The Lost Seal: A Seal Romance

by Bell, Victoria

  As we plow through the pizza, piece after delicious cheesy piece, the sun decides to leave too. Its setting rays reach for the pizza too, but it’s too late, we enjoy the orange flush sky over our empty pizza box.

  “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?” Phoebe says without looking at me, almost wistfully.

  “You have no idea,” I say.

  Her earnest grateful smile almost makes me feel sorry for her. But soon enough the sun has set, and it’s dark, and I’ve still accomplished nothing, haven’t even tried.

  “We used to come up here,” I say quietly, “My wife and I when she was pregnant. It’s calm, peaceful. I guess you could say Kuya came here too even.”

  Phoebe nods, says quietly “Life can almost be fine until you remember.”

  And the way she says it, the quiet simplicity of the statement, there’s no doubt about it. She was telling the truth before - she knows about tragedy all too well.

  “It’s funny just what tragedy will make us do,” I say softly.

  There’s a film of tears in Phoebe’s eyes.

  “Why don’t you want to get them back – the people who did this to you?” I say.

  She whips around to face me, all sadness in her face gone, her eyes angry now.

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about. These people – you don’t get them back, they get you. You either do what they say, or you run. I did the first until I couldn’t anymore, and then, as soon as I could, I did the second.”

  “Couldn’t they find you here, though?”

  “Of course, they could. It’s not likely, but it’s possible.”

  She stands up.

  “Now I’m done talking about this – if this is too much for you to live with, then I understand. I’ll go somewhere else, leave you alone. Just don’t ask me about it anymore. The more you know, the more you’re in danger.”

  Rising, I take her hand.

  “Phoebe, don’t be ridiculous. I had you sent over – not just any Japanese girl, you. And I’m not about to let you go just because of some unlucky past circumstances. I want to be here for you, face the danger with you.”

  I slide my arm around her, but she’s all stiff, bones and hollows now.

  “I’m never going to be able to tell you everything, Antoine, you understand? Never.”

  I squeeze her, my gaze out at the cityscape, which is, somehow, even more, beautiful in the dark.

  “So, what you’re saying is, I’ll just have to learn to be happy with your pizza underside?”

  Silence, then a soft, low chuckle. She turns to me with a smile.

  “That’s exactly what I mean.”

  And, looking into her genuine, sad, happy eyes, the only thing to do is kiss her. Her lips are cooler than the night and full, like two pillows. They don’t match the rest of her, those full pillow-lips, the softness, the way they give to my touch.

  When I break away, I take her hand and lead her to the edge of the roof, the part you’re not supposed to go on.

  As we sit down, with our legs dangling 500 feet or so from the ground, Phoebe says nothing. She doesn’t ask if this is a good idea, or if it’s dangerous. She doesn’t express worry or fear or anything at all. It’s because she’s like me, she doesn’t care anymore. There’s a certain level of despair that kills all fear too.

  And, as I sit there on the roof of Nathan Philipps Square, looking down on the anonymous alight city, as I sit there besides the woman whose body is familiar, but whose mind is a stranger, the woman who is my enemy, who I’m going to take down, I can’t explain what I’m feeling. These past two years I’ve never felt more alone in my life. But now, beside this strange, unexpected woman, this manipulative liar, this sexy predator who nonetheless seems to know just what despair is really like, I don’t feel so alone anymore.

  --

  I don’t know how long we sit there, how long the wind licks at us, how many times our legs knock against each other before she puts her head on my shoulder.

  “You’re not how I expected, you know,” she says.

  “Neither are you,” I say, “I don’t think anyone ever is.”

  Silence, then “It’s more than that, and you know it.”

  I say nothing, try to roll my eyes derisively at the overblown statement by this lying woman. Because it isn’t more than that, and I don’t know a damn thing. I don’t know how much of what she’s said is true and how much is a lie, I don’t know how I’m going to pull my job off, and, most of all, I don’t know her herself – this enigma of a woman.

  “Kiss me,” she says softly, and so I do.

