by Alexa Davis
“Again,” she says, “if you were invested in the relationship, why would that matter?”
“Because it does!” I shout but immediately wince. I’ve split my lip open again and over the next few minutes, I don’t say anything. I just hold a cotton ball against the cracked skin to stop the bleeding.
Naomi doesn’t say anything else, but she doesn’t have to. I don’t know how Nick found out all that stuff about me, but I can no longer ignore the fact that the relationship’s dead because I killed it.
The problem I have with relationships—the problem I’ve always had—is that even when I was dating guys in high school, I just assumed it was never going to last. I don’t know if it’s a problem of self-worth or if I’m used to being overshadowed, but Naomi’s right about that much.
Naomi leaves the bathroom before I do, even though my lip stopped bleeding a while ago and there’s nothing left for me to cover.
The night I walked out of the restaurant on Nick, I deleted his cell phone number. I’m still skeeved out by how much he knew about me, but maybe Naomi’s right. It’s possible he’s a sleazebag, but it’s also possible I overreacted because I was scared.
Okay, it’s more than a possibility.
I sidle over to the bathroom door and twist the lock. It takes a minute to wash everything off of my hands, but I still have Nick’s office number in New York. Pulling out my phone, I find the digits.
The phone rings.
“You’ve reached the office of Nikolai Scipio of Stingray Next-Gen Technologies,” a man’s voice answers.
“Hi,” I say and then follow it with a long pause.
“… hi,” the man says. “Is there something I can help you with, miss?”
“Michaels,” I say. “And now I just realized you probably weren’t asking for my name.”
The man sighs. “Ma’am, if this is a prank call—”
“No,” I say, “it’s not. I’m Ellie Michaels.” I say, “I was hoping I could speak with Nick, or at least leave a message.”
“Yeah, Mr. Scipio isn’t taking phone calls right now,” the man says.
“Okay,” I say. “I can leave a message for him. Just tell him that I—”
The line clicks. I look at my phone. That little punk hung up on me.
I call the number back and the same voice answers, “You’ve reached the office of Nikolai Scipio of Stingray Next-Gen Technologies.”
I say, “Yeah, I think we got disconnected. It’s Ellie—”
The line clicks again.
My first reaction is just to assume Nick told his assistant he didn’t want to speak with me, but even if that is the case, I can’t be too mad about it. Excuses aside, I know I ran out on him.
I still don’t know that I want to find out how Nick learned all that stuff about me, but the shock is gone. All that’s left is the space where our relationship should be.
It’s impulsive, and maybe even a little silly, but I take a quick look at my bank balance on my phone. I have about five hundred bucks left.
That should be more than enough for a plane ticket.
Chapter Sixteen
The Seduction of Power
Nick
I’m just getting home to the penthouse when there’s a knock on my door. Whoever it is, I’m not in the mood.
After spending all day on the phone with investors who swore they’d have my back through anything, only to find out they’re already preparing for when I’m gone, I don’t want to speak to anyone. I don’t want to see anyone. I don’t want to be in the same room with anybody.
What’s worse, Jacque won’t answer my calls, and even when I went out to his house, he wouldn’t come to the door. Objectively, Stingray’s just moving in the same direction every other company that doesn’t give a crap about anyone or anything has been for ages.
Is the world going to be that much different if they get their way? Probably not, but that doesn’t mean I’m just going to lie back and let it happen without doing something.
That’s what’s going through my head as I open the door.
“Before you say anything,” Ellie speaks before the door’s all the way open, “I’ve done some thinking, and I don’t know if this is going to change or not, but for now at least, I don’t want to know how you knew all that stuff. Perhaps you had a good reason, maybe you didn’t, but if there’s any chance for anything happening with us right now, I need some time before we come back to that.”
“Hey, you’re at my door for half a second and already back to making demands,” I say. “Looks like we picked up right where we left off, didn’t we? Did you want to come in?”
“I guess I deserved that,” she says. “If I’m wasting my time here, I’ll just go.”
As I’m looking at her, I notice swelling over parts of her face. Her bottom lip is split, too, right in the middle.
“What happened?” I ask.
She rolls her eyes. “It was a whole thing with Naomi,” she says. “Can we talk?”
I move out of the way, and Ellie comes in.
“To be honest,” I tell her, “I’m a bit surprised you found this place. If I’m not mistaken, this is the first time you’ve been here.”
“You told me what building you were in when I first came here to New York,” she says. “I figured finding your place from there couldn’t be too difficult. Thanks to the tabloids, everyone knows who I am and assumes we’re still very much together, so making it past the lobby was relatively easy.”
I close the door.
I don’t know what I’m meant to be feeling right now, but my emotions are too raw to feel much of anything but overwhelmed. If I had to take a guess, I’d call what I’m feeling right now anger with a hint of surprise and just a sliver of hope. That emotional structure changes from moment to moment, though.
Walking Ellie into the living room, I say, “Here’s the obvious first question: why are you here?”
