by Sean Black
Byron open-palmed an apology. ‘I’m sorry. That came off kind of snarky, but I just got back from somewhere we’ve been doing everything we can to make life better for women and where American soldiers have paid with their lives for doing it so, like I said, I know what you’re saying if you’re talking about the Saudis but I get a little irritated when we always have to be the bad guys.’
Gregory touched them at the elbow. ‘I have a feeling that this debate is going to run on, so if you’ll excuse me …’ He was gone. Leaving them alone together.
‘So you’re what?’ Julia said. ‘State Department?’
Byron shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘Something like that.’
‘Military?’
‘I was Rangers. Now I guess I’m kind of a semi-official liaison.’
Julia smiled. ‘Oh, I know what that means, don’t worry.’
‘Oh, you do, do you?’
‘Yeah. You’re a company man.’
Byron stared down into the bottom of his wine glass. ‘This wine really sucks. You know any place around here where we could find a real drink?’
TWENTY-FIVE
They ended up in a bar just off Broadway with dark wooden tables and low lighting. Afterwards Julia was shy on the details of the conversation but could remember two broad lines that had run through the evening. The first was how much being with him made her want to share herself. She was usually cautious around people she had just met, but not with Byron. It was only later that she would realize this wasn’t unique to her.
They talked for hours but Byron actually said very little about himself, and when he did he seemed almost embarrassed by what others might see as bragging. A tough public high school in Missouri. Captain of the football team. A full scholarship to Harvard or Yale or Stanford. The choices remained because, in the end, haunted by the smoke rising from the Twin Towers, he had joined the military, turning down a full ride at West Point to enlist as a regular soldier, then moving on to pass selection for the Rangers four years after he had begun basic training. And then? Circumspect. No war stories. No mention of medals or honors, merely a shrug of the shoulders and a single observation.
‘Y’know what you policy wonks never factor in, Julia?’ he’d asked her.
‘Oh, what’s that? Please do tell.’
His smile again, sending a tingle from the top of her head to her toes and making her shiver.
He took a sip of his beer. ‘War might be hell, but combat? Combat’s fricking awesome.’ Another sip, the glass disappearing in surprisingly slender fingers, which might have belonged to a concert pianist. ‘Once you get past the initial realization that someone’s trying to kill you, of course, and that it’s nothing personal.’
‘Of course.’
And that was as much as he shared of his life story for the longest time. Then it was as if his career had ended in 2009, or at least disappeared behind a pitch-black veil.
It was back to her after that. Her life. Her upper-middle-class background. Her academic achievements, no less than his but at the same time far more easily attained.
So, that had been the first thing. Byron, man of mystery — at least partially.
But the second seam made her almost ashamed: she had had to keep reminding herself to stop staring at him. He was attractive and charismatic. But he was also, there was no other word for it, beautiful.
At first, as Byron pulled out a chair for her and waited until she was settled before he sat down, she had wondered if the drink was just that or whether he was gay. Then a hand settling on hers as he picked up their empty glasses and the way he met her gaze, his eyes slipping fractionally to her cleavage, told her otherwise.
Two drinks later she decided to preserve the magic of the evening and call it a night. He seemed a little disappointed (‘Party pooper’), which thrilled her to the core.
He held open the door and they stepped back into the cold night air. The street was slick with rain. ‘I’ll get you a cab,’ he said, stepping between two parked cars.
‘I’m only eight blocks away.’
‘Then I’ll walk you home,’ he said, stepping back onto the sidewalk as the rain misted around them.
‘There’s really no need,’ she said, sounding half-hearted, even to herself. ‘Plus, I don’t want you …’
‘Getting the wrong idea? Julia, I’m twenty-nine. I don’t do one-night stands. Not that I ever did. I just want to make sure you get home safe so I have peace of mind. That’s all.’
She shrugged. ‘Damn.’
Byron laughed. ‘Ma’am,’ he said, hooking his arm out so she could slip hers through it.
