No.
It felt good.
And that was not good.
He couldn't have that power.
I had to get the hell out of here before it was too late.
"Darling," Fenway greeted me when I emerged from a self-pitying nap, finding him changed into one of his tan suits, this time with a light blue shirt on underneath. "Whatever did you say to poor Alvy?" he wondered, buttoning his center button, head tilted to the side, watching me.
"Why do you think I said something?"
"Because they tore out of the hotel, telling me to keep an eye on you, and claimed they were going to spend the rest of the week in a different hotel."
"We had a disagreement," I admitted, shrugging.
"Might I ask what over?"
"You may ask," I told him, nodding, "but I told Alvy I would keep it between us."
"Did they say something about not trusting you?"
"Fenway, I gave them my word."
His gaze slid away, looking out at the ocean. "I've never known Alvy to get involved with my personal affairs."
"Are you saying you don't trust me either?" I asked, letting my voice whine, making sure my lips parted, my eyes went rounder.
Fenway's shoulders slumped, his arms moving outward, hands beckoning.
As I slid my feet across the floor to him, letting his arms wrap me up, pressing my face against his chest, I should have been feeling triumph. But that sinking, swirling sensation in my chest and belly seemed a hell of a lot more like guilt than victory.
"Alvy works too hard. And is very loyal," Fenway said, rubbing his hand down my spine. "They probably just need a few days away. I'm sure you two will work it out."
I was just as sure that I wouldn't be around to do so.
There was a deep, stabbing sensation in my belly at that, something I chose—in that moment—to blame on hunger.
So we ate.
We talked about our plans.
We didn't talk about the argument earlier.
I gave him a few more pieces to my puzzle, but only things that would never lead back to me: silly little stories from when I was a kid, some of the crazy things that had happened on the road with Raven, mishaps in building my skoolie.
He needed the details, the little pieces that he could attach himself to, the intimacy that was bred by shared disclosure.
That was what he had to have to get him where he needed to be, to get him to the point of no return.
To get the look.
To get the words.
And then I was gone.
Back to my life.
But back to what, exactly? That annoying, persistent voice demanded. Loneliness and the same old roads, the same old sights, the same old everything?
Maybe my life had gotten stagnant, predictable, unfulfilling.
But it was mine.
This?
This wasn't mine. This was a job. And when I got back to the States, I would collect on it, hop in Wanda, and get lost somewhere, get my head back together, make a plan to shake things up.
"You've been distracted today," Fenway observed two and a half days later as we walked down the beach, his pockets full of mermaid toenails, his hand pressed to the small of my back as I absentmindedly kicked the waves as they teased my feet.
"Have I been?" I asked, leaning into his shoulder, letting myself have that little bit of closeness, of intimacy.
It was a bad idea.
I'd been careful not to touch him because I knew my body was too attune to his, was too attracted to his, and I really needed not to fall back into bed with him again.
Because I needed to keep him chomping at the bit. Not because I was worried what it might begin to mean to me if we kept doing so. I mean, of course it wasn't that.
To his credit, when I'd pulled away in bed that first night, he'd just snuggled in behind me, pressing a kiss to my head, and falling asleep. And hadn't made a move since. He probably thought I was on my period. And that worked well enough since I clearly had some self-control issues around Fenway. At least this gave me some space I desperately needed.
That said, if he couldn't have sex, he still needed intimacy.
A part of me needed it as well, but we weren't going to talk about that part. I was doing my best to keep that part bound and gagged until I could finish this job, get home, have some space to pick apart this whole situation, come to terms with whatever I found.
"What have you been thinking about?" he asked, wrapping an arm around my back. "Aside from my devilish good looks, of course," he teased.
"Well, whatever could I possibly think of beside your good looks?" I quipped, getting a chuckle out of him. "Everything. Nothing. I don't know. What are you thinking about?"
"How excited you would get to see all the vending machines in China," he admitted, throwing me off.
"What? Why?" I asked, stopping walking, turning my head up on his shoulder to look at his face.
Looking down, his gaze went soft, his free hand raising to tuck my hair behind my ear. "Because I like seeing the world through your eyes," he told me.
The swirling feeling in my stomach told me that I had him.
It wasn't those three words, but it was just as good.
And the sinking sensation in my chest said that he had me too.
I had to go.
I had to go before I fucked it all up.
Oh, who was I kidding? I already fucked it up. But at least things were still salvageable.
Even if I had some asinine idea to stay, to admit the whole truth to him, there was no way this ended with us in China, and him looking at me like he was looking at me right then.
Because he would know it was all a fraud.
He wouldn't be able to trust that anything from me was genuine.
There would be no way to tell the truths from the lies in the past, or in the future.
He wouldn't be able to live with that uncertainty.
And I couldn't stomach the idea of seeing the betrayal on his face when I told him the truth.
No.
There could be none of that.
No truth.
No explanations.
Just absence.
