Cheesecake eaten, Logan pays the bill and yet again leaves a fabulously generous tip, and then leads me back to Times Square, which at night is a simply magical place. The lights, the way the TVs shine and flicker and shift, the advertisements for all the shows, the contagious air of vivacity that infuses the crowd . . . it is truly magical. We sit on the steps and watch people, and I take the time to process everything I’ve experienced today. The ferry, the memories I regained, the key necklace, which is now nestled between my breasts, exactly the way Mama wore hers.
I am sitting a step below Logan, between his knees. I lift up, twist, and kiss him until someone hoots at us, and someone else tells us to get a room. I smooth my palm over the stubble on his cheek. “Logan, I know I already said this, but thank you so much for today. It was . . . I think this was the best day of my life.”
Logan’s eyes go down to my cleavage, but the speculative gleam in his eyes tells me he’s looking more at the key, and I wonder what he’s thinking.
Marriage?
I’m having a baby, possibly his.
And possibly . . . not his.
So what do I want?
To belong to Logan forever, of course. To be utterly, irrevocably his. To know that no matter what else life throws at us, we will belong together, side by side, hand in hand, lives tangled and braided and inextricably woven together.
Yes, I want to marry Logan.
And I cannot wait to discover how he will ask me. Because he will.
I know he will.
It’s just a matter of when, and how.
I am not impatient, I realize. He will ask me in his way, in his time. And it will not disappoint, because Logan is incapable of disappointing me.
Love is patient, I remember reading somewhere.
EIGHT
Less than forty-eight hours later, early in the morning. Four thirteen A.M., so says the digital clock on Logan’s bedside table. There’s a pounding on the door. A fist, hammering wildly. Cocoa goes nuts in her room, clawing at the door, barking like a demon. Snarling. Logan is out of bed, tugging on jeans, jogging to the door.
“Shit,” I hear him mutter under his breath.
I’m in one of his button-downs, the hem coming to midthigh. Behind him, peering past him, as if I could see through the door. But the sinking lead ball in my stomach tells me who’s on the other side.
Logan’s curse tells me.
He jerks open the door, puts his body into the crack. “The fuck you want, Caleb?”
“What is mine.” Your voice is mad, animal snarl.
“Dude. We’ve been over this. You let her go, remember? She’s with me now. It’s what she wants. Just . . . let her go. Please. For her.”
A moment of silence, and an explosion of violence. Logan is knocked backward, and you are lunging through the doorway. I shrink back against Cocoa’s door. She’s wild, barking, snarling, scrabbling. Tearing the door down like she did when Logan was gone.
Not this. Not again.
Logan is up on his feet, bleeding from his lip. “Back off, motherfucker. Just leave before this gets messy, huh?”
But you are lightning, you are a striking serpent. Pistol whipping out, a black blur, the point jammed up into Logan’s chin. “I will not miss a second time, Ryder.”
You twist the barrel into Logan’s flesh. Turn, see me. Your eyes flash, your lip curls. “X. Get over here. Now.”
I rise to my feet. Straighten my spine. “No, Caleb. It’s over. I don’t want to see you anymore. Never again.”
“Isabel.” This, from you, is a plea. Low, vicious, desperate. “You must.”
“No.” I gesture at Logan. “I love him. If you kill him, you will have to kill me as well.”
“Isabel—” Logan grunts.
“No. You shut the fuck up, Ryder.” Your voice is a rabid, grating snarl. Rough, unstable. To me, then: “Isabel.”
You wander away from Logan, but the gun stays trained on him. To me. Stumbling, nearly. Uncharacteristically uncoordinated. Not drunk; your eyes are lucid. Mad. Crazed. I don’t even know. I glance at Logan. Plead with him silently to stay put. I will not allow you to shoot him again.
“You don’t need the gun, Caleb.” I make sure my voice is cool, calm.
“You’ll come with me?”
“No.”
“Then I need the gun. You are mine. You will come with me.” Your voice is . . . not yours. Not Caleb’s. Almost as if you are regressing. Becoming Jakob, somehow. Someone less refined, less in control. The Czech is showing through in your rhythms and diction.