At the end of the block they took a right onto Broadway, walked two blocks and crossed the street before hanging a left onto 111th. It was one more block down that the two kids appeared from behind a metal-gated alleyway. Hoods pulled over ball caps, shoulders hunched, chins on chests, but eyes spearing up, heads tilted like a bull’s before it charges.
They stepped out directly in front of her and Byron, blocking their passage. She felt her arm slip away from Byron’s but he reached out and took it back. His hand slipped into hers. ‘Take it easy, okay.’ He pulled her close to him. ‘One’s got a gun.’
All around her, the city froze.
TWENTY-SIX
The smaller of the two kids raised his right arm, aiming the weapon straight at her. It was all she could see now, the black vortex of the barrel, the kid’s finger itchy and trembling against the trigger. Then it was gone, blocked by Byron as he moved in front, his body between her and the two muggers.
She wasn’t sure what she had expected to happen next. Some ninja moves, perhaps? Or for him to pull a gun of his own and shoot them? He did neither. Instead, he spoke to them, his voice calm, his tone even.
‘Just be cool, fellas, okay? You want money? Here.’
She saw Byron’s hand dig into his hip pocket and pull out a money clip. The kid without the gun stepped forward and snatched it.
‘White bitch’s purse too, nigger,’ he said to Byron.
Byron half turned. ‘Julia, give me your purse.’
From nowhere she felt a flare of rage at the violation. At Byron’s ready surrender. At being called a bitch. Byron’s hand reached out and plucked her purse from where it was tucked between her body and the crook of her arm. He tossed it to the kid, who was gleefully counting through his billfold.
‘We done here?’ Byron asked, the question directed at the kid with the gun.
The kid lowered his gun arm, slapped at his friend’s shoulder with the back of his hand. ‘We done, nigger.’ They began to walk away. Not run. But walk. With a pimp-roll swagger. The kid who’d had the gun on them had her purse in his hand and was already busy rifling it.
Julia turned to face Byron, who was watching them as they left the scene, his face entirely placid.
‘You okay?’ he asked her.
‘Oh, yeah, I’m great. Just great.’ The anger she heard in her own voice surprised her.
Byron shot her that easy grin. ‘You’re pissed at me for not pulling some Clint Eastwood move?’
She took a step back. ‘No, he had a gun. Look, I don’t know, maybe you could have … He called me a bitch.’
Byron shrugged. ‘Hey, he called me a nigger. Sticks and stones.’
‘You’re right. Okay, you’re right.’
‘Here,’ said Byron, a hand digging into his back pocket and coming up with a twenty-dollar bill, which he handed to her. ‘Get a cab back to your place. Call whoever you have cards with and get them cancelled.’
‘And what are you going to do?’
‘I’ll go home and do the same.’ He touched her shoulder, bringing her eyes to his. ‘Listen, Julia, we’re here, we’re breathing, no one got hurt. I lost some cash and a little pride and you lost whatever you had in your purse. It’s all replaceable. Sometimes you lose. Even a big tough company man like me.’
An hour later the buzzer in Julia’s apartment sounded. She was stil
l up, wide awake and riding a big wave of post-mugging adrenalin while nursing a mug of Irish coffee that was two parts Jameson’s whiskey to one part coffee. She crossed to the door and pressed the small white plastic intercom button. ‘Yes?’
‘It’s Byron. I have your purse.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
She was expecting that he had dug it out of a trash can, but as she placed it on the kitchen counter, she saw that everything was there. Credit cards. Cash. A discarded pair of earrings. Everything. It was exactly as it had been when Byron had taken it from her to give to their assailants.
The same couldn’t be said for Byron. At first, as he walked into her apartment, with a somewhat sheepish look on his face, she thought it must have been raining because his T-shirt was wet. Then she saw that it was blood.
‘You’re bleeding.’
The apologetic shrug, his eyes studying her parquet floor. ‘I’m fine.’
