It's Not Over

by Grahame Claire

  She waited on me to elaborate, but I was far too skilled at this game. It didn’t take her long to start talking again. “He has, for all intents and purposes, blackballed me in the industry. I can’t get a job. If I can get anyone to speak to me, they disappear before we seal a deal. It’s like he’s stalking me, putting a stop to any potential contract I may have. I want to change that. I want to bury him,” she finished vindictively. She had gotten that streak from her father. I’d helped him put a number of his enemies out of business.

  Elan Dupas was one of the higher ups at an international modeling agency, known for scouting the best talent and being a general pain in the ass. He was the man to be aligned with if a model wanted contracts with the prestigious fashion houses. I knew him, our paths having crossed on numerous occasions over the years. I also knew the owner of the agency he worked for quite well. He was fond of my work. I found out shit that nobody else knew. Donato said not even God knew the things I did most of the time.

  “Why has Elan put a target on your back?” If she didn’t give me a straight answer, I’d be forced to lose my tact. Giselle was the exact type Elan would want in his portfolio. Something had gone down, or he’d be salivating over her.

  “I dumped his son,” she replied bluntly.

  Jesus Christ. I was in the middle of a teenage drama. “I take it that it wasn’t amicable.” I struggled to hold on to what remaining patience I had left, hoping to find more in my glass of whiskey. I hadn’t intended to have another, but I was re-thinking that.

  “He made fun of my family’s business. Called me the tractor queen. So I left him.” She straightened and tossed the remaining champagne down her throat.

  There had to be more to it than that. “If you want my help, you have to be completely honest. I don’t think you met, went out, then he made fun of you, and you left him.” Truthfully, I didn’t give a shit what had happened, but I wasn’t going to piss off Elan Dupas for no good reason.

  The waiter brought our appetizer, and we ordered another round of drinks. I was going to need it.

  “Fine,” she said once he’d disappeared, letting out a huff of annoyance. “We were together for ten months.”

  “Where did you meet?”

  “At a party here in the city. We both go to Parsons.” Her eyes had gone soft, the slightest trace of a smile on her lips. “We hit it off right away, were inseparable practically from the second we met,” she said wistfully, the flirtatious vixen she’d been earlier nowhere to be seen.

  “So everything was fine between you and Scott for ten months?”

  Her lips parted, a slight gasp escaping. That’s right, sweetheart. I know my shit. Giselle’s surprise that I knew her boyfriend’s name turned into satisfaction, as if she’d confirmed I was the right person to help her.

  “Yes. Perfect, really. Until I got paired with a guy in my fashion design course for a project. It’s a small class and a huge project. Scott hated that I was spending so much time working on it, especially with another guy. He’d have been fine if it had been a girl. So, anyway—” Giselle waved dismissively. “My apartment is a lot bigger than Henri’s, so we worked there. Scott came in as I tripped over a bolt of fabric and fell on top of Henri. It was totally innocent, though it looked really bad.”

  Our drinks arrived, and I dismissed the waiter. I wanted to hear the rest of this story before we ordered, though I had already pieced together what had happened.

  “Go on,” I prompted.

  “Scott was hurt, I could tell, and I didn’t blame him for that, but he called me a tractor queen and left before I had the chance to explain. Not only was it an accident, but Henri is gay. Like, just-got-married-to-another-man gay. I showed him the pictures of Henri and his husband. Then I told him to go to hell, and I’ve refused to speak to him since. I can’t be with a man who doesn’t trust me.” Giselle twisted the stem of her glass between her fingers, her face sullen.

  “Has he tried to contact you?”

  “Not in a few days. He kept leaving messages and texts apologizing, but he hurt me.”

  Shit. Her eyes glassed over with tears. I couldn’t take a crying woman. Not right now. I simply wasn’t equipped to handle it. “Do you love him?” As soon as I asked the question, I was tempted to feel my crotch and make sure my dick was still there. Vivian had softened me, but not to the point where I went around discussing feelings. What the hell was I going to say when she answered me?

  “Yes,” she whispered, a tear escaping down her cheek.