“I’m here to tell you I’m sorry for the way I acted,” she says. “Not just for the way I left that night in the restaurant, but for all of it. I was blaming you for things. After Naomi and I had our slugfest, she helped me see how I’ve been running away from this, from us, from you, from whatever from the get go and if nothing else, I wanted to apologize for that.”
“You could have called,” I tell her, looking out the window.
“Yeah,” she says. “I may have deleted your number after that night.”
“I’m sorry, Ellie,” I say, “but it’s been a long few months and today’s felt just as long as the rest of it put together, so if you don’t mind …”
“What I came to realize was that I’ve been running away, not because I thought it would never work out with you, but because it was starting to look like it could,” she says.
“I don’t get you,” I tell her. “I deal with a lot of people, but I have never met anyone whose motives are more a mystery than you.”
“I get that a lot,” she answers. It looks like she’s trying to smile, but her lips hardly move. “I guess what it comes down to is I want to see if you’re willing, maybe, to give things another shot.”
Yes, of course. Nothing would make me happier in the world.
“Why would I do that?” I ask. My brain and my mouth aren’t communicating very well right now.
It takes a few seconds for her to answer.
“Because at the end of the day, I realized that the feelings I have for you are real, not just some fantasy. I’m ready to stop running,” I tell him.
I look away from the window and back at Ellie. “It feels like you’ve said something like that before,” I tell her.
“Did I?” she asks. “If I did, I’m sure I wanted to mean it. But I was still so—should I just go? It seems like you have a lot on your mind and it looks like I’m not helping.”
“No,” I tell her. “Stay.”
“Are you sure?” she asks. “Your face is all red, and there’s a vein above your brow that’s popping out to th
e point it’s starting to worry me.”
What I feel right now is played with and discarded. Any lingering guilt about not telling Ellie everything from the outset is located in a part of my mind I can’t access right now. I’m considering keeping it that way.
“Yeah,” I tell her. “If you don’t mind, I’d prefer if you sleep in the guest room, at least for tonight.”
“Okay,” she murmurs. “There’s still a lot I’d like to talk about, but with the fight and the flight—huh. Usually, it’s one or the other—I’m dragging right now.” She says, “Do you mind if we pick it up in the morning?”
I know what she’s doing. She stays here tonight, and it’s going to be that much harder saying no to her tomorrow. Only, even as upset as I am, as frustrated as I am with work, and how angry and hurt I am toward Ellie, I don’t think I could bring myself to tell her no now.
“That’s fine,” I tell her. “Get some sleep. If we’re going to talk in the morning, though, it’ll have to be pretty early. There are a lot of ducks I’ve got to get in a row, and it looks like every one of them is afraid of getting shot.” I chuckle. “Maybe I overextended the metaphor there, but you get the idea.”
“Yeah,” she says. “If I’m not up when you get up, wake me. I want to get it right this time.”
“And you have no interest at all in hearing what I was going to tell you in the restaurant?” I ask.
She winces and I’m not sure if it’s because I brought up the forbidden topic or if she moved wrong and aggravated one of the minor injuries all that makeup isn’t hiding.
“I don’t know,” she says. “It’s still a bit much for me.”
“Even if it would put your mind at ease, you don’t want to hear it?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Maybe it sounds stupid, but I’d like to get my head totally straight about everything before we add too much more information to the mix,” she says.
“So, if it was that I was going to tell you I’m a serial killer, and I got all this money because I murdered the guy who was supposed to have this life?” I ask.
“I wouldn’t believe that,” she says.
Smirking, I say, “It’s good to know you have at least that much trust in me.”
“You know,” she snaps, “if you don’t want me here, you could just tell me.”
I hold my hands up, palms out, saying, “I’m just surprised, that’s all. Things at Stingray aren’t going so well, and I honestly didn’t expect to see you again.”
“So what do you want me to do?” she asks. “If you need me to go, I’ll go. If you’d like me to stay, I’ll stay, but if it’s just so you can keep making those comments and make me feel even worse than I already do, I’d rather just hear it from my sister.”
I’m ready to snap at her for comparing me to that thing she’s related to, but for the first time this conversation, I manage to keep my thoughts to myself.
“I want you to stay,” I tell her. “I’ll get over whatever this is. Maybe we should both just get some sleep.”
“I think that sounds like a good idea,” she says and starts walking only to stop halfway across the room. “Okay, I’ve never been here. Where am I going?”
“Down the hall,” I tell her. “It’s the fourth door on your right. Clean linens are in the closet.”
She walks off, and I just sit on the couch a while, savoring every moment of my utter confusion and frustration.
In the grand scheme of things, my anger is meaningless. Ellie’s no less the person I want to spend my life with than she was before she walked up to me that first time at Rory’s. Just the way she was asking me if she should go or not, though, I’m asking myself if it’s worth it.
There are so many ways that she’s the same person I knew all those years ago, but time changes things, and not always for the better. She was quiet back then, but she was always so clear about what she thought and felt.
I guess it’s possible I never knew her well enough to get the whole story.
After a long time pondering my situation but coming no closer to any real insight, I decide to call it a night. I’m exhausted, and there aren’t that many hours before I have to be up again.