He raised his head and looked at her. It was as if he was expecting to be chastised. He held up his right hand. ‘I did kinda hurt my hand, though. You got any ice?’
‘Sure. Of course.’ She bustled to the freezer compartment, grabbed a handful of ice cubes and wrapped them in a cloth. She handed it to him as he placed her purse carefully on the counter.
He took the ice pack with a soft ‘Thank you.’
‘The two guys?’ she asked. ‘Are they … I mean, you didn’t …’
‘Damn,’ he said, a little of the cockiness she’d seen at the party seeping back into his features. ‘You really are a liberal. They’re both breathing, if that’s what you want to know.’
He was right. Her first thought had been his welfare. The second had been about the physical condition of the two young men who had called her a bitch and mugged her.
‘They might need some dental work,’ he said. He tugged at his T-shirt, peeling the fabric away from his neck. ‘This isn’t my blood.’
It was theirs. There was a lot of it.
She felt relief that it wasn’t his. There was something else too. Excitement. Violence repulsed her usually. But she couldn’t deny the thrill of knowing that Byron had hurt the two men. She wasn’t proud of feeling what she did but it was there.
Byron stood there, a man she hadn’t even known existed until this evening. There was a stillness to him, a calm that lay at odds with what he’d done.
They might need some dental work. There had been no smirk when he’d said it. It hadn’t come off like bravado. He was simply reporting a fact. He pressed the ice pack against the knuckles of his right hand and watched her.
‘One of them had a gun,’ she said. ‘What if he’d shot you? I mean, you said yourself there was no real harm done – apart from to your pride.’
‘Hey,’ he protested, ‘this wasn’t about male pride. That’s a low blow.’ He put the ice pack on the kitchen counter, all the while holding her gaze. ‘Would you mind if I used your bathroom to get cleaned up?’
His question broke the tension.
‘Sure. It’s over there. You’ll find a couple of bath towels on the rack.’
‘Thanks.’
He walked past her and into the bathroom. A few seconds later she heard the hiss of the shower. She went into the bedroom, kneeled down and pulled out a plastic storage box from under the bed. She opened it and took out an oversized blue hooded sweatshirt.
It had belonged to Richard, her last long-term relationship, the fellow grad student. They had lived together for a year. He was nice. And warm. And kind. And would most probably have passed out at the sight of a gun.
She held it to her face. She could still smell him. He had been a tender lover. Considerate. The sex had been – nice. Warm. Kind. Forgettable.
They had parted on good terms. There had been no arguments, no indiscretions, just a slow deceleration that had culminated in a very reasonable, mutual talk in which they had agreed to part ways. She had cried when he’d left with his stuff and the door had closed behind him. Her tears had been more a mark of respect for the end of something than any sense of loss or longing. She had held onto the sweatshirt for the same reason.
She walked out of the bedroom with it, and crossed to the bathroom door. The hiss of the shower had fallen away. She knocked twice.
The door opened and Byron stood there, a towel wrapped round his waist. His body was muscular but lean, wide line-backer shoulders, a broad, smooth chest tapering in a V to a slim waist. His arms and legs were more athlete than steroid-sucking gym rat.
She held out the sweatshirt.
‘Thanks. Sure it’ll fit me?’
‘Oh, it’s not one of mine. It’s an old boyfriend’s.’
He took it from her and looked at the front where the words ‘Yale Varsity’ were emblazoned in white lettering across the faded blue front. ‘A Yalie, huh?’
‘He was a nice guy,’ she said, suddenly on the defensive.
‘I’m just teasing.’
He stepped back inside the bathroom and held out a white plastic bag. The bloodied T-shirt was crumpled inside.
The door closed. She dumped the bag in the trash under the kitchen sink. A few moments later, Byron emerged in the sweatshirt. It had been baggy on Richard but it was skin tight on him, the cuffs finishing two inches short of his wrists and the hem barely reaching the top of his pants. ‘Thanks for letting me get cleaned up.’
‘Thanks for returning my purse.’