  My gut twisted. What was happening to me? This compassion had to stem from the shit that had gone down with Vivian. It was her I was seeing across from me, not Giselle.

  To Giselle’s credit, she dabbed the corners of her eyes and pulled herself together quickly.

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “He insulted me. If I let him get away with it now, he’ll do it over and over.” That actually wasn’t a terrible assessment. Pretty smart really. But in this case, I wasn’t sure that was completely true.

  “Have you ever said something you wished you could take back?”

  “Not to him,” she insisted petulantly, folding her arms.

  “Believe me, someday you will.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That’s part of being in a relationship. Even when you don’t want to, inevitably you end up saying something to hurt the person you love. It’s called being human.” Who the fuck is talking? Because it sure as hell doesn’t sound like me.

  Giselle seemed to be drinking in the advice I was dishing out. Fuck if I wasn’t speaking from the heart to a girl who was young enough to be my daughter. Maybe I needed to get this shit out. Or maybe I was hoping it would work out for her because of something I’d said.

  “I still want to model for the company Elan works for. I want to secure that before I get Scott back. That way no one can ever say I got it because of him.”

  I understood what she was saying. Before I discounted Giselle’s feelings as nothing more than puppy love, I had to remind myself Vivian had been only a few years older than Giselle when we met. “Think about that very carefully,” I warned, and her brow furrowed. “What’s most important to you? Scott or your career? If you wait until you get the job, the guy might not be around anymore.”

  “My dad’s a pretty cool man, but when we talk, it’s nothing like this,” she commented, and I bit my tongue. Giselle hadn’t meant to insult me, but in essence she had put me in the same age group as her father. Who was ten years my senior. I shook it off, again reminded of Vivian. If she’d heard that she’d have been laughing her ass off.

  “We’re having an adult conversation,” I said, a little snidely. If she was going to insinuate I was old, I’d let her know how young she was to me.

  “Can you get me in?” It always came down to this—what I could do for someone else.

  “It’s your lucky day. I’m tight with the owner, and he owes me a favor.” Giselle beamed. “But don’t make me look bad. You get sloppy on the job, don’t do what’s expected of you, you’ll be stuck with Tractor Queen.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Her calling me sir made me feel like an old man yet again. “Career first?” I asked for confirmation. She looked confused, her nose scrunched in deep thought. “You don’t have to decide now.”

  “What would you do?” That caught me completely off guard.

  “If I were in your shoes? And you think this thing with Scott is the real deal? As in you don’t function without him?” She nodded vigorously. Fuck, I was jealous of a kid. If Giselle played her cards right, she’d have her other half for the next sixty plus years because she was lucky enough to have found him early on. “I’d choose Scott.”

  Her eyes widened. She hadn’t expected me to say that, but it was the truth. Even if Giselle had been dirt poor, I’d tell her to go for happiness. I had more than I could ever spend. It might as well be play money. There was always the possibility for more money. Love…it was
as elusive a motherfucker as time.

  Giselle chewed on her lip, and then her phone was out of her purse and pressed to her ear. “Scott,” she said quietly when he apparently answered. I stood and pointed toward the bar. She nodded.

  I’d never been able to figure out why it was so much easier to help other people with their problems than it was to solve my own. Even in my shitty mood, I sincerely hoped it worked out for the girl. Not as much as I wished things could have worked out for me and Vivian, but I had to stop thinking like that. The sooner I accepted that she was out of my life, the better off I’d be.

  Giselle practically skipped over to me, a glow on her face. “We’re going to meet. To talk.”

  “That’s great,” I said, though it sounded hollow.

  “I have to go, but thanks, Daniel.” Her arms went around my neck a second time, and she pressed a kiss to my cheek. Too close. Too personal. I bristled, but she seemed oblivious. “Hey,” she said before turning to go. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  Why I hadn’t seen it before didn’t matter. Giselle had just given me an idea for the next phase of my plan. “Actually, yes. There is.”

  Chapter Eight

  Vivian

  Present

  It was a little after four when I couldn’t take being cooped up in the office any longer. Five days without Daniel and I was slowly unraveling. Once I was outside, I sucked in a long breath of cleansing air before taking off down the sidewalk. I didn’t want to go back to the apartment, so I decided to wander, hoping a walk might clear my mind.

