Blood

by Francine Pascal

  For five minutes Gaia reran the possibilities in her mind. She came to the same conclusion. It was mate for Zolov, all the way around. Calmly she sat there, frozen and sore, and waited for Zolov to see it too.

  It took him another minute. Then his wild, inch-long silver brows wrinkled and came together. His dark eyes stared at the board. He hacked a couple of times. Still Gaia sat. When she was sure Zolov knew the outcome, she reached out a hand still clad in one of George’s leather gloves and gently knocked over his king.

  Zolov stared at her. Then slowly he reached into the tattered pocket of his filthy coat. He withdrew a twenty-dollar bill and pushed it across the table as if it caused him physical pain to do so. Gaia wouldn’t insult him by refusing to take it.

  She stood up, stretched, and pocketed the twenty. “Later, Zolov,” she said, trying not to groan as her injured hip screamed in protest at her movement. “Good game.”

  Zolov nodded, looking confused, and quickly righted his king. Behind Gaia a guy in a plaid shirt and shiny satin baseball jacket moved forward to take her place.

  Gaia moved away, forcing herself not to feel pain, forcing her walk to be smooth and fluid. Forcing herself not to worry about Zolov. Never show weakness. Never show fear. Gaia knew she couldn’t show fear if she tried. When she was younger, she had spent long hours in front of a mirror, trying to form her face into a mask of fear. Eyes wide, mouth opened in an O, the most she had managed was sort of a look of surprise. Even dismay, perhaps. But the blue eyes staring back at her from the mirror had never managed to register fear. And never would.

  On the corner of Waverly and University Place there was a hot dog vendor, and Gaia bought herself some dinner: one large dog with the works, one Coke. Mary had always gotten a hot dog with just mustard and relish. She’d loved yellow mustard, insisting it was one of the four food groups. She had drunk diet Coke. She had also introduced Gaia to Pellegrino. Mary had been full of contradictions.

  Gaia walked down Waverly on the outside of the park, eating her hot dog. Come on, Skizz. Why don’t you show soon? I need this to be over. I need to have this behind me. I can’t keep thinking about this thing I’m going to do. Once you’re dead, I can move on.

  An uncomfortable thought came to Gaia as she tossed her hot dog wrapper in a trash can. Move on to what? What waited for her on the other side of Skizz’s death? What did she have to look forward to? What purpose would her life have afterward?

  Just don’t think about it.

  GAIA

  I know Ed thinks I’m being a total jerk. But there’s nothing I can do about that. He thinks I don’t care about him. But I simply can’t allow myself to care about him.

  Take today, for instance: If I had time, I’d be really upset about his getting mugged at knifepoint. I’d want to hear details. I might even want to try to track the guy down and take him apart for hurting my friend. If I had time, the thought of his being alone and scared while he was being mugged would really hurt me inside. And now, when he’s obviously angry at me, I’d want to try to work it out with him.

  Not only that, but I might even mention that I sort of got hit by a curb on Saturday and have a humongous, black bruise from my waist practically down to my knee, and every time I take a step, I feel like the bone is going to snap in two. Then he would fuss over me and be all concerned.

  But I can’t do that right now. I just have to get through the next few days and look for Skizz. That’s the total agenda.

  Then I’m gone.

  a useful skill

  With an odd, tortured expression on his face Sam hesitated, then bent his head and met her lips.

  A Hard Game

  TOM WATCHED GAIA DISAPPEAR around the corner of Waverly and MacDougal. Her hands were stuffed into the pockets of that ugly jacket, and she was leaving a wispy trail of gray feathers behind her, as if she carried within her a personal snowstorm that occasionally burst free.

  The overwhelming impulse to follow her tightened Tom Moore’s gut. Cupping his hands, Tom held them to his mouth and blew on them, trying to warm them. He checked his watch, which could give him the current local times of any of a dozen countries. Here in New York, it was almost precisely five-thirty. Time to meet his contact.

