by Alyssa Cole
She stretched her leg across the bed and poked at Marta’s knee with her big toe.
“You have helped me. You’ve stuck by me through all this, and I know you never doubted me for a second,” Salomeh said. “Plus you’re sitting on my trash heap of a bed, pretending it’s not giving you the heebie-jeebies.”
Marta gave her a trembling smile, and Salomeh swallowed past the lump of emotion forming in her throat.
“But some things you can’t help me with,” she said. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t trust Marta. She just didn’t want her friend to get hurt. A part of her wished there was someone she could turn to without reservation or fear.
When she was younger, she had imagined she would have a life partner by now, but she had lived her life the way she thought best contributed to the world, and that had meant sacrifice. Louis, her ex-fiancé and last serious relationship, had been jealous of the time and attention she gave her students and mentees. She had forgiven him for actively undermining her, but when he’d humiliated her after finding out she was barren, it had been the last straw. She hadn’t needed a partner to accomplish the things she wanted in life, and she’d never regretted that decision. Until now.
Now she wished there was someone muscled and strong and ready to karate chop any man who would dare threaten her. Someone she could brainstorm her way out of this mess and not have to worry that he would run away screaming or make things worse. She sighed. Maybe the last two weeks had broken the feminist region of her brain, because these thoughts were neither helpful nor empowering.
Salomeh watched Marta down the last of her coffee before tossing the cup onto the pile of tissues. Fantasizing about some deus ex alpha male who would descend from the heavens to save her wasn’t exactly productive, so she started planning what cleaning supplies she would need to get her apartment back in order. It hit her then that it was the first time she had made a list in days. Making to-do lists had been second nature to her before her downfall, but while she had wallowed in despair, she’d lost track of even the most deeply ingrained parts of herself. That couldn’t happen again if she were going to get through this.
“What are you going to do?” Marta asked. “You better not be thinking about crawling back under that blanket as soon as I leave.”
What to do? Salomeh had been avoiding that question as she lay mired in depression, but somewhere within her, the answers had been gestating.
“No, you’re right. No more hiding,” she said. She started a new list, counting each task off with the unfurling of a finger from her tightly clenched fist. “I’m going to try to clear my name, but to do that I need to find Yelena. I’m going to find out who Alexi’s boss is, and…”
She thought of the name the woman had said with such an air of reverence: Bardhyn.
“What?” Marta said, leaning toward her.
“I’m going to make him pay,” Salomeh said, surprising herself. She didn’t quite believe it, but she needed to put the thought out into the world. Something else was growing within her alongside the plans for how to get herself out of this situation—a brightly burning rage at the people who had done this to her, and the strong desire to hurt them back.
She was tired of doing the right thing; that had led to the ultimate humiliation. Her old life was a burned-out wreck, but there was still a chance to salvage something.
“What can I do?” Marta asked.
“You can keep being the awesome friend who brings me coffee and doesn’t let me decompose under a moldy quilt,” Salomeh said, placing her feet on the floor and standing. She stretched, a vertebrae-cracking, reach-for-the-sky kind of stretch.
Marta smiled, her large eyes sparkling with hope.
“Since you seem to be getting your groove back, I should tell you the reason I stopped by,” Marta said. “There’s a party at my building tomorrow, and I want you to come.”
Salomeh’s stomach lurched at her friend’s words. Getting out of bed was one thing. Leaving the house would be its own lesson in humility. The thought of being at a party surrounded by people who didn’t know her but might think they did was enough to stir the beginnings of a panic attack.
“I can’t do that,” she said stiffly, her arms dropping to her sides. Her rediscovered vim and vigor quickly subsided. How could Marta make it sound so easy?
“Yes, you can. It’s Independence Day, the perfect time to throw off these self-imposed shackles and leave the house. How ironic would that be?”