“I can’t, Caleb. I do not belong to you. Not anymore. I’m with Logan now.”
A snarl. The gun levels at Logan. “Then he is dead. He should have already been dead. He does not get to have you. Only I.”
“Caleb, please.” I touch his wrist. Urge him to lower the gun. “Please don’t do this. Don’t.”
Your hand latches onto my wrist. You jerk me hard, so I fly through the air, land against you. “Mine—only mine. Not his.”
“Caleb, let go. You’re hurting me.”
“Let her go, asshole!” Logan shouts.
Cocoa’s claws are gouging through the door.
Logan lunges again, and you fire. Miss. A hole appears in the wall to Logan’s left.
“A warning, only. For her. Back.” You grab me by the throat.
Twist me so my back is to your front. The gun jabs at Logan. Your fingers pinch against my throat. I cannot breathe. I don’t think you realize what you’re doing.
“Let her go, Caleb,” Logan murmurs, careful now. Voice low, slow, soft. “Let her go. You’re hurting her. You’re choking her.”
You glance down, let me go with a start. But then you grab me once more, this time one of my wrists, the other, pinioning them in one of your hands behind my back. Propelling me to the door.
“Caleb—” I start.
“Silence.” You push me to the door. Let me go. Twist in place to cover Logan with the gun. “You. On your knees.”
“Not gonna happen, man. You can shoot me if that’s your game. You did once, already. I survived that.”
“You will not survive a bullet in your brain,” you say, and jerk open the front door.
The alarm has been blaring this whole time. I didn’t even notice until now. I don’t think anyone has.
Logan watches with agony on his face, watching Caleb take me away yet again.
“Caleb, wait!” Logan pleads.
“No waiting. She is mine.” This is not you. This is Jakob, someone I do not know. Someone I can predict even less than I could Caleb.
“You don’t understand, Caleb. It’s Isabel . . .” He steps around front, accepts the barrel of Caleb’s gun to his forehead. “She’s pregnant.”
You go stone-still. Your eyes search Logan. I, between you, see this. See the hunt for the truth in your eyes on Logan’s.
“No.” You shake your head. A denial. A refusal to accept it.
“Yes, Caleb.” I whisper it.
“His?” You turn your gaze to me.
“I—I don’t know.” I despise myself for having to admit this. “It could be either of yours. There is no way to know, yet.”
A moment of frozen, fraught silence.
“Kurva.” This, in a language I do not know, from you; Czech, most likely. It has the tone of an epithet. “A baby?”
“Yes.” I turn in place, look up at you.
“Kurva—a baby.” You look down at me, as if I am a creature you have never seen before.
There is a depth in your eyes, a wrecked, mortal agony in those dark brown pools that is awful to see in a man ordinarily so closed off and stoic. You search my face. Hands at your sides, gun held casually, easily, forgotten.
“Isabel . . .” This, from you, is a whisper. A plea. A m
oment of weakness. A caress, with a word. Softness from a stone. Love, even, from a razor blade.
And then, without a word, you’re gone. Just . . . gone. You turn, and flee. Run swiftly, desperately. Round a corner, and gone.
Logan and I both stare after you.
Logan wraps his arms around me, hauls me inside. Carries me. Sets me down on the couch. Lets out Cocoa, who sniffs me and then Logan, tail wagging, murmuring softly, whining.
“What the hell was that?” Logan asks, taking a seat beside me and curling his arms around me, pulling me against his chest.
I shake my head. “I . . . I don’t know. He’s coming apart.”
“He certainly seemed . . . unstable.”
“It was frightening. That was not Caleb. That was nothing like the man I’ve known these last six years. He is always so . . . in control. Strong. Stoic. Emotionless.” I gesture vaguely. “That? That was . . . I am worried. For him. For me, for us. I never quite knew what he might do, but now? After seeing him that way . . . I am afraid.”
“Understandable. That was one of the weirdest things I’ve ever experienced.” The next is more to himself than to me. “It’s almost as if he has multiple personalities or something. To be so completely unlike himself . . .”
