by Camilla Monk
I’m pretty sure I saw a red glint appear in Joy’s eyes, like in Terminator. “Packing?”
“We-we’re going to Switzerland for a few days . . . for work.”
Her hands flew to her mouth, and for a couple of seconds she was speechless. “Are you doing it again?”
“Doing what?” I asked, inching away from her.
“A BDSM getaway!”
Behind me, I heard Alex’s sharp intake of breath, but he didn’t comment.
Joy gazed at him with a mixture of surprise and awe before turning to me. “Change of plan. I’m helping you pack.”
“It’s okay, I can—”
She ignored my protest and flashed Alex her warmest smile. “You know where the kitchen is, lover boy!”
“So, what’s up with the impromptu getaway?”
I sighed. The red digits on my alarm clock indicated 1:35; I was late already, trying to simultaneously put on a blue cotton sweater dress as fast as possible and shove clothes in my suitcase, while on my bed Joy hopped up and down furiously. In the living room, Alex was sitting on our couch, watching the news and drinking his coffee, a ten-day-old bagel in hand.
I dodged the pillow that had been fired at me; she reloaded. “Earth to Island. I asked you a question.”
“Joy. Alex isn’t here for that. This is about my job . . . it’s complicated.”
She took one of my hands, dropping her playful act. “Go on.”
“Thom is dead.” I paused upon seeing blood drain from her face. “And something happened with Ruby. I can’t say much, but it’s a security issue, and I need to go to Zürich to work with EMT’s local subsidiary.”
She looked down at our joined hands for a moment before pulling me into a tight hug. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I rasped out.
She stroked my hair with a confused frown. “But this is . . . What’s Alex got to do with it?”
And one more lie coming up for table two! “He . . . he’s just taking me to the airport.”
“Okay. It’s good that he’s here for you,” she said wistfully. “That’s when you know it’s serious.”
You know what the problem is when you’re lying all the time? You get tangled up in those lies. That’s one thing. But it’s not the worst part. The worst part is that you end up feeling completely alone in the middle of a crowd of friends and family, because you can never have any kind of sincere, meaningful exchange with them. I had spent the past six months telling a variety of lies to Joy, all woven together in an intricate and barely credible web.
I was tired. So tired that a handful of half-truths sounded better than weaving another single lie into my masterpiece to make it all hold together a little longer.
I averted my eyes and clenched my fists. “I’ve seen March again. He’s in New York.”
Joy’s mouth tightened in a thin line into which her usually full lips seemed to disappear. I kept talking in a hurried voice before she could react. “And I swear it’s got nothing to do with him, but things are different . . . and Alex and I—”
“Please don’t tell me that you cheated on Jesus with . . . with that rotten fucking piece of . . . of shit!”
My hands flew to her mouth to cover it. “Nothing happened!” I hissed. “March isn’t like that! I’m not cheating on Alex. I think we’re just . . . done.”
She jumped up and another pillow flew in my direction, hitting me square in the chest this time. “For the love of God, Island, this is Relationships 101: don’t ditch the good guy for the sexy asshole!”
“Maybe Alex is a little more complicated than that,” I snapped, placing the pillow back on my bed.
Joy sat back down, her expression turning serious. “What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing. He’s . . . nice. But he’s just not who I thought he was, and I have no idea how to tell him I want out.”
A brief silence followed as she studied my features. I tried my best to look relaxed, but I could tell she had picked up on my unease. “Did he, like, hit you or something?”
“Of course not!”
“Because if he did, you tell me. I know people who know people, and I can—”
My palms rose in an appeasing gesture. “No! It wasn’t anything like that. Also, when did you start hanging around the mob?”
“Not the mob.” Joy scooted closer to me and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “But I know this girl who slept with the bouncer at the Silknight Lounge, and she told me he’s into underground fighting and that sort of stuff, and that he’ll even mess people up for money, like kicking them in the balls and breaking their legs,” she explained, mimicking a few punches.
