It struck me then. He’d gotten it when he’d raided my press bag, of course. I had a business card taped to the back of my digital recorder with all my contact information on it, just in case I happened to lose it on assignment and someone found it. He must have taken everything down off that card while I was unconscious.
A cold shudder flowed through me. If Peter Rostovich had taken down my email address, then he probably knew my phone number, and even where I lived. It felt creepy. But why should it be creepy? I’d been carrying that information around with me in my press bag for two years now, anybody could have found it. And if some stranger showed up at my door with my lost digital recorder in hand, I’d be immensely grateful. Would I feel the same way if Peter Rostovich did the same, only carrying a set of cable ties, or perhaps a leather collar and chain? Would he just hand them to me and go on his merry way, or would he want to put them to use?
The room spun around me and I fell backwards onto the bed. This was no attack of shock or hypoglycemia like had happened back at the gallery. I’d actually swooned---got the vapors, just like all those heroines of nineteenth-century English novels did when they became infatuated with a man. My classmates and I had all sat around in study groups laughing at those lightheaded waifs passing out over something as simple as a love letter bound with red sealing wax and presented by a servant on a silver tray, as frequently happened in Jane Austen and Charlotte Bronte novels. My literature professors all said that the vapors were common in those days for reasons that had nothing to do with love and sex, and everything to do with corsets that had been drawn too tight, and arsenic-laden cosmetics aimed at lightening the skin, and poor nutrition, and things like that. But in one wild moment, with fuzzy black curtains creeping into my field of vision and my bed spinning through space underneath me, I knew that my literature professors were all wrong.
I settled back against the pillows, closing my eyes and breathing deeply as I willed my body back under control. Even though my eyelids were growing heavy with fatigue, and even though my brain told me that the rational thing to do would be to forget about swooning Victorian virgins, Peter Rostovich, and plastic cable ties and instead go straight to sleep, I pulled myself upright, walked over to my computer desk, and fired up my desktop computer.
Hannah and I kept our apartment wifi connection on at all times. Her dad was a computer hobbyist who enjoyed spending his weekends away from the hospital tinkering with servers and routers and makeshift internal networks, and he’d spent three whole days setting up a sophisticated wifi system for Hannah and me when we’d first moved into this apartment two and a half years ago. Hannah’s parents had paid for all the equipment, including the top-of-the-line wireless routers that featured super-fast connection speeds and nearly unbreakable encryption technology. None of our neighbors would ever be leeching off our wifi for free, that was for sure. You couldn’t get anywhere near our servers without a password, and Hannah’s dad had set up automatic logins for us that were modeled on a classified NASA algorithm. The system was so complicated I hadn’t even been able to log in to the network myself until Mr. Greeley installed some kind of workaround program that did it for me.
I was hopelessly incompetent when it came to things like computers. If it didn’t involve typing in a Word document, simple Web browsing, or maybe sending a text message, I couldn’t do it. If it weren’t for Hannah and her dad, I’m sure hackers would have a field day with me. Not that I had anything worth hacking, unless you were interested in my Netflix queue or what I’d ordered from Amazon lately. (Mostly titles in the Signet Classics series, and I had sort of an addiction to ordering obscure British toiletries on there too, like Yardley English Lavender Oatmeal Bath Salts and glycerin-rosewater face wash. Part of my Victorian fetish.)
My laptop booted up, and a series of windows opened and closed as Mr. Greeley’s automatic secured login processed itself. Then the main screen appeared, and my Gmail desktop shortcut had an envelope with a number “6” on it, indicating I had 6 new messages.
I opened Gmail and scrolled through my inbox. The first three messages were spam, the fourth a reminder from my Victorian Literature professor about next week’s midterm, and a fifth from my mom that I archived for later reading. The sixth and final new message was labeled “No Subject” and sent by someone----or something----called The Installation.
I stared at the subject line for a moment. Who the hell used an email handle like that?
Peter Rostovich, of course. Who else could it possibly be? Jesus H. Christ, that dude was weird.
Weird and hot. I was attracted to him in the same way that ants were to butter at a picnic. I knew I’d just end up drowning, but the very thought of it was so rich and decadent I couldn’t help myself.
Taking a deep breath for courage, I double-clicked on “The Installation” to open the email.
To: Nancy Delaney
From: The Installation
Date: 21 June 2012, 9:45 pm
Subject: [none]
Dearest Ms. Delaney:
It was a pleasure making your acquaintance this evening. Thank you for introducing me to the only diner in nine states that knows how to cook a hamburger properly. I am sorry that our conversation got cut short. I hope I wasn’t too far out of line. Allow me to make it up to you, if I may.
I feel that the unpleasantness back at the gallery might have ruined your chances to write a usable review for Art News Now. Attached you’ll find some scanned versions of the art on display at the now-aborted exhibit, along with some written notes I’ve drawn up about each. I don’t normally release these very private ruminations, which I write in my studio for my own personal use, but I’m making an exception for you. An exception I’ve never made for anyone, ever. Until now.
