"Logan?" I have to know. I have to ask.
He glances up, eyebrows lifted in query. "Hmmm?"
"Who is Jakob Kasparek?"
He freezes. "You saw that."
"Yeah. I saw. What did that note mean, Logan?"
He chews, swallows, breathes. "I did a little more digging. I managed to get a peek at the discharge papers from the hospital. The signature on your discharge sheet is Jakob Kasparek."
"Not Caleb Indigo?"
He shakes his head. "No. Jakob Kasparek." A lift of his shoulder. "I looked for that name, but I found nothing. Not a single thing. So I don't know anything except that whoever signed you out of the hospital was named Jakob Kasparek, not Caleb Indigo."
I swallow hard. Try to breathe evenly. "I . . . I don't mean to doubt you, but . . . are you sure?"
"One hundred percent. I'm sorry, I know that . . . probably doesn't make things easier for you."
"I just . . . I remember the day he signed me out. I remember him signing the paper. I--I didn't see the signature, but . . . it just makes no sense. I don't know. I don't know."
My head spins. Whirls. Aches. Nothing makes any sense. Nothing adds up. Nothing is true.
I feel panic boiling under my skin, gripping my throat and my mind. I have to shut it down. Think of something else. Don't go there, not now. Not here.
"You said you give money to charity?" I ask, just to shift the conversation.
He shrugs, recognizing my gambit for what it is. "Yeah. I mean, my business is worth . . . well, a lot. Thirty million, last time I checked. I spread it around, make sure my people are raking in their own personal fortunes, because they do the lion's share of the work. But even if I only kept thirty percent of the company's profit, that'd be nine million a year, something like that. And I'm just one guy, you know? What does one guy do with nine million dollars a year? I keep my life simple. I own one home, and I stay around Manhattan for the most part. Take a few vacations here and there. But I like working, so I work a lot. Means I don't spend a lot. I only have the one car, because driving in New York is a bitch so there's no real point in owning a bunch of fancy cars. Not my thing anyway." He waves a hand. "So I give a lot to various charities."
"Like what?"
He's clearly uncomfortable with this line of conversation. "There's one that does a lot of work with combat veterans, guys coming home from Iraq and Afghanistan. Therapy, retreats, shit like that. It's a nonprofit I started with a couple other guys from Blackwater. They do a lot of really amazing work with guys that have PTSD, outside-the-box stuff, not just sitting in a fucking room talking about our emotions with a shrink. Soldiers hate that shit. We hate talking about what we did. We just want to put it behind us and not have nightmares, you know? So the focus is PTSD treatment that's not just talking. Equine therapy, canine therapy. Art, music, sports. Stuff like that. Then there's the education fund. That one directs money past all the red tape of bureaucracy and directly into school districts that need money, inner-city schools here in New York and all across the country. They're expanding all the time, getting into new school districts with every check written. No testing requirements, no bullshit, no politicians skimming off the top. Just cold hard cash going into schools so kids can learn." He opens up as he speaks, and his eyes and his expression reveal his passion. "I love that one especially. When I was a kid, my education wasn't all that important to me. I was more concerned with getting high and into trouble with the fellas. But even if I had been, where I lived, I wouldn't have gotten much of an education anyway. And San Diego is a lot better off than somewhere like L.A. or the schools in somewhere like Queens, you know? There's just not enough money for the schools to do shit about shit for anyone."
"That's amazing, Logan," I say.
He rolls his eyes. "It's not. I just donate money. I've got it coming out of my fucking earholes, and charity is somewhere to put it so it's not just sitting there. And besides, it's a tax deduction."
"What others are there?"
"Lots of little ones here and there. Helping at-risk teens, 'cause I've been one, women's shelters, food banks, drug recovery clinics."
"Don't downplay what you're doing, Logan. It makes a difference."