I rolled my eyes. “You’d seriously send someone to break Alex’s legs?” Not that it would work, I reminded myself.
“If he had beaten you, yes. Why?”
“But you’re a lawyer!”
My outrage was welcomed with a faint shrug. “Island, the first thing you learn in law school is that law and justice aren’t the same thing.”
“In any case, Alex didn’t hurt me. He just isn’t the right guy for me,” I said tartly, slamming my suitcase shut.
Heavy blonde curls sprang around her face as she shook her head. “As opposed to Valmont?” She nearly spat the word, as if pronouncing March’s actual name might brand her tongue. “I don’t get it. This is . . . This is masochism. The truth is, you want to agonize in frustration and pain and whatever.”
I curled into a ball, pretending to be busy checking my passport. Yes, I could have argued that the whole BDSM thing was a complete misunderstanding, and that March, with his single dining chair and passive-aggressive orange tree, was in fact as far as you could get from the manipulative womanizer type. But so many expletives had been uttered already that I didn’t feel ready to try and plead “Valmont’s” case to Joy. Even more so since I myself had no idea what March really wanted, or if he’d ever graduate from the I’m-stalking-you-but-that’s-it-no-touching stage.
Joy shook her head at me. “I don’t recognize you. Swear to me that you won’t do something stupid.”
“Don’t be so melodramatic!” I groaned.
I couldn’t fight the blush that spread on my cheeks, though, and Joy’s eagle eyes didn’t miss it, turning to accusing slits. She could tell. Maybe she couldn’t read my exact thoughts and see that vision of March dressed like the pirate hero of Winds of Passion, getting on one knee and promising that he’d lay his heart in my palms if I followed him across the seven seas, but she could definitely tell I would do something stupid if influenced by a combination of sufficient and specific factors. And by that I mean if he asked nicely.
“Don’t even think about it,” Joy said.
I shrugged and marched to the living room, dragging my suitcase behind me. She followed, sulking all the way there.
“I’m ready,” I announced.
Alex sipped the last drop of his espresso and stretched his legs before getting up. “Fantastic. Let me get this for you.”
I pulled the suitcase away from him. “No, it’s okay. Your shoulder—”
“It’s the left one. Let me pretend I’m a gentleman,” he said with a wink.
I reluctantly allowed him to help me. As we headed to the door, I waved good-bye to Joy and tried to block her heated glare and the sight of her pointing her index and middle finger to her eyes in a V-sign before pointing them in my direction. If Alex saw it, he didn’t react, and I was grateful for that small blessing.
I have to say I was surprised when Alex and I arrived on Teterboro’s humid tarmac. Ever since embarking secretly with March on a flight for Paris with a fake passport from a tiny airfield in Pennsylvania, I had assumed Paulie’s services revolved exclusively around arranging illegal flights. The jet with a royal-blue logo waiting for us challenged this theory; there was such a thing as Paulie Airlines. And I was pretty sure that Pan Am would have sued regarding the use of the aforementioned logo, had they still been in business.
I spotted March already waiting near the plane with his magic suitcase—not really magic, but with an awesome fingerprint lock system, and always full of perfectly folded things and guns. The short, stout man with a charcoal beard and a receding hairline standing next to him looked familiar. I waved at Paulie. He saw it and strode toward us with his arms wide open. His mouth stretched into a wide grin, revealing his secret weapon: large, square, and blindingly white veneers that might have looked like a malpractice suit waiting to happen, if it hadn’t been for his girlfriend, who actually loved them.
Did I say he was coming to greet us? Typo, sorry. Paulie was coming to greet me. I was pulled into a heartfelt hug, received overstated compliments regarding my beauty, a kiss on each cheek, and Alex got . . . an icy glare.
“You the snitch?” Paulie grunted in lieu of a welcome.
Alex made a brave attempt at good-cop-smiling him. “I’m Agent Morgan. Always a pleasure to meet a businessman of your . . . caliber, Mr. Strozzi.”
