression on his face in the night. Instead she closed her eyes, pushing down the emotion in her chest.
“What happened?”
“He had a lot of problems. I don’t know why I’m even thinking about it right now. Way too old to get emotional about your parents, right?”
“No. I still think about my parents. I still feel…untethered… with them not in the world. You know?”
Of course, she remembered. His parents were killed when he was a child. At least she had Renzo and Cohen to cling to. He had no one but his awful cousins.
Still, the darkness, his confession, it made her want to keep talking. “The last time I saw him was about five years ago. He showed up at my apartment, angry about something. Kept trying to hit me. Called me a hundred horrible names. It was almost worse than being hit. That probably sounds strange.”
“No, I get that,” came his quiet reply. “I’ve been on the receiving end, too.”
She waited for him to continue. But he said nothing more, and she was relieved to sink into him, to take comfort from being held, to feel his chest rise and fall under her cheek. Maybe he drew comfort from her presence, too. She could never quite tell what he was thinking. But that was fine.
I don’t really want to know, she reasoned. I want only moments, for as long as the moons a
re up.
*
As Phaira slipped her shirt back on, the dawn just breaking over the horizon, her mind turned to the eleventh floor, where Anandi slept. The girl was suspicious. Phaira had caught her staring, her mouth tight and worried. A few times, she went to ask Phaira something, but lost her nerve.
She thinks I’m sneaking out at night to get high.
Oddly, she hadn’t thought about mekaline once since that first night. It was too bad that Anandi was worried, but Phaira wasn’t about to confess anything.
She looked over her shoulder, seeking out Theron’s shape in the darkness. How she loved flustering him, instigating him. And he was changing, little by little, letting go more and more, surprising her at every turn. No, she wasn’t stopping her nights, not as long as they were in Liera. She didn’t care what anyone thought.
Theron slid towards the edge of the bed, unfolding his long legs to the floor. Phaira gestured at her medical scrubs. “I’m almost getting used to these,” she quipped. “Maybe I should go into medicine.”
Theron gave her a faint half-smile.
He’s sad to see me go, she realized.
So Phaira came between his knees, ran her thumbs along his jawline and slid her fingertips into his cool, silky hair. She’d never been with a man with long hair before; it was oddly appealing, the feel and weight of it. She did it again, taking in the sensations: the sound of his exhale; the pressure of his palms stacked on the small of her back; his chest pressed against her stomach.
She was oddly sad too, leaving him alone. Maybe he wasn’t alone, though. Maybe he conducted business deals, or arranged crimes, or solicited other women’s attentions. Anything was possible.
“What do you do all day?” Phaira asked him. “Not here,” she quickly corrected. “Back home. What’s your job in the syndicate?”
“Caretaker,” Theron said. “I stay with my grandfather. He’s been ill a lot. I take him to meetings, and appointments, mostly.”
“Do you like him?” She remembered back to the party on Honorwell, how the grandfather reacted when she took Theron hostage.
“I respect him.”
Phaira made a face. “That means nothing.”