He smiles at me. "I know it does. That's why I do it. Warrior's Welcome, the one that works with soldiers . . . I host retreats every year for that one. Get a whole bunch of rotated-out soldiers and Marines and security contractors, take 'em to a farm in upstate New York, and do a bunch of fun stuff. Trail rides, paintball games, basketball tournaments. The whole point of the retreats, though, is the Bonfire Bullshit. Make this huge-ass bonfire, tap a keg, and trade war stories. It's a judgment-free zone, you know? That's the point of it. You don't tell stories to friends or family, 'cause they won't get it. They can't. When it's a bunch of other dudes who've fuckin' been there, it's different. Some guys don't want to talk, and they don't have to, but even listening to other guys' stories, hearing the truth that there are people who know exactly what you're going through, what it's like, that's cathartic as anything else ever could be."
"You never cease to both surprise and amaze me, Logan." I cup his cheek. "Every time I think I know you, you reveal something new."
He shakes his head and laughs softly. "Yeah, I'm a real puzzle."
"You are, though. You're a successful businessman, yet you came from urban poverty and an at-risk childhood. You were in a gang. You watched your best friend get murdered. You've been to war. You've been to prison. Yet despite all that, you're successful and well adjusted." I give a lock of his hair a playful tug. "And you're the sexiest man I've ever met."
"You're gonna give me a complex, babe," Logan says.
We're outside, standing on the sidewalk near his SUV. For once in my life, things feel . . . normal. I've got hope. I feel like I am a new person, becoming someone complete.
My heart feels full.
I love Logan. He loves me.
The world is afire with possibility.
And then my blood runs cold.
I see Thomas, first. Tall, frightening, skin black as night, teeth white as piano keys. He has something long and thin and dark in his hands, not a gun, but a stick of some kind. A bludgeon. I don't know where Thomas came from. He was not there, not anywhere, and then in an eyeblink, there he is. I don't have time to even open my mouth.
Thomas's hand flashes in the bright golden light of early afternoon. There is a dull thud, and the stick connects with Logan's head, right behind his ear, just so. Precise. A practiced move. I see Logan collapse, the light instantly bleeding out of his eyes.
I inhale to scream, but a hand covers my mouth. Len. I twist, kick.
"You think I wouldn't find you?" This isn't Len's voice in my ear.
It's yours.
I feel tears of despair prick my eyelids. No. No. Not this. Not you. Not again. Not now.
I feel motion, feel the whispering breeze of your passage from behind me to in front of me. There you are. Perfect, handsome. Calm and collected. Cool. I smell your cologne. Black suit, crimson shirt, top button loose, no tie. You have a pistol in your hand. Flat black, small in your large paw.
You glance at me. You do not smile. "I thought I could let you go," you say. Your expression is . . . almost sad. Regretful. You glance at Len, behind and above me. "I was wrong."
I feel something sharp touch my neck. A needle. It pricks me, and something cold rushes through me.
Darkness rises from the shadows at my feet. Reaches up for me.
I fight it.
You point your gun at Logan.
No!
No! I scream, but it comes out a faint whimper.
I watch in slow motion as your finger tightens on the metal crescent of the trigger.
NO!
I want to scream and cry, but I cannot. I can only fade into darkness.
I don't see it happen. I only hear a loud BANG!
And then there is nothingness.
Only cold and black and empty.
FIFTEEN
Consciousness eludes me. I seek it, struggling up through darkness, wallowing in silence, floating in absence of sound and sensation. Near consciousness. A slow, delicate sliding across the cusp of wakefulness. Where there is awareness of self, but no ability to truly perform higher functions.
I struggle. But it is like being wrapped up in a cocoon; it is a fight I cannot win. I succumb.
*
There is a fist in my hair. My head is tugged back. I'm moaning. I'm faking the sound, though, because the grip on my hair is painful, but the moans are expected.
I'm on my hands and knees. On a bed. In the dark. Silence, but for my moans, and the low male grunts behind me.
It hurts. Too big, too much. Too hard, too rough.
I've been here on my knees for an eternity. Taking the punishing, driving thrusts for forever. I'm raw.
I want it to stop.
But I'm not allowed to talk. Not allowed to make a sound but for the moans. I know the rules. I know the punishment if I break them.
I am expected to orgasm. But the breath washing over my neck smells of whisky, and orgasm seems to be out of reach.
A hand smacks across my buttock. "Say my name." The order is a rough, slurred growl.
"Caleb . . ." I whisper it.
Another smack, to the other side. "Say it again."
"Caleb."
"Louder." A harder smack.
