by Camilla Monk
—Aurelia Nichols & Jillie Bean, 101 Tips to Catch Mr. Right
It took almost twenty hours of flying and driving to reach our final destination, the dark dungeon inside which I would be held captive by March for an undetermined amount of time. Okay, the tiny dark dungeon. Also it wasn’t really dark, because it faced the South Atlantic Ocean and there was pretty much nothing around. March liked his privacy; his closest neighbors lived nearly a mile away.
You guessed it: I was in March’s legendary cubicle house in Cape Saint Francis, in South Africa. It was my new domain. All four hundred square feet of it. This isolated brick house was, indeed, more or less a cubicle standing fifty yards away from a long croissant-shaped beach of rock and sand. The place consisted of one small bedroom, a bathroom, a spotless kitchenette, and a living room where March stored his books. To my surprise, there was also a surfboard standing near the window. I hadn’t pictured him as a surf enthusiast, but he explained to me that the area was in fact a renowned surfing spot, and that it was one of the many reasons why he had chosen to buy there.
Maybe I should mention that there was also a huge basement. If you guessed that March’s basement doubled as a fallout shelter and was ten times bigger than his home because there were enough weapons and military equipment inside to take over a small country, you won.
A wooden porch circled the house, on which Gerald had once stood. Perfect place to put a rocking chair, by the way. After a day spent sleeping the jet lag off and recovering from my romp in Sahar’s basement, I could think of no better way to end the afternoon than gazing at the powerful waves rolling and crashing on the beach in foamy white splashes. Standing next to me and leaning against the brick wall, March seemed just as content, a beer in hand—he apparently indulged once in a while—while the navy linen shirt he had changed into billowed under a cool and strong breeze.
I snuggled into the white cotton sweater I had borrowed—yeah, “stolen”—from his closet to wear over my T-shirt and shorts. “Will you tell me now? About the code?”
His lips curved into a resigned smile. “I had hoped you’d be busy enough to forget about this.”
“You underestimate me. I will touch and examine everything in your house, but only after you’ve kept your promise.”
“Let’s get inside, then.”
I followed him into the living room, sizzling with curiosity, and watched in confusion as he took off his shirt.
“It’s on my Lion,” he began, his voice suddenly lower, colored perhaps by a touch of anxiety. “The outward circle, on the bottom.”
I approached him gingerly, torn between my need to learn more and, might as well admit it, different and somewhat baser emotions. It had been six months since I had seen him bare himself like this, but you know what they say—absence makes the heart grow fonder. And, indeed, I could feel my heart growing fonder by the second as my gaze traveled up the landscape of corded muscles and innumerable scars that was March’s body. And God, I would never tire of that chest hair. Each golden curl beckoned me, tempted me to fondle his pecs, trace every vein running under his skin, and perhaps take a closer look at that wonderful navel.
But we weren’t here for that. Yet. I walked around him, moving closer, and one of his hands grazed mine in silent encouragement to follow his instructions. Rediscovering March’s Lion scarification, I was overwhelmed by the same blend of awe and distress I had experienced in the past. My stomach heaved at the sight of the large disk of tortured flesh stretching across the muscles of his back, covering most of his left shoulder all the way to the valley of his spine. “Carved,” to quote Dries; a fierce lion head, surrounded by a complex African pattern, as a testimony to the fact that March had once pledged his life to his “brothers.”
Once I was done reacquainting myself with the design, my eyes focused on the outer line of ridged flesh delimiting the disk, as he had told me to. I noticed the pattern was different there; it no longer looked like a group of identical, geometrical, and repetitive incisions in the skin, but rather various specific signs. I read the rough canvas with my fingertips, struggling to focus on the symbols rather than the way his muscles bunched under my touch, or the pleasant, soapy scent of him.
“Are you familiar with cuneiform?” March asked.
I nodded. “A little. It’s a very ancient writing system, used in Mesopotamia?”
“In short, yes. What you see here is—” He paused, and I heard him swallow. “My number. H2014867.”
My fingers never leaving his skin, I let that new piece of information sink in. March’s number . . . which probably meant that I2000009 was another Lion’s number. That didn’t tell me why or by whom my mother had been killed, but now I had a lead. I traced each line, as if I could make them speak and tell me all their secrets.
“Yours starts with an H. Why?”
“The number is a very ancient tradition. It’s probably been around since the Lions were formed, twenty-five hundred years ago. The original founders were Romans and Persian warriors,” he explained.
“So they kept the single Roman letter and used cuneiform numerals to identify their members?”
“Exactly. When you join the Lions, you agree to lose everything from your former life, starting with your name. All you’re allowed to keep is the initial of your former name. First, last—you get to choose that.”
I leaned my forehead against his back and molded my body against his, drawing strength from his warmth. “March. Who’s I2000009?”
He went rigid. “He’s the current commander of the Lions. His name is Anies. He’s Dries’s elder brother.”
And therefore my uncle, I realized, holding on to March to fight the tremors in my knees.
When March spoke again, his tone was softer. “Do you understand now why I said you need to let go?”
I lowered my arms, for them to find their way around his waist. I focused on his feverish exhale as my fingers explored the line of hair running down his stomach. His hands covered mine.
“I’m not ready to give up yet. I need to understand,” I said. “But if he’s the one . . . I’m gonna need to take up self-defense classes.”
Under my palms, a chuckle rumbled through March’s abs. “You’ll be the death of me, biscuit. Am I allowed a few days of rest before singlehandedly taking on the Lions?”