  Across the street from Washington Square Park was a long row of brick town houses that dated back to the mid-1800s. Most of them now belonged to NYU and housed various offices and student resources. Tom tightened the belt of his midnight blue trench coat, grateful for its cashmere lining, and crossed the street, dodging between two taxis. At five-thirty on the dot, he was quickly mounting the worn and cracked marble steps of number twelve. The brass plaque to the right of the heavy glass door said French Students Union. Tom pushed open the door and went in.

  Inside, threadbare maroon carpeting dulled the sound of his footsteps as he headed up the uneven staircase. On the fourth floor was a series of doors. Tom walked unerringly to the last one on the left, then turned to check the hall for visitors. It was quiet and deserted. He knocked four times, then twice, then once. A buzzer opened the electronic lock, and Tom pushed open the door.

  “Hello, Tom,” said George. “Right on time.”

  “George,” said Tom, extending his hand. He loosened his coat and sat in the leather armchair across from his old friend. He rubbed one cold hand across his face, then took a deep breath. “I just saw her,” he said, his face looking older than its forty-two years.

  George nodded, gave a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You probably see her more than I do,” he said without humor.

  “I’m worried about her,” Tom said unnecessarily.

  “We all are,” George replied. “But you trained her too well, my friend. She’s hard to keep up with.”

  Tom couldn’t stop the look of paternal pride on his face.

  George pushed a manila folder across the table. “We’ve received intelligence that Loki’s interest in our girl has taken on a new twist. There’s reason to believe that he wants her—for himself.”

  Tom’s blue eyes, a darker, more clouded color than his daughter’s, glanced up sharply. “But why?”

  George looked uncomfortable. “You probably know Loki better than almost anyone, Tom. What does your instinct tell you? Why would he want her?”

  A small muscle in Tom’s jaw twitched, and a slow-burning fire seemed to fill his gaze. “I’ll kill him first.”

  “Take a number,” George said dryly. “Lots of people want Loki dead.”

  Tom paused and stared intently at his friend. “I have another favor to ask, George. This friend of Gaia’s that was killed. Mary Moss. The papers said it was some kind of drug hit. Is that true?”

  “It looks like the reports are legit,” George replied, his body slackening against the chair. “The poor girl was apparently a recovering coke addict. They found drugs on the body.”

  “I’m worried about Gaia,” Tom continued. “I’m worried she might try to go after the dealer. Can you find out some information on him for me? Anything I can use to track him down?”

  “Of course,” George said, nodding, “I’ll do what I can.”

  “When’s our next meeting scheduled?” For Tom and probably George, too, work was a sure refuge. By focusing on details, protocols, expected outcomes, and failure rates, he could avoid talking or sometimes even thinking about pain, loss, betrayal, or loneliness. It was a useful skill.

  What a Hottie

  “YOU WANT SOME TEA OR SOMETHING?” Sam gestured at the small electric kettle perched on a white plastic milk crate. “I’ve got some hot chocolate here somewhere.”

  Heather laughed, wrinkling her nose. “Sam. I’m not a child,” she said, giving him a look that said he of all people should know better.

  He laughed, too, and ran a hand through his wonderful goldish brownish reddish hair. Heather felt a pang. Why were they still so bizarrely uncomfortable with each other? They had been going out for nine months! But they were still unsure and awkward around each other, as if th
ey had just met.

  “You want a beer, then? There’s some in Mike’s fridge. Or water?”

  “Sam.” Heather bunched up Sam’s pillows against the cinder-block wall. She edged back on his bed so she was half reclining. “I’m fine. I don’t need anything. Except you. Now, come here.” She patted the rough wool army blanket that covered Sam’s narrow bed.

  In this small room Heather almost felt that she and Sam could make a connection. This was where they spent their alone time, this was where they made love.

  Sam looked uncomfortable as he came and perched on the side of the bed. “Heather, I—we need to talk,” he said.

  “Can we talk later?” she asked, sliding her hand up the rumpled sleeve of his shirt.