I send a quick message to Amelie, my morning chamber maid, letting her know to let me sleep in tomorrow, and I’m off to bed. The problem is, once I’m in bed, the last thing on my mind is sleep.
After about an hour just lying there, I flip on the television. I’m not interested in what’s on; I just need something louder than my thoughts if I’m going to get any sleep at all.
Eventually, I must have dozed off, because when I wake, it’s light outside. I’m tired and emotionally drained, but that’s no excuse. I have to get up.
If Ellie’s not up yet, I’ll probably just let her sleep. In a lot of ways, I’m overjoyed she’s here, but that doesn’t mean anything is simple.
I head to the kitchen and grab some coffee. The pot’s still hot. Amelie must have just gone.
It’s nice when things just get done.
Sipping my coffee, I forego the urge to watch Ellie sleep, and I get back to my room.
The television’s still on, and an old Tom Selleck movie is playing. I switch the channel over to the news and immediately, I drop the remote.
I pull out my phone and call Amelie. She doesn’t answer, but based on what I see on television; I’m not surprised.
Her voicemail beeps and I say, “You have twenty minutes to get here or not only are you fired, but I will also use every bit of my power and influence to make sure the rest of your life is hell. You know who this is, and you know why I’m calling. Get here now.”
I hang up the phone just in time for the camera to cut back to the full-sized, though blurred, picture of Ellie sleeping topless in the guest room down the hall from me.
* * *
“Who the hell do you think you are‽” I shout about a foot from Amelie’s face. “What was the point of that?” I spit, “I hope you got a hell of a payout because I’m going to ruin your fucking world! And you know nobody’s going to hire you anywhere for anything. Who told you to do this? I want you to tell me right now before I have you arrested for voyeurism!”
She goes a full half second without saying anything.
“I said answer me!” I yell.
“What is going on?” Ellie’s voice comes somewhere to the left of me. Ellie’s dressed in yesterday’s clothes, her hair’s a mess.
Amelie’s trembling. I’d never hit a woman, even for something like this, but I’m no less glad she’s scared. I hope she’s terrified.
“You’re going to want to sit down,” I tell Ellie.
Ellie crosses her arms, saying, “Who is this woman and why are you screaming at her?”
“She took a picture of you while you were sleeping and now it’s all over everything,” I answer, staring Amelie down.
“What do you mean while I was asleep?” Ellie asks. “Why would anyone care about a picture of me sleeping?”
“Ellie, you really might want to sit down for this,” I tell her.
Is it like someone died? No. But hearing every person on the planet with an internet connection can pull up a half-naked picture of you anytime they want isn’t the kind of thing you want to take standing up. Not in a literal sense.
This kind of thing happens all the time, and for the very select few that plan “wardrobe malfunctions,” it’s just good publicity. For everyone else, and especially for someone like Ellie, who never asked for the spotlight, it’s the sort of thing that ends too often with a bang.
Ellie sits.
I turn to Amelie. “Tell her what you did,” I command.
Amelie’s crying now, but I have no sympathy.
“Last week,” Amelie starts, her voice small, raspy, “a man gave me a call—”
“You can get to why you did it in a minute,” I interrupt. “First, tell her what you did.”
Amelie looks up at me. Her eyes are big and bloodshot. She’s not crying,
but that’s just the same old-fashioned stoicism my mom had when things went south with dad.
“You were sleeping,” Amelie says to Ellie. “I knew you would be here because of the message Mr. Scipio sent me.”
Just so there aren’t any misunderstandings, I tell Ellie, “I told her not to worry about cleaning the guest room when she got here this morning.”
“You were asleep,” Amelie says again.
“Just spit it out,” I demand.
“Nick,” Ellie says, holding up one hand to me, “let her talk.”
“At first, I just wanted to take a picture showing you asleep in his room after everyone said you two were …” she trails off. “The man who called me, he told me that it was more important to keep the story alive than to catch you doing something wrong. I swear, I don’t know what story he was talking about.”
I’m seething, “Even if that were true, how would that possibly justify—”
“Nick,” Ellie says again, her voice remarkably calm.
“I saw you were sleeping without your clothes on,” Amelie continues, “the sheet was pulled up your shoulder, but I could see enough. Please,” Amelie pleads. “I didn’t know what to do.”
“Continue,” Ellie says, her voice monotone.
Amelie starts again, “I thought if they’d pay me so much—”
“How much?” Ellie interrupts. I can’t read her face, so I don’t know what I should be doing right now. I’ll keep that to myself, though.
“Two,” Amelie says. “Two million dollars.”
“Are you kidding me?” I ask though I’m no longer shouting. “You make that what everyone’s going to think every time they look at her from now—”
“Nick,” Ellie says. “Maybe you should sit down, too. You don’t look well.”
How is she so calm?
“I thought if they’d pay me that much for proof the two of you hadn’t stopped … you know,” she says. “They would have to pay me more for something like that.”
“I would imagine,” Ellie says. “So, you were in the bedroom, I was sleeping, you could tell that I was sleeping without clothes, but that a sheet was over me. What happened next?”
