He is Mine

by Mel Gough

  “And yes, I will go,” Brad says. “It might not be a date at all. Maybe I misunderstood.”

  “Is he paying?” Eric asks, politely circumnavigating the issue of Brad’s date’s identity.

  “In a way,” Brad replies.

  “Well then,” Eric says past a large bite of his sandwich. “Go and enjoy. Drink all the cocktails, eat all the food, and report back!”

  Brad smiles. Eric’s youthful enthusiasm is endearing as always. Maybe his partner is right. He worries too much and needs to loosen up. And there will be free booze and food, at least.

  25

  On the day of the gala, Brad puts on his best slacks and carries his Hugo Boss jacket into work, still wrapped in the cling film bag from the dry cleaner. He puts on his leather jacket as usual for the commute and tries to ignore the raised eyebrows as he hangs the suit jacket onto the back of the door in the incidence room.

  He gets to the Bowery Hotel well ahead of time. ‘Arrivals’, whatever that is, aren’t scheduled to start until eight p.m., but Brad figures that if he arrives well before everyone else it’ll be easier to go undetected. He’ll have the chance to observe the other people and get an idea about what this crowd is like. That this feels more like preparing for a stake-out than a date does nothing to improve his mood.

  It’s just past seven-thirty when he walks up to the hotel, feeling disoriented before he even reaches the entrance. A small army of photographers have set up camp either side of the door, and the racket and commotion are considerable. A bright red carpet is laid out across the sidewalk, and curious tourists clog up the little bit of space that’s left right by the curb. Brad squeezes past a large group of Germans, and before the paparazzi have time to train a lens on him he strides up to the door. At least two other guests had the same idea as him of beating the crowd and already stand before a security guard holding a clipboard. The man is at least six feet tall, and he scans his board with a scowl. Finally, he finds the two arrivals on his list and steps aside. The two women, both wearing skimpy dresses, totter into the lobby on their high-heeled shoes.

  It's Brad’s turn with the security guard. “Name?” the man growls.

  “Brad Moretti,” Brad says, feeling hot in his suit jacket. Only a few minutes ago the jacket had been barely enough to hold off the evening chill. Now, Brad can feel beads of sweat running down his spine.

  The guard appraises him with narrowed eyes for a moment. It does nothing to help Brad feel like he belongs here. Finally, the man looks down his list, and after a moment gives a low grunt. With a squaring of his shoulders, he steps aside. Brad edges past the man and wonders belatedly whether he should whip out his shield, just to give the guy a little shock for his troubles.

  Inside the lobby, Brad looks around. Nothing about the nondescript exterior of the hotel has prepared him for this. The lobby is high and softly lit by chandeliers hanging from the wooden ceiling. Sofas and armchairs covered in velvety fabric are arranged around a large fireplace, and expensive rugs cover the floor. The atmosphere is more that of a colonial residence in India than a hotel lobby in the middle of the Lower East Side.

  Brad scans the room. There must be a bar here somewhere, but he can’t see it. He stops someone wearing what he hopes is a hotel uniform. “Is there somewhere I can get a drink?” he asks.

  The hotel employee smiles. “Why don’t you take a seat?” He indicates the squashy seats by the fireplace. “What would you like?”

  “Can I have a Budweiser, please?”

  The man nods and smiles again, and departs down the lobby. Brad sits in a leather armchair a little off to the side rather than right by the fireplace. From here, he can see the entrance, and most of the lobby.

  Not many people have arrived yet, and the numbers milling about don’t increase much over the next ten minutes. Most newcomers walk right past Brad and disappear down a corridor. Brad gathers that the gala dinner must be happening down that way somewhere, and that there are free drinks on arrival, or else more people would stop to start with a drink from the bar. Brad has figured out where that is now, too. The waiter emerges from between a pair of velvet curtains at the other end of the lobby with his Bud.