  Without thinking, I took the familiar L train to a place I hadn’t been in a long time. The old neighborhood was calling me.

  East Ninth Street was almost the same, though a lot less trash littered the sidewalk, and the buildings had more shine than they’d had almost eight years before. I actually smiled as I approached the door, noticing the ‘For Rent’ sign taped to the glass pane on the inside. I stared at it, for a moment considering that I was losing my mind coming back here. This was where it had all started, my first apartment in New York City. What am I doing? The door flew open and a familiar face nearly knocked me down.

  “Jesus!” my old landlord uttered, remaining in my personal space, causing me to take a step backward on the stoop. If Muriella had been here with me, she would have crossed herself. I did it for her in my head. His beady little eyes narrowed. “Hey…I know you.” He shook a crooked finger at me, a greasy strand of what remained of his hair falling over his eyes. “You’re the one who paid for a whole year of rent up front. Only time that’s ever happened. I felt kinda bad when you moved out early. Not bad enough to refund the money, but you know…” He shrugged, and I pasted a polite, no-nonsense smile on my face. “You here for the apartment? It’s available again.”

  Am I here for the apartment? “Maybe. Mind if I have a look around?”

  “Help yourself.” He led me up six flights of stairs at a snail’s pace.

  I caught a whiff of stale cigarettes, and my mouth turned down at the sight of his stained jeans and tattered shirt. The man had always made me uncomfortable. Since the last time I’d seen him, I was older and wiser, and I questioned the wisdom of being alone with him. He was scrawny, however, and I decided I could probably take him.

  When we reached the apartment, he jammed a key in the lock, wrestling with it a bit to get it to turn. Once he had the door open, it was like a blast from the past. The one-room studio hadn’t changed at all over the years. It was still a rundown shithole, but I felt this ridiculous sense of attachment.

  “I could do seventeen grand if you wanted to pay up front for a whole year again,” he said casually, as if he were doing me the biggest favor in the world.

  I ignored him, walking to the center of the room where that damn sofa was still sitting. “Hmm. You said yourself you owe me,” I said, running my eyes along the torn arm, padding peeking through. What the hell was I doing? This dump wasn’t worth a hundred bucks a month. I sure as hell wouldn’t pay for a year up front. I didn’t plan on being away from my real home—with Daniel—for very long.

  “That was a while ago. And, well, this is now.” His greedy eyes raked me up and down as he envisioned other methods of payment.

  “This is now, and you’ve really let the place go.” I looked around, disgusted.

  I moved the few feet across the room to the tiny bathroom. There was still a rust ring around the tub, and the toilet had stains too. Any sane person would have high-tailed it out of there, but I wanted to come back. I needed to remember where it had all started. Maybe then I could get it back.

  “Whaddya think?” he asked from behind me. I moved so he was forced into the bigger area and out of my personal space.

  “A grand. One month.”

  “No way.”

  I folded my arms and gave him a withering look.

  “Well, maybe for an old tenant, I could do this one favor.”

  “Go get the lease.”

  “Be right back.” He jetted from the room, and I turned in a circle, looking around, knowing I hadn’t lost my mind. This was what I was supposed to do. It was where I needed to be right now.

  * * *

  I liked country music. I was from Texas, by God. Didn’t that make it some sort of requirement? Truthfully, I knew plenty of Texans who couldn’t stand country music of any kind. Some of them even wore Stetson hats, cowboy boots, and belt buckles that rivaled the size of the state. But that music always evoked the best memories of my father, when he’d been “Daddy” to me. I’d sit beside him in his pickup truck, and we’d sing along to my tape of “Baby’s Got Her Blue Jeans On” at the top of our lungs with the windows rolled down. That was when it seemed like there was a chance I might work my way into his heart and stay there.

  I threw a sweater in my suitcase and surveyed the foyer. Seven days. They’d passed too quickly. It was hard to believe this could be the last time I’d ever be in the apartment I’d shared with Daniel. I wasn’t ready to face that, didn’t want to think about it.