Paulie’s veneers disappeared under a tight-lipped frown. “Sounds like snitch talk to me.”
Alex shrugged it off and pointed to the airstair deployed at the front of the jet. “I’m sure it does. Can we embark?”
Paulie made an evasive gesture with his hand. “Yeah.”
March moved toward the airstair, but stopped in his tracks when he noticed Alex and I weren’t following. His eyes met mine. I responded with an uneasy smile, and he disappeared inside the cabin with one last peek at us. We were about to embark when Alex reached inside his jacket’s inner pocket; his phone was buzzing. Nodding for me to get on the plane, he walked away to answer the call.
I’d have complied, but I was curious. I took a few cautious steps in his direction, trying to get close enough to hear at least part of his conversation. Alex’s back was turned to me, but whatever was going on sounded serious enough that he was raising his voice, in spite of his obvious attempts at keeping it down to an exasperated hiss.
“No . . . No! . . . Listen to me, all that kid’s got going for him are straight Fs. He should be studying, and you should be avoiding him . . . Yes . . . I hear you, and if you want to go see Rome and Julie, I’ll take you when I get back, but you are not allowed to go out with Scott. Am I making myself clear? . . . Poppy, I don’t care that school is closed tomorrow. It’s no.”
Poppy was at it again, and she treated Alex to a long rant, punctuated by his own sighs. “Pass me Irene . . . Hey, Irene, is everything all right? . . . Yes, she told me; I said no.” His voice dropped to a threatening whisper; I had to strain my ears to listen. “Irene, you know where the paint gun is. If you see that boy anywhere near our apartment, you shoot him. I’m counting on you . . . Good . . . Good. Yes, thank you. I’ll see you in a few days.”
Alex hung up, and I watched with amusement as he raked a nervous hand in his messy brown locks.
“Boy troubles again?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Yeah. I’m being told that my ‘vision of a patriarchal system in which women would be tradable goods under the authority of their brothers is inherited from the Middle Ages.’”
I shrugged. “She’s kind of right.”
“She’s also sixteen, and therefore a tradable good under my medieval authority.”
My shoulders shook with quiet laughter as we climbed into the plane. Once we were in, Alex ducked his head to acknowledge March—who was sitting near a window with a crosswords magazine on his lap—and went to sit at the back of the plane. I hesitated, searching March’s impassive expression for a second. Finding no sign that I was welcome to sit near him, I managed a polite smile and walked past him to go settle in a large cream seat at Alex’s side.
A light drizzle had started falling on the tarmac, dusting Alex’s window with diamond-like drops. The plane started moving. He stared through the thick glass, his eyes locked on the horizon. “You never asked about my parents.”
An unpleasant pressure built up in my chest, only made worse by the cabin’s vibrations as we took off. I had hoped for a friendly breakup, and the last thing I wished was for him to be reminded about his parents’ gruesome death while sitting on a plane. We were off to a bad start. “Alex, I just didn’t think it was my place to—”
“But you looked it up. You did research on the crash without telling me.”
I glanced at March’s seat at the other end of the cabin. His back was turned to me. Could he hear our conversation? I lowered my voice to a whisper. “I’m sorry, I just wanted to understand.”
He shrugged. “It’s okay. I know every detail of your file; it’s only fair you get a peek at mine.”
“I don’t know the details, Alex. I just looked up crashes in Egypt for that year, and there was only one involving American victims. I had read that the government wouldn’t release their names, so, after I learned about your real job, I figured . . .”
“That my father was an agent too?”
“Yes.”
He didn’t look at me as he spoke, his eyes still lost in the ashen clouds now surrounding us. “Six years ago, he was stationed in Cairo for several months. I was still in college, and my mother thought Poppy was too young for that kind of trip. She went to visit him alone for their wedding anniversary. He had to accompany local officials on a trip to Luxor around that time.” Alex paused, his throat tightening imperceptibly. “My mother wasn’t supposed to be on that plane, but officially it was just a routine business trip, and my father made a last-minute decision to take her to visit Esna after his mission. Their plane was shot down over the Eastern Desert. There were no survivors.”