  Unfortunately, the beer does nothing to settle Brad’s nerves. As he sits in his corner, he feels out of place in the plushy surroundings. This is not his kind of hotel; he knew that before he set foot in it, but seeing the parade of expensive evening gowns and hairstyles that probably cost a junior cop’s salary to maintain makes him more and more apprehensive about being seen with Damien, never mind being considered his official date.

  Yet the thought of seeing Damien again also gives Brad a strange fluttery sensation in his stomach. Maybe he can put up with the glitz, and the scrutiny, if that means he can have that gorgeous, sweet man by his side regularly.

  At last, Brad spots Damien’s dark curls in the middle of a group that just arriving outside the hotel. The paparazzi’s flashlights go wild for a minute, and then Damien steps past the security guard, who laughs at something Damien says. Brad peels himself out of the deep armchair and makes his way toward Damien and his entourage, his stomach flip-flopping with nerves.

  “Hey,” he says, stopping before the group surrounding Damien.

  Damien looks up, and their eyes meet. The moment Brad sees the expression on Damien’s face he knows that something is wrong. And he doesn’t have long to wait to find out what that something is.

  From behind the people at the back of the group steps Vivienne, looking splendid in a flowing dress of a soft bottle-green fabric.

  “Detective,” she says, surprised. She raises an eyebrow and turns to Damien, but still addressing Brad. “What are you doing here?”

  Before Brad can speak, Damien says, “I invited him.” His gray eyes are on Brad. He looks miserable and a little alarmed. “As a thank you, for staying with me when I was ill.” His voice is kind of flat, like he’s annoyed with Brad. Brad’s hackles rise, but before he can say anything Vivienne speaks.

  “Oh, of course.” She smiles a sweet smile that Brad finds unconvincing. “That was very nice of you, Detective. Now,” she adds, turning from Brad and taking Damien’s arm, “shall we go upstairs? I really need a drink.”

  The whole group takes this as the cue to move on as one, and Brad is left standing, watching the smartly dressed men and women march past him. For a moment, Damien’s deep gray eyes meet his, and Brad is sure the other man will speak. But something, maybe Brad’s expression, stops him. Is that a blush Brad notices creeping up Damien’s face? He isn’t sure, and then the group sweeps Damien into the corridor leading to the gala room.

  Brad keeps his eyes on Damien’s back until he and his entourage disappear from view. Nobody looks back at him.

  For a minute, he just stands, not moving so his disappointment and rage have no chance to bubble up. People mill around him, but he’s hardly aware of it. Only when a tall, burly man bumps into him hard does Brad look up.

  “Sorry, man,” the guy says, hands raised. Brad thinks he knows him from some TV show or another. He forces a nod.

  “No harm done,” he croaks and turns toward the doors.

  It takes him a while to navigate the torrent of people now arriving through the narrow entrance. When he finally regains the pavement, he stops off to one side and takes a deep breath. The air is crisp and fresh, and, contemplating the road choked with evening traffic, Brad pushes his hands deep into his pockets and sets off at a brisk pace.

  He’ll walk until he’s too numb from the cold, then he’ll take the subway.

  Maybe.

  26

  It’s all that damn detective’s fault. Viv can pinpoint Damien’s mood going downhill to the exact moment they ran into the cop.

  They’ve not talked during the drive back to the penthouse. She hadn’t noticed the change in Damien so much at the gala, with all those eyes on her, and the band playing, and the speeches. He’d sounded cheerful onstage, giving his keynote address and thanking all
those who had forked out money for his charity. But now she realizes that he hasn’t even looked at her since they took their places at the top table.

  “Why was he even there?” she asks, just as the sedan turns the corner into Damien’s street. “Did you really invite him?”

  “Yes,” he snaps. “I told you.”

  “Well, that was stupid,” she says, anger bubbling up inside her. “He ruined everything.”

  She doesn’t look at Damien, but out of the corner of her eye Viv can tell he’s fighting with his self-control. She wishes he’d snap at her. It’s early in their relationship for their first fight, but this seems a good enough reason to start one.

  The car stops, and Damien lets out a long breath. “I’m tired, Viv,” he says. “Can we not do this now?” He opens the door. “Thanks for the ride. I’ll see you soon, okay?”