I waited until he was asleep, creeping through the suite, slipping into shorts and a tee, grabbing my luggage. Most of my souvenirs were still on the yacht. Wherever that was. But I had brought the little round purse with me to Australia, and had tucked the monkey statue inside it. Along with a rock I had taken from the waterfall.
It was overly sentimental for someone like me, but as I made my way through the suite for the last time, I found myself clinging to the rock, the sharp edges poking into my palm.
Physical pain could dull emotional pain.
I wasn't one for self-mutilation, but just this once, I understood the need for that kind of relief, that kind of distraction from the swirling void inside.
I didn't leave a note.
I didn't leave anything.
Except, of course, a part of me I had given to him, a part of me I hadn't known I could give to a man.
But he had it.
And I would have to figure out how to go on without it.
ELEVEN
Fenway
"What do you mean, she's gone?" Alvy asked, having taken one step into the suite I had been pacing for almost an hour waiting on them to get there.
"I mean she took all of her luggage and left," I told them, raking a hand through my hair, barely able to think through the breakneck pace of my head, jumping from one conclusion to another.
"Did she take anything?" Alvy asked.
"I just told you she took her luggage," I reminded them, frustrated, needing them to be on their game when I was clearly spiraling.
"I meant anything of yours, Fenway," Alvy clarified. "Did she take your wallet? Cards? Those diamond cufflinks?"
"So that was it," I said, voice going low, cutting, foreign enough to Alvy that they straightened.
"What is?" they asked.
"The argument you and Wasp had. She said she told you she wouldn't talk about it, so she wouldn't give me any details. That's what it was about. You insinuated that she wanted me for my money."
"It is a valid question for someone with your income, Fenway," Alvy reasoned.
The thing was, they weren't exactly wrong. That was the ugly part about all of this. You did have to be on your toes. You did have to suspect ulterior motives when someone got close to you fast.
Clichés were a cliché for a reason.
Rich men attracted trust fund chasers.
It was just part of the gig.
That said, it never felt great to think that was all someone saw when they looked at you.
The idea of Wasp seeing dollar signs when she was with me made bile rise up in my throat.
"That wasn't your place, Alvy," I told them, watching as their chin lifted a bit, refusing to back down.
"You wouldn't do it for yourself."
"No," I agreed. "And maybe I never would have. But that would have been my decision. If I ended up led by the throat to an altar without a prenup, that would be my business."
"You couldn't have been seriously thinking about marrying that woman," Alvy said, shaking their head. "You don't even know her real name."
"And now, it seems, I never will."
"It wasn't my fault, Fenway," Alvy insisted. "If she was going to leave about our disagreement, she would have left immediately. Not three days later."
They weren't wrong about that. The timing did seem off. As did the fact that she didn't say anything. Wasp liked having the last say. She liked letting people know she was coming out on top. She was competitive by nature—something I'd learned after making the mistake of playing cards with her one night on the yacht, getting my ass kicked mercilessly as she gloated.
If she was leaving to make some sort of point, she would have woken me up, made her declaration, then sauntered her sweet ass out of the suite in those skyscraper heels she loved so much, leaving me salivating after her.
She would have loved that.
It was just her style.
Sneaking out while I was sleeping?
That was a coward's move.
Wasp would hate to be called a coward.
She would despise that being her legacy.
So why would she do it?
"Are you sure she didn't take anything?" Alvy pressed.
"I'm sure," I insisted, not having actually checked, not needing to. She didn't take anything. Except, I was starting to worry, a piece of me.
"Then why leave? Without saying anything?"
"That's what I am trying to figure out."
"Do you know how long she's been gone?"
"I have no idea. We went to bed around midnight. I got up at six. Anytime in that window."
So she could have been well and gone.
On a plane heading who-the-hell-knew-where.
Likely never to be seen again.
"You look like someone kicked your puppy," Alvy observed, eyes piercing.
"I believe the impossible has happened, Alvy," I declared, going over toward the line of liquor bottles on a sideboard, twisting the top off a bottle of Scotch, filling a glass. "I think I might have fallen for her," I admitted, saluting them with my drink before throwing it back.
"Shit," Alvy hissed, reaching up to rub the back of their neck.
"Yeah," I agreed, nodding. "That about covers it," I agreed, going back for seconds.
"You're sure you haven't fallen for her like you did that movie star? Like the mafia guy's wife? Like the hotel heiress?"
"Little infatuations," I told them, throwing an arm out, nearly sloshing my drink all over the floor. "This? This was different. She was different."
"Alright. So, what kind of different was she?" Alvy asked.
"I'm not sure what you mean by that," I admitted, feeling a delightful warmness bloom across my chest. The Scotch kicking in. Thank God. Because the feeling it was replacing—a sharp, undeniable stabbing sensation—was proving hard to think past.
"Well, is she just a story you want to have in your back pocket? The woman with the funny name who traipsed across the world with you only to sneak out on you without another word? Or is she someone you want to see again?"