“That’s not irony,” Salomeh said, the English teacher in her winning out over her despair. “Maybe if it was Juneteenth, but even then…”
Marta rolled her eyes. “Whatever grammar-type thingy it is, it’ll be fun, I promise,” she coaxed. “Come on, what was it you told me after that Australian chick dumped me and I was sure that my life was over?”
Salomeh didn’t even have to think. The words, spoken by one of her idols, had been her mantra for years. “‘Be the heroine of your life, not the victim,’” she said, but then shook her head. “This isn’t about pithy quotes. Do you think it will be fun when someone recognizes me and makes a scene?”
Marta struck a Mr. Universe pose. “If that happens I will personally dump said person over the side of the roof myself. I’ve been working out.”
“As much as I would enjoy seeing that, I couldn’t deal with it if something happened. I’m trying to be strong—”
“You are strong, but you’re turning into the black female version of Howard Hughes, and for no reason,” Marta said. “There are people walking down the street proud as peacocks who’ve done terrible things—have actually done terrible things—while you’re locked inside.”
Salomeh felt a bit of the burden she had been carrying ease from her shoulders. Maybe Marta was right. It was tempting to think of a night spent enjoying herself.
As if sensing the chink in her friend’s armor, Marta pressed on. “This too shall pass, Salomeh. In the meantime, shouldn’t you have fun for just one night?”
Salomeh bit her lip as her fear and resilience warred with each other. One night of fun, one night of pretending to be carefree.
“I’ll think about it,” she said.
“That means yes,” Marta said with a smile as she bounced with happiness at the bottom of the bed. “Take a shower. Get a pedicure. Wear something cute. And leave your hair down for once, okay?”
She stood up and gave Salomeh’s frizzy bun an affectionate tap before grabbing her bag.
“Marta,” Salomeh said softly. “I’m scared.”
“The world is a scary place,” Marta said. “But that shouldn’t keep you from the good stuff in life, like booze and fireworks. See you tomorrow, Sal.”
“Maybe!” Salomeh shouted after her friend, but Marta was already on her way out the front door. Her voice echoed back at her, bouncing off the apartment’s high ceiling as she savored her last sip of coffee.
She didn’t know if it was Marta, the caffeine, or her own sense of self-preservation, but she was starting to feel revitalized. Not quite ready to take on the world, but leaving her apartment was a start. If she could manage to go to a party and have a good time after everything she’d been through, taking on some gangsters would be a piece of cake.
Chapter Three
Julian watched from the car as Yates stood tapping her foot impatiently in the doorway of the beautiful old brownstone where Salomeh Jones lived. Yates had been mashing down the buzzer for the last five minutes, drawing attention from neighbors who sat on their stoops reading books or talking over early evening drinks. A woman wearing a bright orange sari whispered conspiratorially with another decked out in a head wrap and dress in green African print as they eyed the severe-looking blonde woman in the sharp suit.
Julian observed the vibrant neighborhood. It reminded him of The Cosby Show, one of the American programs he and his sister had watched on bootleg VHS tapes to shore up their understanding of the English language.
Reflexively, he pushed thoughts of his s
ister away, focusing instead on Salomeh: what her apartment looked like, and, oddly, whether she was there alone. His search had pulled up nothing but a fiancé she lived with briefly while getting her master of education degree at NYU, but the guy had dropped off the map when Salomeh graduated.
Just as Yates turned to walk back to the car, the front door of the building opened. Julian only realized he had been tensed up in anticipation when he felt disappointment slacken his body; it wasn’t Salomeh as he had expected, but an older black woman. Her gray dreadlocks hung down to her waist, and she stood stiff with annoyance, her face hard as she listened to Yates. The woman spoke for a moment and took Yates’s card, said something that seemed distinctly unpleasant, and slammed the door in her face.
“That looked like it went well,” Julian quipped as Yates climbed into the passenger seat of the beige minivan. “Isn’t getting information from the community supposed to be part of your skill set?”
“She only called me loathsome, so I’d say that it went better than usual,” she said. “And before you start critiquing me, you should remember that shooting people in the face is also part of my skill set.”