The pain sears through me. These aren't playful, sexual spanks. They are meant, they are punishment for a failing. They hurt.
But the pain at least is a distraction from other discomforts.
"Caleb!" I say it loudly.
"You're going to come now." Despite the whisky breath, the words are clear and lucid and not slurred.
I cannot. But I do not dare say this. Nor do I dare fake it as I do the moans. I am very bad at faking orgasms, I've learned. I am always caught out.
"Come, X. Come hard."
"I--"
Upright now. Still behind me, the thrusts continue unabated. Fingers steal around my waist and between my thighs. It's only a sizzle at first, but it's something.
The fist in my hair tugs hard. Pulls my head back so I'm forced to stare at the ceiling. Whisky breath on my face, in my ear. "Come for me, X."
The fingers at my core move swiftly, precisely, and lightning lances through me, hot and sudden. I do not have to fake it, thank god. The pleasure is a dull throb next to the anticipation of being released.
But I'm not released. The presence behind and within me pulls away, moves to sit at the edge of the bed. I remain kneeling, hunting for breath. My scalp tingles.
But I'm not done. A hard hand grips my wrist and tugs hard. Pulls me roughly across the mattress, shoves me to the floor, to my knees. Fingers curl into my chin-length hair. Guide me to the waiting member. Hard, but not completely.
"Finish me."
I do as I am ordered. With my hands, with my mouth. It takes a long time. I am tired. So tired. My jaw aches. My forearms ache as well from constant up-and-down motion. When the release comes, it is much less forcefully than usual.
I am allowed to climb into my bed then. I curl up on the mattress, in the center, and a blanket settles over me.
I note the absence of footsteps, feel the presence beside me. Standing. Watching me.
I allow my body to go limp. Even my breathing. Let my mouth fall open. After many long minutes of pretending to sleep, I smell whisky, hear breathing. I am not entirely faking this descent into slumber anymore. I am nearly asleep now.
"Isabel." This is whispered, so low it is nearly inaudible. "My lovely Isabel." Sadness. Regret. Longing. Misery. The whisper is fraught with these things.
Who is Isabel?
Lips touch temple. Gently, so softly it could have been a whisper of air, a figment of my imagination. "It wasn't supposed to be this way."
What wasn't?
"I'm so sorry. It wasn't supposed to be this way."
I am losing the battle to stay awake. I fight it. This close to sleep, nothing seems real. I am delirious with exhaustion. I am imagining this, surely. I've fallen asleep and I am dreaming. Surely. Surely.
The man I have come to understand over the past year would not speak thus, does not experience such emotions. It is a dream.
Just a dream.
Only a dream.
*
Wake up, X." The familiar rumble in my ear.
I blink. Open my eyes, and experience a debilitating disorientation. Am I awake? Am I dreaming, still?
Where am I? When am I?
I am in my room. My blackout curtains are in place. My noise machine shushes with the sound of soothing crashing waves. My bed. The door to my bedroom is cracked, emitting a sliver of light. Through it I can just barely make out a slice of my living room. My couch. The Louis XIV armchair, the coffee table with its antique map.
What is going on?
Have I dreamed everything?
I am near tears. No. No. I didn't dream Logan. That was real. He is real. It wasn't a dream.
It wasn't.
Was it?
I still have the fragments of memory floating in my head, you in my room, the aching, the exhaustion, the numbness. The near-sleep fantasy of a Caleb who experiences real emotions, for someone named Isabel.
Isabel.
I sit up. You crouch at my bedside, and when I sit up, you rise to your feet. You are imperious, cold, distant. Tan suit, dark blue button-down, top button undone. You fasten the middle button of the suit coat.
"Time to get up, X. You have a client in thirty minutes. I've prepared your breakfast."
"Wha--um. What? Caleb? What am I doing here? What's going on?"
You turn. "What do you mean, what's going on? You have a client. Travis Mitchell, son of Michael Mitchell, founder and CEO of Mitchell Medical Enterprises."
I shake my head. It aches. Feels thick. Memories jog and tumble with fragments of dream.
It wasn't real? Logan, his town house on the quiet street. Cocoa. Naked in bed with Logan, savoring every touch, every kiss. I remember every moment. I can picture every scar, every tattoo.