I’ve also included images of two works which are not currently available to the public, either at the now-shuttered Flaming River Gallery or anywhere else, for that matter. With this writing, I am hereby granting Art News Now the exclusive right to publish them for public viewing for the first time. At no charge, of course. (I do realize based on our conversation this evening that you hold your precious journalistic ethics rather dear. I don’t, but then again I’m not in your profession).
I hope you’ll find the attached materials helpful for writing your review. (Or harmful, should you decide to rake me over the coals in print, something I wouldn’t blame you for in the least.) If you’d like to know why I feel the need to breach my usual protocol of being an intractable, enigmatic ass with the press for your benefit, however, I’m afraid you’ll have to suffer through at least another dinner conversation to find out. This time, at my suite at the Cleveland Ritz-Carlton. I have a private dining room and access to a fine chef. I can arrange for some good wine as well, if that interests you.
You may reach me by replying to this email, though you will note that I keep my actual email address encrypted for security reasons. You may also leave me a phone message at the Ritz-Carlton front desk. Feel free to delete this message and never speak to me again if you do not wish to. It was an immense pleasure meeting you regardless.
P.S. If you want to get the details you need for your Plain Dealer investigation story about me, though, I’m afraid you have no choice but to have dinner with me tomorrow night (Friday) at my suite. Otherwise, you won’t make your deadline. By the way, give your editor Mr. Burgess my regards. I met him in New York once, at some dreadful cocktail hour or another. Fine fellow.
Yours,
ROSTOVICH
I stared at the screen in disbelief. Who the hell was this guy? Who on earth did he think he was?
Well, I knew what he was. A stalker, and a freak. And a whole host of other adjectives I didn’t especially want to list. Because the first one on the list was hot, and the second was man-I-wanted-to-fuck (I know, not really a word, but it was the truth), and I was having an immensely difficult time wrapping my mind around it right now.
I’d never fuck
ed anyone in my life. I’d never even masturbated, and I wouldn’t know what to do with a vibrator, let alone a real live throbbing erect penis. When it came to pretty much anything below the belt, I was a complete novice, unless you counted the time I’d spent poring over the “good parts” of Lady Chatterley’s Lover, and even that had involved lots of cute English euphemisms like “John Thomas.”
I crossed and uncrossed my legs, trying to stifle the ache that steadily grew between them.
C’mon, Delaney, I heard my inner self say in my mind’s ear. You know better than to get turned on at a time like this. Plus, this guy is obviously bad news. But I couldn’t help it. This man knew exactly how to push my buttons. Hell, until tonight I hadn’t realized I’d had any buttons to push in the first place. When he’d first slipped that cable tie on me, it was like he flicked a magic switch or something that sent me spinning off a cliff into a world I was only just beginning to understand. I wondered if he’d planned it that way from the get-go, if perhaps he had marked me somehow. Or maybe the whole thing had just happened at random.
Other young women my age were dating uncomplicated fratboys and pre-med majors from nice middle-class families, all of whom had unencrypted email addresses. Meanwhile, after never dating anyone except the jerk I took to my high school prom out of desperation, I wanted to get busy with a man who tied me up with pieces of plastic, spoke in riddles and might even have ties to international organized crime.
Wow, I really could pick them, couldn’t I?
What was even more puzzling was the tone and eloquence of his email. This was a man who by his own admission never even graduated from high school and probably didn’t learn to speak English until his teens----and yet, he wrote emails as if he were a sophisticated British nobleman penning a letter to the queen. I read the words over and over again, feeling my body grow hot at his verbal savoir-faire. Digesting his words, it was as if someone had handpicked Peter Rostovich from some century-old epistolary novel and inserted him into my life at the most (or least, depending on how you looked at it) opportune moment.
What kind of high school dropout from a foreign country who spoke English as a second language did this? An artist, that’s who. An artist who for all intents and purposes should be world-famous for that talent alone, and yet by his own admission he was a man who shunned fame, and even encrypted his own email address. He was a mass of contradictions to say the least.
And how the hell did he know about my Plain Dealer assignment? Sure, I know he must have eavesdropped a bit on the street when I was on the phone with the editor, but there’s no way he could have gleaned that many details from only one side of the conversation. There had to be another explanation. But what? Spies? A tap on my phone? Psychic abilities? It made no sense.
I returned to the last line of the main email. So he knew Eric Burgess, it seemed. Could Burgess have tipped Rostovich off about the undercover assignment? If so, that would be the dirtiest of all dirty editorial tricks. But stranger things had happened in the newspaper business, especially these days.
There were so many things I didn’t understand----either as a reporter, or as a woman with nagging sexual needs. How does an artist who doesn’t have a website or even a Google trail market his work? How does an artist from a former Communist country who doesn’t market his work earn enough money to afford things like an Alfa Romeo and a private suite at the Ritz-Carlton? How does he find so much out about me---a nondescript college student with a boring life and uncomplicated past---so quickly? And why?