  “Um,” Sam said, not looking at her. “It’s just that I’ve been thinking, and … well, I was wondering where we were going with this, and—”

  Heather put one finger against his mouth. “Shhh,” she whispered. “Later.” Then she leaned forward and gently put her mouth over his. He was unyielding for a moment, hesitant. But she put her arms around him and pressed herself close. His hands on her arms held her in place, and he moved his mouth away.

  “Heather, wait—there’s something I wanted to say to you.”

  “Oh, Sam,” she whispered. “Can’t it wait?” She looked deep into his eyes. “I haven’t seen you in ages. I need you.” He smelled so good—he always did. Like laundry detergent and snow and himself.

  She leaned close again. “Kiss me,” she asked softly. “Kiss me, Sam.”

  With an odd, tortured expression on his face Sam hesitated, then bent his head and met her lips. She curled her arms around him and leaned backward, pulling him down with her.

  Sam’s arm came around her waist, and Heather felt the familiar, thrilling tingle that being close to Sam always produced. They’d had a lot of ups and downs—she’d been unfaithful to him with Charlie Salita; he’d admitted that he was obsessed with Gaia Moore. But here they were, together and alone, and Heather desperately wanted to love him and have him love her. If she could have just one thing in her life that was certain, strong, constant … it would make everything else all right. She curled her left hand around his neck and pressed closer to him.

  God, she loved kissing. Not that she had kissed that many people. Ever since eighth grade Heather had been so popular that she could afford to be picky and, in fact, had an obligation to be picky, to be hard to get. There were standards to set.

  She hadn’t even gone to third base until her first real serious boyfriend, Ed Fargo. And since Ed there had been only Sam. Heather was working hard on forgetting that Charlie Salita had ever happened. Thank God, Sam had never found out about that disastrous mistake. She had been completely falling-down drunk, she had been angry at Sam, she had been furious with Gaia, and she had ended up going into a bedroom with a gorgeous hunk from her school. She still didn’t know if she had agreed to have sex with Charlie or whether he had raped her. The whole thing was so horrible, she just couldn’t think about it. Focus on Sam.

  “Mmm,” she hummed under her breath as he pressed closer. They were kissing slowly, without urgency, more cuddling and smooching than getting hot and heavy. It was really nice, just what she needed. She slipped her hand under his shirt in back, gliding up over the smooth skin. She didn’t even remember Charlie, didn’t remember anything but kissing him. She had no idea how he had felt or if she had liked it or hated it. Which was good. The less she remembered the better, right? The easier it should be to block it out.

  “Heather,” Sam said, pulling back a bit.

  She smiled up at him and shifted so she could pull her shirt out from her waistband. Sam was always so gentle, so loving. He always cared about her feelings, never made her feel like it was just physical. She took his hand and pushed it under her shirt in back. She pressed against him, her breasts flattening against his chest. She wriggled a little against him.

  He drew in a shaky breath.

  He was nothing like Ed. When she and Ed had lost their virginity together, well, the first time had been so amazing. They knew what they were supposed to do but didn’t realize it might be physically difficult, especially on a sandy beach. It had been pretty uncomfortable for her, and she had cried while he held her. Once she had gotten used to it, it had still been so awkward and weird and new that they had both been amazed, awestruck. She had been almost crazy with love for him, this reckless skate rat who was so different from her other friends.

  After that very first time they had been wild for each other, sneaking chances to be together whenever they could. It had been summertime, and their skins would be sweaty and slick and smooth as they moved together, delight written on their faces. Ed had been strong, inventive, funny, and intense in bed, and sometimes, when he was looking deep into her eyes and she could feel him against her, their connection had been so mind-blowing that tears had come to her eyes. This is it, she had thought. This is what I want for the rest of my life.

  Then there had been the horrible accident that left Ed paralyzed from the waist down. Heather and Ed had gone from the highest high to the lowest low in about twenty seconds, and they had never recovered.

  Months after they had broken up, Heather had met Sam. Sam had practically saved her life; he’d made her happy again. All her friends went from feeling sorry for her to envying her. It had been great.