"I need to see her again." If for nothing else than to get an explanation.
"Okay. So, we'll figure it out."
"And how do you propose to do that?"
"It's a long shot, but I have her number. If she is trying to cut ties, I doubt she will answer. She probably already blocked me," they added, reaching for their phone, scrolling, then putting it on speaker as they dialed.
"Disconnected," Alvy hissed when the automatic message started playing. "She's on top of things, I'll give her that."
She would be.
If she was going to pull a power move like a genuine ghosting, she would do it in a way that made it impossible for you to get any kind of closure.
Sting once.
And keep on stinging.
That was how she operated.
That was the legacy she wanted to be known for.
"Fuck," I snapped.
"Well, you know what this is."
"What?" I asked, mind racing.
"Another international incident, don't you think?" they asked, eyes bright, smile wry.
"You know what, Alvy, I think you might be right!" I declared, feeling some of the weight lift from my shoulders.
It was never hopeless.
There were always people to pay to fix problems.
In fact, I had an entire team I used to fix all of mine.
"Besides, it has been so long," I added, warming to the idea. "They surely miss me by now. I want to—"
"I am already getting the yacht lined up to take us back to the jet," Alvy told me, already clicking away on their phone.
The yacht lined up to take us back to the jet.
I never would have thought twice about that phrase before Wasp, before her eye rolls to the ostentatiousness that had been a normal part of my life.
"No," I said, shaking my head.
"No?" Alvy asked, brows knitting, looking up at me.
"I don't want to waste the time. Book us flights back commercial."
"Commercial"?" Alvy repeated as though the words made no sense, like I'd begun speaking a foreign language.
"First Class. Let's not get too carried away," I told them, smirking.
"I, ah, alright then," Alvy agreed. "How soon do you want to leave?"
"How soon can we get things here wrapped up?"
"If you want, I can hang back here and handle all of this. We have to get the jet back to the States anyway."
"Of course," I agreed, realizing just how little I actually thought the practical things through. If it weren't for Alvy, that jet would have stayed where it was until I realized I needed it again, and it was nowhere to be found. "That will work. As soon as you can get me out of here then. It's a long flight, if I recall."
"And you're going to have to endure it in a seat brushing up against strangers," Alvy teased.
"A horror I fear I must endure to learn the truth. And quickly."
With that, Alvy burst into action, getting me a small bag of luggage packed, arranging the flight, getting a car to drive me to the airport.
Then I was off, heading back to Navesink Bank.
Back to Quinton Baird & Associates.
If anyone could find Wasp, it was them.
The team of professional fixers who had gotten me out of every sticky situation I'd ever been in.
They'd never steered me wrong before.
TWELVE
Wasp
"Okay," Raven said, dropping down on the bed beside my body. "You've been curled up in bed for three days. Three. Days," she repeated, reaching downward, pressing a wrist to my forehead in a move that was so motherly that it was almost funny. Almost. Unfortunately, I found myself short on things like humor. Or smiles. Or anything but
this free-fall sensation inside.
"I'm not sick," I told her, yanking the blanket back up under my chin.
"No?" she asked, her perfectly shaped brow raising. "Because you're acting exactly like one of the kids when they don't want to go to school. Lazing about in bed, curled under the covers, overcome with nondescript ailments that don't add up to anything."
"I'm not faking being sick either," I told her, flipping onto my other side. "I just don't want to get up yet."
"Yes, well, it's after one in the afternoon. And you didn't want to get up yesterday either. Or the day before."
"I'm an adult. We can dramatically take to bed without all the judgment. It's one of the perks of not having anyone in control of our lives anymore," I told her, wishing she and Roman had a smaller guest room. With a twin-sized bed. Because this queen was begging me to notice how empty the other side was.
I wiggled into the dead center, not feeling any better about taking up the whole thing, but finding myself too unmotivated to move back.
Unmotivated.
That was one of the best ways to describe how I had been since I landed back in New Jersey.
I wasn't motivated to get back in Wanda and hit the road. Or to unpack my things. Or eat. Or get out of bed. I think it went without saying that showers and me, we weren't on speaking terms either, despite having a beautiful one all to myself just a few feet away.
"I'm worried about you," Raven told me, voice tight, airless.
I knew she was.
She'd done everything she could to try to lure me out of bed. When that failed, she sent her little gremlins in to try to annoy me out of bed.
You knew you were a whole new level of pathetic when young children decided you were a lost cause, got up, went to the door, turned off the light, and left you alone in your misery.
"I don't need you to worry about me, Raves," I told her, turning to stare up at the ceiling.
"And yet, here I am. Worried. What is going on with you? What the hell happened in Paris?"
"Paris. Qatar. Bali. Australia. The yacht."
"Okay. We will get back to the world tour, Wasp. But what happened?" she asked. "What were you doing?"
"A job," I admitted.
"You were on a job in Paris. And Qatar. And Bali. And Australia. And on a yacht."
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