"No." My voice is raspy, hoarse. "No. Stop, Caleb."
"Stop what?" You seem honestly confused.
"You're fucking with my head. It won't work." I slide my feet out of bed and stand up. I am naked.
"Get in the shower, X." A step toward me. "Now."
I back up. "Stop. Just . . . stop."
I run my hands through my hair, and that's what shakes everything loose. My hair is short.
Mei.
Logan. Oh god, Logan. "You shot him!" I lunge forward, smash my fist into your cheekbone as hard as I can, suddenly full of fiery rage. "You fucking shot him!" I swing again, my other hand, connect with your jaw.
You rock backward, stunned, and then you catch my wrists and easily overpower me. A moment then, as I resist you. But you are far too powerful. You grunt, and throw me aside.
I land on the floor between the bed and the wall, and in a blur you are there, kneeling in front of me. Your hand latches onto my chin, gripping my jaw in a crushing vise grip.
"You . . . belong . . . to me." Your voice is the venomous hiss of a viper. "You are mine. You are Madame X, and you are mine."
I lash out with my heel, catch you off guard, and my foot impacts your chest, sends you toppling backward. I lurch to my feet. Back up. Catch against the corner of the bed.
"Fuck you, Caleb!" I spit. "Fuck . . . you. My name is Isabel Maria de la Vega Navarro. I am not Madame X, and I am not a possession. I do not belong to you. I will never belong to you again."
You collapse backward against the wall, lying where you landed after I kicked you, as if you meant all along to lie there. "You are mine. You will always be mine. You've been mine since you were sixteen."
"What? What does that mean?" I think of what Logan told me.
"I thought you had all the answers. I thought your precious Logan knew everything."
"Do
n't be petulant, Caleb." I hunt in the darkness for some way to cover myself without having to pass you, since you are between me and the closet.
I end up tugging the sheet off the bed and wrapping it around me, letting the end drape behind me like the train of a wedding dress. After a moment, you stand up, brush off your suit. Glance at me. The cold hard mask is in place.
"You might as well have breakfast." You exit my bedroom without a backward glance.
I follow. Everything is as it was. My books. Empty mantel, no TV, no radio, no computer. My library, the case with my antique books and signed first editions. The paintings--Portrait of Madame X; Starry Night. The breakfast nook. A single simple white porcelain plate, half a grapefruit, vanilla-flavored Greek yogurt, a mug of Earl Grey tea imported from England, a single square of organic wheat bread toast with a thin scrim of farm-to-table butter. I stare at the food, and my stomach rumbles. I want scrambled eggs with cheese, a Belgian waffle piled high with whipped cream and strawberries drowning in processed syrup, crispy brown bacon, white toast slathered thick with jelly.
I ignore the breakfast you've provided. Put four pieces of bread in the toaster. Find a container of cage-free eggs and an unopened rectangle of Dublin cheddar cheese. I set about making scrambled eggs, and I'm not sure how I know how to make them. But I do.
I crack four eggs into a bowl and whip them while the pan heats.
I'm struck by a memory:
*
Mama is at the counter, a white bowl in one hand, a fork in the other, whipping eggs in a smooth circular motion of the fork. Music fills the kitchen from a small radio on the counter near the stove, guitar and a man singing in Spanish. Mama's hips sway and bob to the rhythm. The morning is bright. Waves crash. I sit at a table, running my thumbnail in a crack in the aged wood, watching Mama beat the eggs. I wait for my favorite part: the liquid bubbling hiss when she pours them into the pan.
A seagull caws, and a boat horn goes BWAAAAAAAANNNNHHHH! in the distance.
Mama smiles at me as she scrapes the fluffy, cheesy eggs onto my plate, and then kisses me on the temple. Her eyes twinkle. "Coma, mi amor." Her voice is music.
*
The memory is so visceral that I can smell the eggs, and her perfume, the salt of the sea, hear the seagulls and the boat horn. Tears slide down my cheek, and I hide them by ducking over the bowl as I finish whipping the eggs. I pour the beaten eggs into the pan, and the bubbling hiss makes the memory roar through me, making me feel as if making these eggs somehow connects me to my mother. A simple but powerful thing.
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