  And before she can say anything, or hold him back, the door slams shut.

  Viv contemplates getting out and running after him. Her purple overnight bag sits by her feet; she expected to stay the night. But she does have her pride. Vivienne Aubert doesn’t run after men.

  “Where to now, miss?” the driver asks, shaking Viv from her reverie.

  “Home, of course,” she snaps. As the car peels away from the curb and turns at the next corner back into Manhattan’s night traffic, Viv bunches her dress more tightly in her lap and slides down in the seat, sulking. What a waste it was, to wear the Elie Saab tonight. And the four hundred dollars for hair, nails, makeup, and fitting also sting, like the sudden tears in the corners of her eyes.

  But she won’t blame Damien. He invited her, after all. He told her she looked nice, introduced her to people when they got to the Bowery Hotel, and was his usual kind self—right up until Moretti spoiled it all.

  Was it necessary to invite the guy to a high-profile event just because he had been kind? What does a cop care about a charity gala? And if Damien really needed help, why hadn’t he said so when she turned up last week? She’d come to New York to be with him; he had to know that. She can’t read minds. When will people learn that they need to speak up if they want something from her?

  Viv worked hard for what she has achieved, yes, but she’s always asked for what she needed, when she needed it. Her mother made sure she learned that from the moment she could talk. Viv can still hear Mother’s voice. “Speak up, I can’t hear you. Tell me what you want. Things don’t just fall into your lap, Vivienne. You need to fight for them, and you need to speak up, so people can hear you.”

  Mother always ignored her if she sat around and sulked, hoping to be cuddled or praised. Hard work and assertiveness. It’s really not that complicated. If a five-year-old can understand that, then a grown man shouldn’t need telling.

  Viv wonders what Mother would think of Damien. She approves of Victor, because he’s become rich through hard work, and gets richer by the day. Victor always takes what he needs. When Annushka met him for the first time, she’d not been able to find a single thing to complain about to Viv afterward. Somehow, Viv doesn’t think the same would be true about Damien.

  But that doesn’t matter. Mother no longer matters in her life. Viv hasn’t spoken to her since leaving LA, and she doesn’t plan to. Viv has no interest in seeing any of her New York relations. She has more important things to do.

  As she gets out of the car in front of her building and strides into the lobby, ignoring the doorman on duty who holds open the door for her, Viv places a hand on her abdomen.

  Nobody needs to approve of her choice, and it doesn’t even matter that Dark Core will be enveloped in scandal before it even opens. Damien is the right choice for her. He’s the only one who has ever given her what she really wants. And he’ll know soon enough.

  27

  Overnight, Viv’s mood changes. When she wakes in her bed alone the next morning she feels sorry for herself, but even more sorry about how she handled Damien. She should’ve gone after him last night and apologized straight away.

  But it’s not too late; she knows what she has to do. She dresses down in jeans and a sweater for her outing this time. She was glamorous last night, and he didn’t much care. Now that she gets to know him she thinks that a more casual approach might be better.

  It’s already afternoon before she makes it out of the house. It took her a bit to get over the self-pity and then, while she dresses, she feels sick. She lies back down on the bed, hand on her belly, and listens to her body. There’s a smile on her face. The first morning sickness. It doesn’t bother her. It’s not very bad. This is a good sign; she’ll be able to tell Damien all about it soon.

  When she gets to the penthouse she stands by the front door for what feels like an age after ringing the doorbell, but nobody answers. She’s so impatient to talk to him. It’s too early to feel the baby, of course, but she keeps stroking her belly, imagining what that’ll be like.

  She looks around. There are no benches, or even flowerpots on whose rim she could perch. But she doesn’t want to leave. She ambles in the direction of the nearest intersection, pulling out her phone as she goes. Damien’s number rings through to voicemail right away. She takes a deep breath.

  “Hey, it’s me. I, uh, I wanted to say sorry about yesterday. Call me when you get this? Bye!”