“If you shoot as well as you talk to strangers, I think I’m safe,” he said as he pulled off, navigating the car around a group of kids on bikes. He wondered how long it would take to get to their headquarters in Queens with rush-hour traffic.
“Well, maybe you should have spoken to her, since you’re supposed to be the reincarnation of Prince Charming,” Yates said, shooting him a narrowed glare.
Julian stared straight ahead, annoyed at whoever had made him out to be some kind of miracle worker. He was good at making people feel at ease and at getting them to tell him what he needed to know. But he was just as good at stonewalling people who tried to figure him out.
He drove on in silence.
“The woman was her neighbor, and she thought I was a reporter,” Yates finally continued when he didn’t say anything, flipping her ponytail over her shoulder indignantly. “Can you believe that?”
Julian gave her a sidelong glance. “You do have a Lois Lane vibe about you,” he joked.
She scoffed. “Apparently Miss Jones, and everyone in her immediate vicinity, has been plagued by reporters since the scandal broke, and the building has been vandalized by graffiti at least once. She saw Jones leave the apartment today for the first time in a long time. Made it quite clear that the teacher hadn’t had an easy time of it and that I should leave her alone. I gave her my card to pass on to Salomeh and said that I wanted to help, but I don’t think she quite believed me.”
Salomeh’s sorrowful face on the front page of the newspaper popped up in Julian’s mind. He imagined she was the kind of person who would feel terrible about bringing such a disturbance into her neighbors’ lives.
“Let’s come back tomorrow,” Julian said.
“Tomorrow is the Fourth of July,” Yates said. “I’m going to be consuming mass quantities of processed meat with my sister and her husband in New Jersey. You should come; the girl next door is kind of cute, and fortunately for you doesn’t play for my team.”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” Julian said. He hadn’t been a fan of family gatherings for some time now. Or any kind of gathering, since he had few friends. He was usually standoffish enough that coworkers gave up trying to befriend him, but Yates wasn’t dogged only when it came to catching criminals.
He stared blankly at the school bus in front them that was causing a snarl in traffic, and then asked, “Don’t you think we should follow up on this? Henderson really wants us digging into every lead.”
He casually mentioned the head of the task force’s name in the hopes of goading Yates. He didn’t know why, but something about Salomeh Jones was gnawing at him. He told himself it was his gut instinct driving him to see her, but it was hard to deny that instincts located definitively lower on his person were having their say in the matter too.
“Henderson really wants to break one hundred in his golf game, but that ain’t gonna happen either. It can wait a day,” Yates said. “Unless you know something you’re not telling me?”
Julian shook his head. The only thing he knew was that something about the Jones woman had unsettled him, and the sooner he could speak to her, the sooner he could be done with it and get on with his real objective: finding Bardhyn.
* * * *
The next morning Julian awoke with a start in the apartment he’d been given for the duration of his assignment. The olfactory memory of burning hair and flesh dissipated as he wiped a hand over his sweaty face and took in his surroundings. Bare walls, cheap furniture, central air. It wasn’t home. No place could ever really be home again as far as he was concerned, but like the dozens of places he’d lived since moving to the States, it would suffice.
A series of loud bangs outside the window made him flinch; he was reaching for the gun on his bedside table before he remembered.
Fourth of July. Fireworks.
He flopped back down on the too-soft mattress with a grunt. He attempted to blot out the ghastly vestiges of his dream, trying to focus on anything but death and despair. The first thing that came to mind was innocent enough, but completely unexpected:
I wonder what Salomeh Jones is doing today?
Was she going to a barbecue with friends, or was she back to secluding herself in her apartment?
He didn’t like how the teacher kept popping up in his head, distracting him, and in his Internet searches as well. Maybe that was why she’d been his first concrete thought. He’d stayed up late into the night reading her thesis papers on how to create excitement about learning in urban schools, her pleas for capable people to join the mentorship programs she participated in, and of course the horrible tabloid accounts that had undone all she’d worked for.