“What is that?”
He glances at me. “What? Oh. MPD, multiple personality disorder. It’s where a person goes through something so extremely traumatic that the mind sort of . . . compartmentalizes, in a way. Cuts out the part of the mind that contains those memories. But instead of just suppressing or repressing them or whatever, the mind will create a different personality, an entirely new psychological entity that is tougher, that can deal with the trauma or whatever it was. If . . . Jakob—the guy born in Prague—went through something really truly awful, he might have created Caleb as a way to deal with it. If Jakob felt overwhelmed and weak and victimized and out of control, he would have created a personality like Caleb, you know? Someone strong, dominant, in control. And now, losing you, somehow it has fractured Caleb’s hold on Jakob, if you know what I mean. Like Caleb has been in control this whole time, and now Jakob is breaking through.”
“You think that is the case?”
He shrugs. “I mean, it’s all speculation. Only a trained psychologist could really diagnose something like that. It’s just a totally wild guess. Caleb could just be losing his shit in the more normal sense. Just . . . cracking up.”
“It worries me, either way. I never caught even a hint of any of this from him until recently.”
“No way to really know, unfortunately. And he’s not your problem, anymore. Your concern now is being healthy. Taking care of this baby.”
I breathe out slowly, a shuddery breath. “The baby.” I put my hand on my belly. “It doesn’t feel real. And I don’t . . . I don’t even know what to do next.”
“Well, we get you a doctor, number one. Make sure you’re healthy, all that. And then, number two, I think you should talk to someone. A therapist. Try to make some kind of sense of . . . everything. And eventually, you need to make some decisions regarding your future, and our future.”
“What decisions?”
“Well, you’ve been staying here sort of out of default, because there was nowhere else. But is that what you want? How do you want to structure your life? Do you want to keep living with me here? Do you want to keep working on getting Comportment off the ground, or does being pregnant change that?”
“God, Logan. That’s too much. Too many questions. I don’t know. I don’t know any of that!” I feel stifled, my lungs compressed, my mind crammed so full of such a wild whirling maelstrom of thoughts and emotions that I can’t think, can’t sit still, can’t take anymore.
I shoot to my feet, pace away. “I need to get out of here. I feel crazy. It’s all too much.” I clutch my head in both hands, feeling as if the crushing weight of everything that is my life is about to explode out of my skull. “I can’t be here anymore. I have to—I don’t know. I don’t know.”
I could scream from the burden of it all. Caleb, Logan, the baby, my past—and the lack thereof. The brief snippets of memory that hint at a wonderful childhood, and the not-so-pleasant glimpses at something far more nefarious between Caleb and me. Lies. Truths. Illusory tapestries woven with skeins of both lies and truth. Six years, nine years. A mugger, a car accident. Did I know him before? Did he cause the accident somehow? Has all this been a plot of his devising? How can I care for a child when I am not even a person, but a ghost, a shred of a soul lost in limbo? I am no one, I am nothing. I am the Starry Night, and Madame X. I am a shaven-headed girl in a hospital bed. I am a blank slate, a tabula rasa on which a mysterious man named Caleb Indigo has inscribed his imprint. I am Rapunzel, locked in the tower, raven-haired instead of blond. I am Belle, prisoner of a Beast, a thing of shadows and magic and primal carnality. The least of the threads that comprise me is Isabel.
Logan is beside me, grabbing me, turning me to face him. “Look at me, Isabel.” He tilts my chin up with a fingertip. “Breathe. Take a breath. Look at me, and take a moment.”
I focus on breathing, focus on Logan’s gaze, the brilliant indigo soothing me. He found his patch at some point, the brown leather one. I don’t remember him putting it on. Truth be told, it’s a relief when he puts it on. I feel horrible for it, but looking at the bare, raw, healing wound is . . . too much. Too hard to look at. It makes my stomach churn to know how close he came to death.
But that train of thought only upsets me more.
Am I crying, yet again? I have wept so much, of late.