  She hangs up, then curses herself. She should’ve said she’s in his neighborhood; he might’ve come home for her then. But she decides against calling him again. She’ll find somewhere to wait. He’ll call her back soon.

  There’s a small café on the opposite side at the nearest corner. She should be able to see his front door if she sits at the high table in the window. Viv crosses the street and walks inside.

  To Viv’s horror, it’s one of those bubble tea places. The space is tiny, with peeling paint on the walls and barely enough space for a counter, the table in the window and an upright fridge with cakes and fruit all looking past their prime. She almost walks straight back out, but this is the best place for what she plans to do, so she approaches the spotty youth behind the register.

  “Can I have, uh, a raspberry bubble tea,” she says, scanning the menu and naming the first thing her eyes fall on.

  “Milk?” the Japanese, or Chinese, or Korean boy—how’s she supposed to know?—asks, not sparing her glance.

  Viv looks along the drinks options again and sees no mention of soy or almond milk. “Uh, no thanks.”

  He fills a plastic glass with tea, ice and tapioca balls, takes her money, and hands her the change with a bored expression. Then he turns away and focuses on his phone.

  Viv takes her tea to the table. If she sits in the seat wedged into the far corner she can see down Damien’s street but is shielded from view by the fridge holding the unappetizing food. She pulls out her phone. There are five missed calls since the morning. Viv scans the list, hoping that one is from Damien. But they’re all from Victor. He hasn’t left any voicemails, though.

  She stabs at the text icon and types a message to him.

  Stop calling me! I’ll call when I’m ready.

  She sends it before she can change her mind, then goes into her address book and blocks all of Victor’s numbers. Lastly, she makes a mental note not to pick up any calls from unknown numbers.

  It’s an unexpected relief, not to have to deal with Victor for now. Without thinking, Viv takes a sip from her bubble tea, and then wishes she hadn’t. It’s cloyingly sweet, and she’s sure this place isn’t hygienic. She can see the A rating in the window, but Viv doesn’t trust it, not here. What Damien thought when he bought a place in Chinatown she’ll never understand.

  But the bubble tea looks nice with the rays of sunlight that have just broken through the clouds falling on it. She picks up her phone again and takes an arty picture of the tea with the street blurred through the window. With a small flutter she wonders if anyone could identify the street corner where she is just from that picture. But so what? She can sit in a café in Chinatown if she wants to.

  Vi
v opens her Instagram. She hasn’t posted any pictures since she arrived in New York; her disagreement with Damien last night ruined the most exquisite chance she’s had so far. She puts a heart emoji in the caption under the picture, and presses Share. Then she watches for a few moments as the likes come flooding in, pinging at the top of the phone’s little screen.

  And soon there are comments too. Since she doesn’t have anything better to do Viv goes to the comment section and starts reading. Mostly, it’s people sending her heart emojis or the usual love declarations. But then her eyes fall on one comment.

  U tryin 2 be just normal or sth? Stop pretendin!

  Heart beating fast, Viv taps Reply before she can think and types with shaking fingers.

  You’re so clever huh? I AM normal. You know nothing about me. Get a life!

  She presses Post, shaking now, then, for good measure, blocks the rude person’s account without paying attention to what they’ve got on their wall. She thinks she recognizes that it’s a young girl, with a profile picture of what looks like a selfie of her and Damien. Viv frowns. Is she seeing things now? Well, it doesn’t matter who that was.

  Forcing herself to close down the app, she chucks the phone back into her bag. All the fun has drained out of her adventure. As she rummages in the bag for a mint or gum to take the foul taste of the tea out of her mouth she spots a green spiral notebook at the bottom. On a whim, she pulls it out.

  Viv can’t remember how it got into her bag. She supposes she must’ve put it there before leaving LA, thinking it’d be useful to have somewhere to take notes in. She opens it.

  There are a few lines of scribbles in what she recognizes as Victor’s handwriting on the first page, but other than that the book is empty. She rips out the first page, then pulls the little pencil free that’s attached to the notebook.

  She writes on the first, narrow line:

  Sep 7, Penthouse 12.45, waiting @ café