by Ella James
“Are you okay?”
I nod. I’m clenching my jaw, I realize belatedly, so that must be what gave me away. I open my mouth, hoping for something to lighten the mood. Something to mask the weird way I’m probably behaving.
I look down at her, and she’s looking at me, and I instead ask a question whose answer matters to me very much. “Why do you like my paintings so much?”
I’ve never actually asked anyone that. I’ve read critics’ and professors’ guesses about why my work is so popular, but that’s not the same as asking a real art critic. It’s definitely not the same as asking Red.
She bites her lip to hide a smile.
“What’s funny?”
“Nothing. I just can’t believe you asked me that. It’s still surreal.”
“I imagine lots of things about the last day are,” I say dryly. I know I sound nonchalant, but I feel the same way. I can’t believe I’m about to let her go. I squeeze her gently. “Tell me, baby.”
“Don’t you know this already? Your work is analyzed a lot.”
“I’ve read some of that. Not much. I don’t have the internet at my place.” I have a little tower I can set up when I want, but that’s not often, and it’s not something she needs to know. I pinch her side, hoping to tickle. “Go on, Red. Humor me.”
“Okay. This might sound kind of obvious, but I like the animals. People have always reminded me of animals. Like, ask me anyone and I can tell what animal they are.” She grins a silly little grin. “I feel like your paintings are of people. I can see personality, emotion, but they’re animals. Something about that just really…draws me in.”
I swallow. That’s exactly what they are. The animals are people. Often specific people. I don’t want to show her my reaction, but I’m pleased she knows. Every eagle is the prosecutor from the trial, and every squirrel is the judge. My rabbits have long been Cookie. Rabbits are the only animal I’ve painted dead.
I tuck her hair behind her ear, because I don’t want to talk about that. “What kind of animal am I?”
“I have to think on that.”
“No you don’t. You’re scared to say.”
She smirks. “Ask me someone else.”
“Hilary Clinton.”
“Panda bear. One of the really intelligent ones.”
“Barak Obama.”
“Ferret. Of the top hat wearing variety,” she says.
I swallow back a snicker. “J.K. Rowling.”
“A well-groomed horse or pony with a nice mane.”
That one gets a small hoot. Can’t help it. “And me?”
“You’re a stallion.”
I smirk, and she smiles a sad, tight little smile. “You’re hard to control, and you want what you want. You don’t need a herd. You like to run.”
“I think you need to start palm reading.”
“Are you making fun of me?”
“No.” I squeeze her shoulder. “I wanted your opinion. That’s why I asked.”
Water spreads out under us, and pretty soon, the shore is close enough that I can see the cars in the harbor marina’s parking lot. I try my best to drive the boat like usual. To keep my mind from getting ahead, from thinking about the ride back to the island.
I idle up to the marina and find a spot. My body’s gone numb. I can barely feel her arm around me, even though it’s there, and squeezing tightly. I take a few quick breaths, hoping she doesn’t notice how unsteady they are, and tie us off, and put her bags on the dock. As I look at her, standing in my boat, I have the irrational hope that the car I rented for her didn’t make it.
But when I turn around, I see the black Mercedes. Jesus, I feel sick.
I step out of the boat, moving like a robot. Like the death row inmate I’ll never be—thank everything.
I hold out my hand, and Red lets me pull her up. As soon as her feet touch the dock, she throws her arms around me and buries her face in my chest. I hug her back and put my mouth down near her ear.
“I’m sorry for what happened. Sorry you got hurt,” I murmur.
She clings to me, almost rigid. I drop a kiss on her hair.
“Please, Red. Please take care of yourself. Do the things I told you and don’t make me worry.”
She looks up at me, showing me her damp eyes. “I don’t want to worry about you either!”
I pull her toward a little shack that boasts a small, plastic shower emblem. I have to have her one more time. I’ll jerk her pants down and take her inside. Except we pass a bench, and suddenly I don’t want to do anything but put my arms around her and leave them there forever.
I tug her down beside me. Kiss her mouth.
This is the last time.
CHAPTER TWELVE
RED
I’m standing by the black Mercedes Race rented, but I can’t get in. My bags are in the trunk. The driver is watching in his rear-view. With every passing second, another fraction of a penny for his gas.
But I can’t move. Race’s hand is locked in mine, but the door is open. His eyes, his face, his big body—with everything, he’s urging me inside the car.
I look up at him, and I can’t even talk, because I’m lost again. I don’t know how it’s possible that this happened. That I feel so attached so someone I’ve known such a short amount of time. I don’t know how it’s possible that I can’t stay.
Tears fill my eyes, and I blink them away. Race runs his hand over my hair.
“You’re a good girl, baby. So good. You deserve nothing but the best.” He kisses my cheek, so chaste and soft it makes me shiver.
My throat’s so tight, it’s hard to say, “I liked being your fuck doll.”
“I would keep you if I could. Fill you with my cock all day and night. Punish that sweet ass. Red, I’m leaving here. Don’t wait for me to find you. I won’t. Don’t come back for a while. Let things settle. Try to find a way to settle, too.” He rubs his thumb down my cheek, looks into my eyes. “What do you love, Red?
I swallow. I can think of only one thing. “Writing.”
“So write. Write anything you want, baby.”
I swallow past the huge lump in my throat and shake my head. “I don’t want to write. I just want you.”
He steps back a little, still holding my hand. “I don’t deserve you, baby doll.”
“Yes you do. Of course you do. You always do.”
For the first time since we left the island, his smile falters. His lips press together and tuck down for just a fraction of a second—a sad look made much sadder by how quickly he turns it back into a smile.