She seemed like a good woman.
It doesn’t hurt that she’s beautiful, the unhelpful voice of his libido chimed in. His late-night search-engine binge had provided a vast amount of information about Miss Jones, things she would probably be horrified to learn were only a click away for anyone so inclined. Those forays into her personal life could be considered work. Research. Following a lead. But there had also been pictures. Pictures of her smiling brightly with her students and speaking enthusiastically at educational events. In those photos, his gaze had been drawn to the way her tailored suit jackets had buttoned tightly just below the swell of her ample cleavage and hugged the flare of her hips. Her skirts were modest, but her tight calves and strong thighs were impossible to ignore. And then there were the candid photos.
His cock swelled as he remembered the few social-media shots he had found. Julian wasn’t a man who lost control of his sex drive easily, but those images had tested him sorely. One in particular had gotten to him even though it should have been innocuous. In it, the teacher was gulping a bottle of water while paused on a dusty hiking trail. Curls had escaped from her tight bun, framing a face that was tinted with the blush of physical exertion. Her head was tipped back, exposing the long column of her neck, and the way her lips were wrapped tightly around the water bottle…
Julian was painfully hard now, from his memory of the picture alone. He felt a flash of impropriety as he slipped his hand under the blanket and gripped his cock tentatively like he was a nervous teenager expecting someone to come bang on the bathroom door.
Fantasizing about someone who figured in the most important case he’d ever handled probably wasn’t the most professional thing he could have done, but if it was just this once, maybe it would get her out of his system.
He pulled the covers away from his heated body, welcoming the cool air that tickled the hairs on his chest and legs. He shut his eyes as he grabbed his stiff cock, already imagining how the bed would sink slightly as Miss Jones—Salomeh—crawled onto it, how warm her lips would be as they pressed into the skin along his jaw.
She would be naked, all smooth brown skin except for the dark delights of her nipples and the bla
ck curls between her legs. Julian had seen her in a bikini, could easily imagine the pendulous motion of her breasts as she leaned over him, the curve of her hips and ass as she knelt between his legs. He imagined palming those heavy breasts and feeling her nipples harden against his hand, eager for his touch.
Warmth throbbed low in his stomach as he pumped himself slowly, his fingers tightening around his thick shaft as he imagined Salomeh’s hand moving down his chest and stomach, teasing him with soft caresses as her mouth followed in the wake of her clever fingers.
She would linger at his nipples, somehow knowing he loved the texture of her tongue against his sensitive skin. Her hands would grip his waist possessively as she lapped at his chest and then licked her way down, mouth hovering over the head of his cock so that her every exhalation was a torture. And then her tongue would dart out, giving the tiniest lick to the swollen tip.
He grunted as pleasure washed through him, and a bead of precum pooled at his slit. Julian brushed his thumb gently over the smooth, flanged skin, gathering the moisture there. It wasn’t enough, and he spit into his palm to lubricate himself. The veins of his cock slid against his palm, the exquisite friction aided by the fantasy of Salomeh licking his pulsing shaft from base to head, again and again, before swirling her tongue over the tip of his cock and sucking him into the warm cavern of her mouth.
Julian made a snug circle with his index finger and thumb, moving it up and down in quick, controlled motions over his head and shaft, trying to mimic the sensation of Salomeh’s mouth tightening around his dick, the luscious glide of her soft lips as they ringed his rigid member. He would grab her by the hair and thrust up into her mouth, trying to hold back as she moaned around his cock, the vibrations making his balls draw up at his impending release.
Julian felt the orgasm coming on, felt the tingling in the soles of his feet and the way he lost control of his hips, pumping into his squeezing palm with absolute abandon, his other hand clenching the bedsheets. Desperate for just a few minutes longer with his fantasy woman, he struggled to hang on, to ride out the wave of sensation engulfing him.