  Heather stroked her fingers through Sam’s soft, wavy hair as he lowered his head and began to unbutton her shirt. He kissed her neck, under her chin, then began to trail a line of kisses down her throat as he undid buttons one by one. Ed’s hair had been thick and straight, dark as coffee. It had brushed against her stomach as he … oh, Ed.

  Sam raised his head. “What?” he asked.

  She stared at him dumbly. “Huh?”

  “Did you say something?” Sam’s hazel eyes were heavy lidded, his mouth smooth and kissable.

  Heather shook her head. “Uh …”

  Waiting, Sam hovered over her chest, his hands holding the two edges of her shirt. Suddenly, with no warning, Heather felt yucky. As if Sam had just turned into Charlie Salita. What a bizarre thought. She must be losing her mind. All she knew was that she suddenly just wanted to go home.

  “You okay?” Sam smiled softly, stroking her.

  “Oh, jeez, Sam, I forgot!” Heather said inanely. She sat up and buttoned her shirt as quickly as she could with trembling fingers.

  “What? Forgot what?”

  “I’m supposed to go home for dinner tonight!” Heather blurted out. She stood up shakily, wondering where she’d put her shoes. “I’m sorry, Sam. I told Mom I had a date with you, but …,” she blathered on, conscious of Sam’s uncomprehending stare as she shoved her feet into her shoes, grabbed her purse and her bag, and tore out of Sam’s room like it was on fire.

  His Tortured Sex Life

  SAM SAT ON HIS BED, LOOKING AT his half-open door for who knew how long after Heather had left. He was a … what was the word? A dog? All the things that described him seemed so old-fashioned, like they were from a forties movie. A cad, a rotter, a heel. The only modern word he could think of was dog, and that seemed so … harsh somehow. Better just to call him a loser.

  How else to describe a guy who was making out with his girlfriend, the girlfriend he was determined to break up with, while fantasizing about another girl, a girl who hated him, a girl who had totally shot him down the last time he saw her? Instead of Heather’s rich dark hair Sam had seen a blond, tangled sprawl across his pillow. Instead of Heather’s neat, curvy little body Sam had felt long legs, a firm, flat belly, strong arms holding him tightly to her.

  “Yo! Moon Man!” Mike Suarez barged in through the open door. “You eaten yet?”

  Sam wordlessly shook his head.

  “Come on! It’s Italian night over at Weinstein!” Mike pounded the door with a closed fist, sign of an excess of testosterone. Sam leaned over and methodically put on his hiking boots. Their dorm didn’t have it
s own dining room—to eat, they had to go to Rubin or Weinstein dorms or to Loeb center. A bitch when it was cold and snowing and when you had just sunk to a new low.

  Mike and Sam headed out and started trotting down the four flights of stairs to the lobby. It was official: Sam was an asshole. Once Heather started kissing him and moving against him, he’d lost the will to break up with her. His mind knew what he had to do, but his body had refused to listen. How weak was that? Compared with his tortured and convoluted sex life, his premed classes were a walk in the park.

  Ed ’n’ Heather

  “I’M BORRRRED.” ED TRIED TO PUT as much anguished whining into his voice as possible. On the other end of the phone Heather giggled, then stopped and cleared her throat.

  “Ed, it’s a Monday night,” she said briskly. “Go do your homework.”

  “Done.” He waited. Why had he called Heather? Well, who else did he have to call? It’s not like he had a best friend or anything. It’s not like anyone else was calling him. Given a choice between phoning his ex-girlfriend, whom he was now sort of friends with again, and sitting around at home in a vegetative state, wondering what the hell Gaia was up to, he had chosen calling his ex.

  “Watch TV,” was Heather’s next suggestion.

  “TV rots your mind,” was Ed’s opinion. “What are you doing?”

  “Oh, well, you know … the usual.” That sounded pretty lame.

  “Have you eaten yet?”

  “Actually, no. I just got in. I’m starving.”

  Ed’s spirits brightened. “Me too. Look, why don’t I stop at Ray’s, pick up a pizza, and bring it over? We’ll hang out, we’ll eat …”