  I lift her face to mine and press my lips to hers. I fall into the body-rubbing rhythm that we already know so well, the one that seems so natural, so needed. Every touch of hers against my skin, every feeling of her body is just what I need, is just right. The dash and flick of her tongue, the pulling away of her mouth, the sliding around of her hand, all of it. If I didn’t know better, I’d say we were meant to be.

  But it’s all part of the plan. Yes, as our clothes fall off as part of the dance, as she kisses her way up and down the length of me, as I find my mouth drawn irresistibly to her pussy, as I suck and nibble and lick her other lips, as she starts to shake and moan and howl with it, as she cums ecstatically, tremblingly, I remind myself of it: this, this is all part of the plan.

  Yet, as we lay there afterward talking, talking about everything and nothing. Of books, we’ve read and would like to, of lies we’ve told and lies we will tell, as we spill out our guts and hearts and everything in between, slowly the moon fades, gives way to the sun. And, as the sun rises, as the naked woman my arms are wrapped around finally falls silent, asleep, as the whole city is cast into a beatific glow, I think: I could love this woman, this Phoebe. I could love her.

  Chapter 7 - Phoebe

  I wake up in my own bed. Last night was a rooftop dream, another rooftop tryst that couldn’t have happened because I’m here now. But when I check my phone, my heart leaps.

  “Morning sleepy Princess. Thanks for a great time last night, I hope it’s ok that I brought you home.”

  I stare at the message for a minute, trying to calm my buzzing nerves. I’m hungry, that’s all. That’s why I feel this silly light-headedness, this thrill that all last night really did happen.

  I get up and go downstairs. Two bowls of Cheerios, however, doesn’t cure this annoying excitement at the thought of him. Antoine Rivieras. The man – the mystery who’s just as dark as I am, who’s fun, irreverent, and sexy as hell. Who I – can’t and yet do – like.

  This revelation drives me to a whole tub of chocolate ice cream, but even that can’t obscure it. What I’m feeling – this feeling, this feeling! This dangerous feeling.

  I look on my phone to remind myself, staring at the bus ticket. The ticket to Boston I’m using in less than a month. The one I have to use. No, I can’t afford this feeling.

  I put the ice cream tub away, back in the fridge, but the nervous swirling feeling in my gut stays. That I’m leaving isn’t the only reason this feeling doesn’t seem right – there’s something else.

  Typing “Antoine Rivieras” into Google on my phone only brings up “Antoine Riviera,” a bunch of pictures of a resort at that. What do I really know about Antoine, anyway?

  The longer I stand there, staring blankly at the pictures of the beautiful pristine white resorts on my phone, the more the answer dawns on me – not much. Antoine said he “works in IT” – how vague can you get? Why had he never mentioned a company name, something more specific, anything?

  I put my phone in my pocket. I had only known the man less than a week after all, and it wasn’t like I’d ever asked.

  When I open the front door, the sun is shining, and the birds are singing. It’s a nice day, not one to stay inside. Regardless, today, inside is exactly where I stay. I pace, plan, practice opening and closing the door noiselessly. Tomorrow I have a plan.

  --

  When Antoi
ne comes home, I have some Hungry Man chicken meals ready. He surveys my surprisingly successful creations with a smile.

  “Clearly I should be congratulating you.”

  I can’t help but smile myself.

  “Clearly.”

  As we eat the deliciously heated-up things, we chat about this and that. I casually ask him his company’s name, what he does, and he casually answers me “Dynarcar” and “helping clients come to mutually beneficial solutions while utilizing technology to the best of all parties involved.” I nod and smile sweetly as if I actually believed him, and then excused myself to the bathroom. Leaning against the closed door, I search “Dynarcar.”

  The only search result that comes up is a site with stock images and the exact, word-for-word line Antoine just parroted to me. So, I put away my phone, wash my hands, give myself one nod in the mirror.

  Now it’s clear just what I’m going to be doing tomorrow morning. I’m going to be part of a little take-your-spouse-to-work-day. The only thing is, Antoine’s not going to find out about it until it’s far too late.

  The rest of the night is more talking, more eating. Antoine kisses me; I kiss him back.