  Sorting through the mass of stuff I’d acquired over my time with Daniel, I found a copy of that tape and got distracted trying to find a tape player. Buried on a shelf near the bottom of the closet in the study, I found one. I yanked, the cord stuck underneath something, and I sprawled backward, landing on my rear with an oomph . The tape player came loose and bounced off my shin before clattering to the floor beside me.

  “Son of a gun.”

  I rubbed my leg, glared at the dusty machine, and shifted to my knees. Eye level with the shelf, I noticed a box labeled ‘Cassettes’ beside the now empty space. Curiosity getting the better of me, I pulled it down—carefully—to see if I found anything interesting. A stalling technique, if I were being honest. I wasn’t ready to leave yet, and my time was almost up.

  I threw off the lid to the banker’s box. I smiled wryly, noticing the cassettes were alphabetized by artist. The man liked his order, that was for sure. Tucked down the side of the organized rows of tapes was a faded yellow file folder.

  Figuring it was a list of all the tapes in the box, I slid the folder from its place and opened the cover. The pages inside were in pristine shape, like someone had stuffed them into this folder, never to be looked at. My attention caught on the heading ‘Autopsy Report’. I hesitated. Put it back, Vivian. My fingers clutched the folder; I couldn’t make myself return it to the box. The fact that this was stashed errantly when Daniel was meticulous with his files was reason enough for me to give in to temptation.

  I sucked in a breath when I read the name on the report. Keith Hardy Elliott. Daniel’s father. I knew Daniel wouldn’t want me to see this. He harbored so much hatred toward the man, even after all this time, and he’d kept me away from anything to do with him. Given what Daniel’s own flesh and blood had done to him, I couldn’t blame him.

  Even knowing he wouldn’t want me to read the report, I couldn’t help myself. The word ‘suicide’ jumped out at me. That was list
ed as the cause of death, which aligned with what Daniel had told me. But as I read further, the report started to contradict itself. How could someone hang himself from a shower rod when he had two broken legs? According to the coroner, there were signs of a struggle, even markings around the neck under the rope burn that looked like fingers. I gripped the papers to the point where they crinkled on the edges. It read as if someone had strung up Keith Elliott and then used him as a piñata. The police chalked it up to the seedy motel where he’d been found. I didn’t buy it.

  I immediately went back to the top, devouring the document. By the time I made it through a second time, my hands trembled.

  I wondered if Daniel knew about this. By all appearances, he’d never touched these papers. He’d told me his father had committed suicide. And he didn’t lie to me. Though his actions this week were those of a stranger. Maybe he wasn’t the man I thought I knew. This was murder. No doubt in my mind.

  I stuffed the papers back into the folder and had a moment of hesitation about what to do with them. Sometimes it was better to let sleeping dogs lie, so I abandoned the folder on the floor in the closet.

  The triumph over discovering a tape player felt tainted now that I’d seen that report. My gut told me dredging it up would hurt Daniel. That was motivation enough to forget about it. I went back to the foyer, where I’d been sorting through my things. I put on my song, playing it over and over, the memory helping to ease the pain of separating from a life I wasn’t ready to part with.

  Everything I had the day I agreed to be Daniel’s was there, down to the suitcase I’d had when I first came to New York. When I found something pre-Daniel, I packed it in that bag. There wasn’t much—mostly clothes, which fortunately still fit. I slipped on a pair of jeans I’d had since high school, ones that hadn’t seen the light of day in forever. There was a hole in the left knee and a tear on the right thigh. People paid hundreds of dollars for this look, and I’d accomplished it by loving those damn things so much. I unclasped the La Perla bra I had on and tossed it on top of the pile of things that were no longer mine, choosing a soft pink cotton one with faded roses on it from the stuff that was. I pulled my favorite black sweatshirt over my head. It had a wide neck, revealing a peek of shoulder. As I took in my reflection in the full-length mirror that hung near the front door, I looked like the twenty-two year old I’d once been. In truth, I hadn’t changed all that much on the inside either. What had changed was because of Daniel, and it was for the better.