“I give you a week,” I replied with mock authority.
The moment I said this, he spun around and pulled me into a tight hug. I was a little dizzy, and still bruised, but I ignored it and buried my face in that goddamn soft hair, listening to his heartbeat.
As I nuzzled the Promised Land, I registered his hands moving down my back. Then the most wonderful thing happened: my feet left the ground. I allowed March to lift me up, wrapping my legs around his waist to better support myself. My fingers threaded in his hair, and I felt his lips graze my neck as he spoke. “Why don’t we take this somewhere more comfortable?”
Oh . . . Yes!
My mouth searched his, lavishing it with little pecks as he carried me toward his bedroom. I remember that I looked up, and above us, there were angel babies with little wings and harps playing Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy”—true story.
For the sake of full disclosure, the bed’s linen was a dark shade of indigo, and it carried a faint smell of detergent—no doubt it had been laundered recently. March laid me on the mattress like I was made of glass. I had no idea if it was the best moment, but when he covered my body with his, there was something so open, so vulnerable in his eyes, that I asked.
“H . . . It’s not the initial of a month.”
I noticed the way the muscles in his arms contracted. I brought my hands around his neck, stroking it soothingly.
“H was the initial of my last name,” he said.
Once again, I could hear Dries telling me about March, mocking the boy who wanted to escape his miserable life, escape his own self. I pulled away to look him in the eyes. “It’s your choice, whether you want to be H, whether
you want me to know him. I’ll never ask again, and maybe one day, if you’re ready, you’ll tell me.”
He rolled us around the bed to gather me in his arms, and against my ear, I heard his murmur. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I managed to breathe out.
So, so welcome!
That’s more or less the point where I stopped thinking. The way his body molded against mine gave me those little chills of excitement that would travel from the top of my scalp to the tip of my toes. Observing my reactions under heavy-lidded eyes, March pulled me against him, placed one of his hands around the back of my neck while the other cupped my chin, and proceeded to knock my proverbial socks off—I was actually barefoot, if it’s of any importance—with a deep kiss. He hadn’t eaten any mints for a little while, and I found it made me more aware of his own taste, laced with beer. I locked my ankles around his legs as our hips met and ground together in a fashion that Corinthians 6:9 sternly proscribes. At the moment, however, I couldn’t care less that I wouldn’t inherit the Kingdom of Heaven. Breaking our kiss long enough for us to gasp for air, I looked at him. His pupils were dilated, black pools swallowing the blue in his eyes, and that single detail was making me regress to an animalistic state.
His Adam’s apple rolled in his throat. “Biscuit, we need to slow down a little.”
A bubbly laugh escaped me. “Hilarious . . . but you shouldn’t joke about that. You have no idea how frustrated you got me back in Paris!”
He responded with an uncertain smile, and I realized, with no small amount of panic, that he was maneuvering his hips away from mine. “I’m serious.”
Clinging to him, I bit his earlobe. “You’re really milking that joke, aren’t you?”
“Biscuit, I don’t have condoms.”
Oh.
“I’m sorry,” he went on, stroking my hair. “It’s been a little while, and it would seem that the ones I kept in the bathroom are expired.”
My lips pressed together in a quivering pout. “Maybe it’s like bagels—they never go bad, they just dry up a little.”
He laughed against my cheek and untangled us, bringing our level of promiscuity back to that of a clean hug. “I promise I’ll go buy some in Saint Francis Bay tomorrow.”
My nose bunched. Scammed again. By a man I now understood to be a tease and denial fetishist. I wasn’t going to cry; I would face the new lemon life had just fired in my face with dignity. I squirmed away from him. “I understand.”
The worst part was that I could see the faint smile playing on March’s lips. “Come back here, biscuit. I’ll make it up to you,” he said, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me back against his chest.
I fought him with a little grunt. “I know it’s another trap!”
My accusations were met with a chortle as he drew the comforter over us.
Now . . . I won’t get into a graphic account of the things he did to my socks—or the rest of my anatomy for that matter—but as it turned out, there’s a surprising amount of exquisite exploration you could accomplish, short of the whole LEGO business.
So yes, in the end, he did make it up to me. Thoroughly so . . .
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First and foremost, I would like to thank my fantastic team of beta readers, and the fellow authors and readers who support me every day in my grotesque literary endeavors: Katerina, Roberta, Corinne, Carmen, Marie, Taylor, Becca, Arletta, Niahm, Amber, Hilda, Anna, Elizabeth, Erica, Kellen, Fathima, Laura, Malina, Jaycelle, Beth . . . and all the people I’m ashamed to forget.
Ladies, I love you. I’m one step away from creepy stalking and sexually ambiguous Facebook messages.
More thanks fired in the general direction of Tiffany Yates Martin, my beloved developmental editor, who works hard to make sense of the incoherent soup I send her, JoVon Sotak and Anh Schluep, who made this book happen, and of course Sharon Belcastro and Ella Marie Mohan Shupe, who put up with me.
Finally, I’d like to remind anyone who still has some amount of faith in humanity left, that I got paid money to write about killer platypuses. I live the dream.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Camilla Monk is a French native who grew up in a Franco-American family. After finishing her studies, she taught English and French in Tokyo before returning to France to work in advertising. Today, she’s a managing partner in a small ad agency, where her job is to handle all things web-related and make silly drawings on the whiteboard when no one is looking. Her writing credits include the English résumés and cover letters of a great many French friends, and some essays as well. She’s also the critically acclaimed author of a few passive-aggressive notes pasted in her building’s elevator.