  It’s in his bed this time that we make love. It’s the same flurry of movements, of body parts pressing and repressing, but I’m the one who's different. I don’t cum, can’t. I can’t forget myself, can’t lose myself with this man until I know. Just who and what I’m dealing with.

  So, afterward, I lie in bed awake beside his fast-asleep form. I think I plan, I fear. Just what I’m going to find when I follow him to work tomorrow and just what I’m going to do with what I find.

  --

  That night, I don’t sleep. I’ve always been a heavy sleeper; if I let myself fall asleep, I may not wake up when he does. So, I don’t sleep and, in the morning, when he finally climbs out of bed, I wait. For his trudging around the bed, going to the bathroom, coming out. For the sounds of his footsteps on the stairs.

  My plan isn’t a very good one, but if it works, then I’m golden.

  When I hear him go downstairs to the kitchen, I make my move. I throw off my pajamas and on last night’s outfit. Then, I rush downstairs, grab the car keys on the key by the door and run out the front door. The Ferrari is sitting there redly innocuous, waiting for me to do what I do: unlock its doors. Then, I rush back inside, placing the key at its usual place on the hook.

  Then I rush back out the front door, then get into the Ferrari’s trunk. And there, I wait.

  My plan isn’t a very good one, but if Antoine buys that he forgot to lock his car, then I’m golden.

  Waiting, I go through all the ways this could mess up. Antoine could go back in his bedroom, see that I’m gone and get suspicious. Antoine could try throwing something in the trunk and see me. Antoine could not buy that he forgot to lock his car. Antoine could lock everything before I have a chance to get out. Yes, there are about 20 different ways this could go wrong, and just 1 way it could go right.

  Still, I don’t have much choice. I have to know.

  What seems like a good hour later, Antoine finally gets in the car. Then, he revs the engine, and we’re gone.

  Lying hidden in the trunk is an interesting experience, to say the least. You really get a feel for the road. I would enjoy it if I wasn’t busy psyching myself up for what’s to come: I only have one chance to get this right.

  When I feel the car roll to a stop, I make my move. Popping up the trunk slightly, I wedge part of my sleeve into the opening. Next thing I know the car clicks with the locked sound. I wait a few minutes until I dare try opening it. To my exquisite relief, the trunk pops up easily, thanks to my sleeve buffer.

  Once I’m out, I’m left staring at a half-filled parking lot in front of a towering black skyscraper, which doesn’t have any signs. Already this isn’t looking good, but I walk up to the foreboding structure, head held high as if I belong here as if I have the slightest idea where I’m heading.

  Inside the building is still more black: black marble floor, black glass walls. There’s one receptionist, black-haired with a black shift dress. This would all be funny if I wasn’t getting a horrible feeling in my gut.

  When I stop in front of the woman, I know already, although still, I ask.

  “Is this Dyanacar?” I ask.

  She stares at me.

  “How did you find this place?”

  I strangle out a laugh.

  “My mistake, sorry.”

  And then I walk away slowly, casually, as if I hadn’t found out that my life is over. That I’m most likely in the headquarters of the organization specifically designed to take people like me out. As I leave, not looking back once, I take deep breaths. I tell myself that it’s alright, that this is all for the best.

  I’ve heard of the Canadian Intelligence, of course. Practically every country has a secret service that doesn't want their citizens knowing about. But to go in the fabled “black building,” be living with one of their people – it can’t be a coincidence. Yes, I may not be what I seem, but Antoine isn’t either.

  Now, I know.

  Chapter 8 - Antoine

  Work does not go well. Deidre’s not happy. This time, as soon I step foot in her cold-as-ever office, her cool voice starts drilling me with questions.

  “Have you asked her about what she did for the mafia? About where their hideout is? About their next set of targets?”

  “If I probe her too much, I risk losing her.”

  Her hand is spread on a laptop on her desk, those icicle fingers fanning out. They close.

  “If you probe her too little, you will anyway.”

  She opens the laptop, spins it around. I glance at the screen before looking away. Still, the gruesome image I only saw for a few seconds still flashes in my mind.