“Is . . . is this why you followed in his footsteps?”
He nodded. “I guess.”
I was tempted to tell him that it was unhealthy, that he might someday meet the same fate as his father, but I thought of my conversation with March about my mother, and realized I was no better. I fidgeted in my seat. “Do you know who they were, the people who killed your parents?”
“Yes.”
“Did you . . . did someone catch them?”
“No.” He stared at me, something unreadable in his eyes. “But I’m close.”
For a moment, I had this terrifying thought that maybe March had something to do with the incident and that it was the reason Alex was so wary and confrontational around him. March didn’t fit the profile, though. He hated side casualties, and judging from my previous experience as his client, he favored covert assassinations—the type of guy to spend one bullet wisely rather than blow up an entire plane. The Roosevelt Tram and Dries’s lair didn’t count because he’d been pissed; we all have our bad days.
I glanced at him. He was still immersed in his crosswords, but he’d turn to check on us every now and then. When his eyes met mine, my heart skipped a beat. What if I was wrong? What if . . . A painful knot formed in my throat. Anything but this. I didn’t even want to consider the possibility.
Alex leaned closer, and one of his hands started to move to cover mine on the armrest; I pretended to readjust my dress to avoid the contact.
“I’m sorry, Island. I shouldn’t have brought this up,” he said.
“No, it’s okay. I’m the one who asked.”
God, how was I going to get out of this? I’m sorry for the brutal murder of your family, Alex. By the way, I know you’re a little depressed at the moment, but I have to tell you I’m thinking of breaking up with you. Yeah . . . no.
Next to me, his voice dropped to a murmur. “Thank you for listening.”
“Thank you for trusting me with this story, I guess.”
“We’re in the same boat.”
No, we weren’t. I averted my gaze. “I’m going to get myself some water. Do you want something? A Coke, maybe?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
I got up and searched the galley’s mini fridge while behind me Alex rose as well to retrieve a small laptop from his travel bag. I grabbed his Coke and a plastic cup. When he took them, I glanced to the front of the
cabin.
March had abandoned his crosswords, and his eyes were set on me, radiating anger.
TWENTY
Boy Toy
“You see the gear lever here? Well, if you take the top off, you’ll find a little red button. Whatever you do, don’t touch it.”
—Goldfinger, 1964
It could have been worse. It was overall an awkward flight, filled with reproachful glances and unspoken tension, but with Alex and me busy on our respective laptops and March eventually opting to resume his crosswords and check his smartphone instead of staring at me, there was enough fubbing going on in the plane to keep the storm at bay.
We landed in Zürich before dawn. Local time was six a.m., and a light breeze welcomed us upon stepping out of the plane. In the distance stood the massive skein of glass and metal of the terminal’s hall, casting a bright light on the darkened tarmac. This time our passports were real—even March’s—and I experienced an odd sense of satisfaction upon entering a foreign country legally, waving my precious sesame in front of the customs officers with a regal gesture. I did notice the way March’s magic suitcase and Alex’s black travel bag seemed to be cleared without much effort, even when I knew what rested in them. I chose to look the other way. Given my recent troubles, I wasn’t going to get all picky just because we were relying on corrupt customs officers to sneak a few guns into a neutral country.
There was some fuss over who’d receive the honor of carrying my suitcase for me—proof if need be that you can be both a gentleman and a red-ass baboon. I decided to drag it myself.
“I’ll see you two at the Eden au Lac in thirty-five minutes,” March announced as we strolled through the terminal and passed a group of tourists struggling with the self-check-in kiosks.
March didn’t look at Alex as he said this; he looked at me. More passive-aggressive vibes, huh? I was torn between guilt and anger, and I didn’t want him to witness either. I dusted imaginary lint from my sweater dress and looked down at my loafers. “Fine. I’ll see you at the hotel, Mr. November.”
His jaw ticked. “Excellent.”