I feel listless. I see you, over and over and over. The man in the tower, dressed impeccably, the master of his world. The rutting beast, the controlling, dominating sexual conqueror, the man who can ensnare my mind and my body and my emotions, bend me to your will, get me on my knees and on my back. The silent aggressor, the man who will always get your way. The man in room three, on your knees behind Rachel, fucking her from behind, your eyes on me, Rachel’s eyes on me. Rachel enjoyed that, knowing I was watching. So did you. I see you, Caleb. I do not see Jakob. Not until the night in my room, a month ago. When you did not fuck me, did not control me, but kissed me and made love to me, and spoke my name with something like reverence. The way you shut down abruptly when I spoke the name “Caleb” rather than “Jakob.” You were not you, then. That was a man I could have loved. Perhaps that was the man I did love, when I was Isabel, the first time, the sixteen-year-old Isabel, the errant, school-skipping girl infatuated with an older man. I see you, the mixed-up, unstable, violent creature who was just here. Yelling, cursing in Czech, tripping over your own feet. Running away.
“Enough.” Logan lifts me in his arms.
I let him.
He deposits me in the bathroom, on the closed lid of the toilet. Starts the shower. Adjusts the water. Pulls me to my feet, unbuttons the shirt. Guides me in under the spray. This isn’t sexual. I wish it were, I would like the distraction from my thoughts. But it’s not. Instead, he washes me gently, shampoos my hair, rinses it, and wraps me in a towel. Dries me, dabbing and patting and rubbing. Guides me to the bedroom. I sit on the edge of the bed and watch as he grabs clothes from the closet and the bureau. His clothes, mine. Underwear, T-shirts, jeans, socks. Several days’ worth of clothing. And then he dresses me. I am little help, my mind has shut down. I am content to do whatever Logan wishes, let him take me wherever he wishes to take me. I cannot bear anything more. He slides underwear up my legs. Slides my arms through the straps of a bra, and I cooperate in fastening it the rest of the way. Hands me a pair of jeans and a sweater. I put those on while Logan showers, a military-fast shower. Three minutes, at most. Emerges naked, hair damp. Dresses with military efficiency, ties his hair back, packs the clothes into a black hard-sided suitcase. He doesn’t fold the clothing, however, but rolls it into tight rolls. I notice this, and find it odd. And then, packed a
nd dressed, he makes two phone calls. One, to Beth. Arranging for Cocoa to be looked after for a few days, and to make sure the office knows he will be out of touch and out of town, to handle whatever comes up as best they can, leave a voice mail in case of emergency. The next call is, from what I can tell, to arrange a flight somewhere. Leaving now, today.
What time is it? Morning? Night? I don’t know. I glance at the clock on the bedside table: 5:05 a.m. Fifty-two minutes since the first knock on the door.
In the car, then. Logan’s Mercedes SUV. Radio off, heat on. The air outside has a chill to it, and the interior of the SUV is cold. It is still dark.
A long, long drive in silence. Logan drives with his left hand, holds my hand with his right, fingers tangled. Eventually I lean my seat back and drowse, but do not let go of his hand.
I wake up, and we are parked . . . I don’t know where. Nothingness as far as I can see. The sky is gray now, a tinge of orange-pink on the horizon. A building off to my right, long, high, impossibly large. Blue lights in lines and rows all around. To my left, an airplane. A jet, but not a large one. Small, only four or five windows, and an opening with a staircase that can be rolled away. Lights blink, and engines roar.
Logan opens my door, and someone else fetches the suitcase from the trunk. Up the stairs, Logan’s hand on my back. The interior of the jet is luxurious. Six pairs of seats, in rows of two, an aisle between. Each seat is deep, upholstered in creamy leather. Plush carpeting. A huge television. A woman in a uniform, waiting, hands clasped behind her back.
“Welcome, Mr. Ryder. My name is Amanda. It will be my absolute pleasure to serve you and your guest this morning. Please, be seated. Can I get you coffee, to start?” Her voice is bright and cheerful.
Exiled (A Madame X Novel) Page 13