He jerked a thumb at the door. ‘Well, it’s late and I got an early flight to DC.’
‘Company business?’ she asked.
‘There you go again with that company-man stuff,’ he said, smiling.
He didn’t move. She walked over to him. She took his injured hand and lifted it to her face. She softly kissed the swollen knuckles. ‘Stay.’
Her head resting on Byron’s chest, Julia lay awake in the darkness as the city raged on outside, sirens wailing periodically down Amsterdam Avenue or Riverside Drive. His right arm fell across her breasts as he pulled her in closer. His eyes were shut but his lips turned up into a smile.
‘I wasn’t lying about that flight.’
She glanced over at the red digits glowing from the alarm clock on her nightstand.
3:37 a.m.
He sat up, cradling her head as he moved. He leaned in for a kiss, his lips on hers already familiar. He brushed a stray strand of long black hair from her neck. ‘I’ll call you from DC. Okay?’
She looked up at him. Under other circumstances she would have taken it as a lie, a man extricating himself from a one-night stand with an easy promise. But this seemed different. Everything about Byron had been different. He had a way of subverting her expectations. He was hard to read yet completely transparent. She had never met anyone like him.
He hugged her in close, strong, muscular arms folding around her. He kissed her one last time, then got out of bed.
She propped herself up on one elbow and watched him dress. ‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Uh-oh,’ he said, with his deep, throaty laugh. In her head it was already becoming Byron’s laugh, in the same way that he had Byron’s smile. She had known him under twelve hours and yet she knew this was it: they would be together. She just knew.
‘Why did you go back to get my purse?’
He stood naked by the bed, his body caught in the shadows thrown through the window by a streetlight. ‘The truth?’
‘It’d better be.’
‘I didn’t have your address. Or a phone number. I only realized after I left you.’
‘Are you bullshitting me?’
‘No.’ He paused. ‘And what you said earlier about male pride. I guess it was a little dented. Male ego’s a funny thing.’
She grabbed a pillow and threw it at him. ‘I knew it.’
Byron feinted left and the pillow sailed past him. ‘You wanted honest? I was honest.’
When he was dressed, complete with Yale sweatshirt, he sat on the bed and stroked her back. His hands were calloused in places, w
hich she had noticed last night as they had made love. Whatever he did for a living, it wasn’t just sitting behind a desk clicking on a mouse or tapping on a keyboard.
Before he left, he leaned in for one last kiss, and then he was gone. Julia sank back into the pillows, her eyelids growing heavy. She fell into a dreamless sleep.
She got up around eleven. Stumbling into the kitchen, she found a note from Byron. There was a date, a time, a location and some advice about what to wear, but no other details. She tried calling him, but his cell defaulted to voicemail. She would have to meet him. He had left her with no choice.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Heart pounding, face flushed, Julia glanced at Byron and said, ‘This is not my idea of a first date. Whatever happened to dinner and a movie?’
Two hundred feet below them, moonlight shimmered across black water. Her toes breached the lip of the bridge. Off in the distance she could see the lights of the Manhattan skyline, the Chrysler building lit green, the Empire State a blaze of red, white and blue.
Byron’s hand reached for hers. ‘Trust me. We’ll go together, right?’
They were both wearing harnesses that cinched around their waists with straps running from groin to shoulder. She had worn jeans, sneakers and a hooded running top. Byron had come better prepared with waterproof pants. His T-shirt was from a charity event, a triathlon held in aid of wounded Army Rangers. On his wrist he had a digital watch that doubled up as a heart monitor. The screen flashed the reading every few seconds. She looked down at her hand clasped in his and saw it was recording eighty-five beats per minute.
A normal resting heart rate for someone in their late twenties who was in excellent physical shape. The heart rate of someone like that if they were sitting at home reading the arts section of the New York Times. Not the heart rate of someone, anyone, who was about to bungee jump from a bridge.
She started to edge back, her toes scrunching up. She felt his hand slip from hers and rest at her back. For the first time she was angry with him.