  A man with a face like a beehive, it was so covered in bullet holes.

  “That’s her work, as I’m sure you know,” Deidre comments.

  Another click – “And this” – I glance over, see a man with a tie-ful of bullets – “And this” – now it’s two people, women, surrounded by a pool of blood – “And this” – a man shot in the palms and the head – “And this” – an old man, staring horrifically at me.

  Deidre slams her laptop shut.

  “Phoebe was the mafia’s best agent until she went rogue. She was ruthless and relentless, would stop at nothing to complete her mission – kill whoever got in the way. She’s cunning and manipulative and, if I’m not mistaken, Antoine, it looks like she’s using you like her latest puppet. Who knows what her real aim is this time.”

  Our gazes meet, hers drilling into mine. She glances away.

  “And Antoine?” – she grips my hand with her icy handcuff grip – “If it were me, I wouldn’t want to wait and find out what she really wants.”

  When she releases me, she waves her hand twice, to indicate that I can go.

  “You have another week – and then that’s it.”

  I leave without saying anything, but when I’m at the door, it’s “And Antoine?”

  I turn around to see a gun on the table. Deidre slides it to me with a significant look.

  “You have authorization to use any force necessary – to take her down if need be. Phoebe Williamson is still the most dangerous person in Canada right now.”

  I stare at the gun for a moment, at what she’s really proposing to me. Then, I take it.

  “I won’t let you down, boss.”

  Our eyes meet. She nods, I slip the gun into my jacket pocket, and then I leave.

  I walk out of work straight away, can hardly meet anyone’s eye. There’s no telling what I look like right now, what expression is on my face. I have a loaded gun in my pocket, one that I’m fully prepared to use.

  I spend an hour sitting on my favorite old park bench, thinking, avoiding. Going home will decide it; I won’t be able to put it off any longer. No, not with this gun in my pocket. Even just sitting here, it feels outrageously unnatural, lik
e a ticking time bomb I have to use and get rid of. Really, this has been a long time coming.

  A picture-perfect family glides on by. There’s the dad holding their hands, the blooming wife and the laughing boy. They pass me without looking at me, without seeing me, oblivious in their happiness. Just how I once was – just how I never can be again.

  No, not thanks to people like Phoebe – her mafia, her callous kind – who kill without a second thought or a moment’s remorse. Who are fine with the collateral damage of innocent civilians, bloody mix-ups – who knew how many innocent people had Phoebe herself taken down. Sure, maybe she hadn’t been the one who had pulled the trigger on my wife and son, but she had just as good have done it. And now she was here trying to escape punishment for her crimes, trying to weasel her way out of responsibility once more. What she told me about her parents and brother was probably just a sob story she flung at anyone who needed convincing. No, I wasn’t going to fall for it – couldn’t.

  The church bell tolls – once, twice, three times. If I was at work, I’d be just finishing up. If I’d be arriving home on time, I’d have to leave now. It’s now or never.

  I start heading down the road. How convenient, the shooting range is only a 5-minute walk away. As if it were meant to be. Once I get there, the man in charge nods when I show him his pass; he’s clearly seen my kind before.

  There, in front of the far-off man outline, I try imagining him to be Phoebe. I shoot her in the chest first, then the leg. It takes me a couple of shots to get her right where I want her – in the face. And yet, the more I shoot, the more her image slips away, the more my hand trembles on the gun. The more I shoot, the more unsure I am that I can go through with this. Finally, I leave.

  I head back to my car but don’t hurry. After all, I’ve got a gun in my jacket pocket and hell of a lot of unanswered questions.

  The roads are empty; I’m beating the after-work traffic by mere minutes. Although really, there’s no rush; I’ve got all day to threaten my pretty new wife. As I drive, the speed limit becomes a memory. I ease my foot into the gas until everything is a nonconsequential blur. I want to go fast – need to – so I can outdrive the question that still, regardless, somehow catches up with me, that creeps up on me as an insidious whisper in my head: What are you going to do if she doesn’t tell you what you need to know – won’t?