Too many questions for me to answer in one night. I needed a good night’s sleep so I could mull it all over in the morning. But even between the long day and the beer, I was totally wired. I’d have to dip into the Valium pills I had left over from the week my grandmother died last fall in the midst of first-semester exams if I wanted to get any sleep. I’d only used them twice, but they’d gotten me through a tough time. I knew I probably shouldn’t take one with alcohol in my system, but I’d just had one light beer, and that was almost an hour ago now. I retrieved the bottle of pills from my medicine cabinet and took a single Valium, dry-swallowing it down. I sat back down in front of my laptop, mulling over whether to respond as I waited for the meds to take effect. Just as I felt the typical Valium-induced wooziness start to creep in, I found the courage to type a very brief reply.
To: The Installation
From: Nancy Delaney
Date: 21 June 2012, 11:52 pm
Subject: Re: [none]
Dear Mr. Rostovich:
I am afraid that as much as I might like to, I am unable to accept your dinner invitation for tomorrow night. I have to work. And dining with you in an expensive private hotel suite would violate most, if not all, of my remaining ethical principles.
But I would like to meet with you, perhaps at another time and in another location. Preferably a public one.
Sincerely,
Nancy Delaney
The reply was almost immediate. Just as I was about to power down my computer and go to bed, my computer pinged, telling me I had a new email.
I refreshed my browser to load it. It was from Rostovich, of course. Or rather, “The Installation.” Whatever that meant.
To: Nancy Delaney
From: The Installation
Date: 21 June 2012, 11:53 pm
Subject: Re: re: [none]
Alas, I have been passed over by a mere cocktailing shift. Do you know that I have excellent connections in that business sector? I could get your shift covered for you. And I think selling your story to the Plain Dealer will prove far more lucrative than a few hours spent shucking [sic] martinis at middle-managers. Successful journalists---like any creative artist---must set priorities, no?
I’m afraid the choice of venue is non-negotiable, however. I do not speak about private matters in public places. I’m sure your editor will understand if you bend the rules to get the story you want. Sleep on it, and get back to me in the morning.
Sweet dreams, young one.
ROSTOVICH
Oh wow, so he knew about my job, too. Next thing you knew, he’d be calling me up and reciting my class schedule and current college paper assignments by rote. Jesus H. Christ, this guy was a certified stalker freak. Maybe he had hackers on call who could get past Mr. Greeley’s NASA firewall and into my Gmail calendar planner. Then again, I’d read recently that Gmail wasn’t exactly a safe place to store your personal info. But I never thought anyone would give three shits about my writing assignments or my cocktailing schedule. Apparently, I was wrong.
What else did Peter Rostovich know about me? My social security number? My shoe size? The color underwear that I had on? The possibilities were frightening. And yet, somehow arousing. Don’t ask me to explain why, because I couldn’t tell you. Except perhaps for the fact that an obviously wealthy, successful, talented and worldly man had taken a very deep interest in me based solely on one brief encounter. A non-sexual encounter, no less. What would happen if we got intimate? Did I even want to know?
My vision grew fuzzy then, and the room began to sway a little as a Valium tidal wave swept its way over me. I shut off the computer without replying to Rostovich, and managed to crawl into bed just before I collapsed into drug-induced unconsciousness.
That night I dreamed about black-and-white photography, milkshakes, and cable ties. Lots and lots of cable ties.
And I came in my sleep. For the first time ever. And a second time, and a third.
In my dreams, it was Peter Rostovich who was responsible for those three orgasms. And now that I’d come in my dreams, I wanted the real thing.
FIVE
I was sitting in the student union reading another chapter in Bleak House at around eleven the next morning when my iPhone buzzed with a text message.
I glanced at the screen. There was no name on the message, but I knew right away who it was from:
R U COMING 2NIT
E?
Rostovich. Texting me on my phone even though I hadn’t given him my number. He had to have gotten it where he’d gotten all of his other information----off my press credential, of course. I stared at my phone for a moment, wondering whether I wanted to respond. Before I could make up my mind, though, another message came through:
TOOK CARE OF UR SHIFT. NO WRYS.
It took me a moment to translate the text-speak to plain English. Took care of your shift, no worries. Well, it was quite a change from the old-fashioned eloquence of his emails last night. But there was only so much you could do with the buttons on your phone.
And yet, the message threw me for a loop. What did he mean, he’d taken care of my shift? It almost sounded like something a mob boss would say to describe a hit.
My phone buzzed again.
I KNOW BENNY. NO WRK 4 U 2NITE
Oh man. He knew my boss? What else did he know? Just as I was mulling over the possibilities, my Led Zeppelin ringtone rang out across the student union hall. My iPhone screen said “INCOMING CALL: UNKNOWN,” but I already knew who it was. Rostovich, of course, likely demanding an answer. Acting against every shred of common sense I had left, I pressed the “TALK” button.
“Hello?”
“Miss Delaney.”
I recognized his smooth, slightly accented voice immediately, but I still couldn’t quite believe he was actually calling me---incognito with no caller ID, of course. I wondered how he managed that. “Peter Rostovich? Is this you?”
Domino (The Domino Trilogy) Page 8