“I’ll miss you, Red. Please be safe. Be careful. Your account is full now. Hire some security if you feel you need it. Use the number I gave you for the conference call, and check in with me in two days. Bob will contact you after that. He’s not far from you. He’ll take care of you.”
But I don’t want Bob.
I don’t want Bob.
I don’t want anyone but Race.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
RED
Six days later
They say time dulls all aches, but I don’t believe it.
I’ve been back for almost a week now, and if possible, I feel worse than I did the day I left the harbor. At least then, I could still smell him on me. For the first two days after returning to my old apartment, I could smell the ocean on my bag and clothes.
I called the conference call at the time Race told me to. I sat on the floor of my kitchen, eating Goldfish, holding my breath, because I just knew he would say something to me. Instead, I only heard the beep of him signing on. I said, “hello,” and sealed my fate. He didn’t need to speak, because he’d heard my voice. He knew I was okay.
I cried that night. I curled under my covers and asked myself what the hell’s the matter with me. I think back to the things I did with Race—the physical things—and wonder why I never even came close to most of that with Carl. It’s not because he liked guys, too. I know deep down: It was because of me. Because I ne
ver trusted him. I never opened to him fully.
And yet, I did with Race?
Why is that?
I don’t shower until the third day. When I do, the scent of Gertrude’s shampoo leaves my hair. When I go to sleep, my red mane spills around me, and that’s when I feel the worst. I only slept by Race one night, but a few times, he got close enough so I could feel him on my hair. Here I sleep comfortably, in the queen sized bed I bought with his money.
Money. I never cared so much about it before, but now I love to check my bank account. Every penny displayed on my new iPhone bears his fingerprints.
There are times, like today, when I walked to check the mailbox where I first mailed Gertrude the letter—or yesterday, when I jogged home from my new kick boxing class—that I fanaticize about calling the bank, and somehow bribing them to tell me where he is. My bloated bank account connects us. It’s the only thing I have right now. I’m aware of the irony—how, before I left Boston, money was the only thing I didn’t have. The only thing holding me back. Now I’ve got it, yet it feels like I have nothing.
I spend a lot of time wondering if he’s okay. Other than our one-time-only conference call date, Race left me no way to check on him—except for Bob, who hasn’t called me yet. I wonder if he recovered. I hope he did.
I think a lot about Cookie’s father, Robert Smythson. I look him up on Wikipedia and decide I hate him. On the fifth day, I spend almost all afternoon stalking Cookie’s records. Newspaper articles that mentioned her before her death. Pictures of a vibrant, dark-haired woman with a big smile. I look up Bryson Paige, memorizing yet another player in their game, and then read all the stories from the trial.
When I’m feeling really masochistic, I go to Google Images and look for pictures of Race. Of course, the name I type in is James Wolfe. I never even found out why he told me to call him Race, but I think it suits him.
I don’t like seeing the pictures of James. He looks so somber. His skin is pale, and his hair is collar-length. He’s younger, but I’m not sure I can say he looks more innocent. He really just looks ill. Trod upon. Like he needs the refuge of a private island.
Whatever else I feel, I’m glad he found it.
On the sixth day, I finally get together with my old crew. I’ve talked to Katie a few times on the phone, but I haven’t seen her since I got back. I haven’t wanted to. It’s hard to pinpoint why. Maybe I hold the picture thing against her. God knows it’s not logical, but then I guess feelings sometimes aren’t.
We got to trivia night, the same old crew, and I do worse than ever. I just can’t think. I’m too distracted. I drink two beers and wander home to my lonely apartment, where I take a bath. I close my eyes and pretend that it’s the ocean.
It’s been six days. It feels like sixty.
And then the seventh sun rises, and I’m awoken by the vibrating of my cell phone on my new nightstand.
I grab it and pull it into my den of blankets. It’s a New York number, so I’m hopeful. “Hello?”
“Red?”
For a second, a heartbreaking second, I think it’s Race. Then the man speaks again, and I hear New York City there. His accent lacks a certain refinement Race’s had—has.
I catch my breath. “You must be Bob.”
“That’s me.”
I squeeze the phone, unsure, for a long moment, what to say. “I hope you’re okay now.”
“Doing better, yes. Thank you for asking. How are you, Red? You okay?”
I nod, then shake my head. “I could be worse,” I tell him honestly.
“I’m in your neck of the woods for a few days. Would you like to meet tomorrow afternoon?”
*
Bob is short—nothing like Race—with a mop of orange hair and a damp squeeze of a handshake. He wears a pale blue button-up without a tie, and black slacks that widen at the top for his apple-shaped midsection.
When I meet him at a bistro a few blocks from my place, I know him immediately, because he gives me a discreet, curious-seeming once-over, followed by a sincere smile.
“Right this way,” he says, and leads me to a booth already stocked with bread.
I settle in across from him and check him out discreetly, too. He looks healthy, so that’s good.
“Nice to meet you.” I give him what I hope is a polite smile. “Race was so worried about you. I can tell he really cares for you.”
He smiles tightly. “We go way back. Cousins—his father, my mother.”
“Oh, okay.” I cringe inwardly. I sound like a moron.
He waves at the bread. “Eat.” He looks into his lap—no, down at a briefcase I failed to notice until this moment. His eyes flick up to mine. “I’ve got a few things here for you.”
I’m reaching for a piece of bread when he says that. Instantly, my stomach clenches. I rub my lips together and get the bread anyway. I spend some time dipping it in olive oil, my fingers moving more slowly than usual. I feel frozen inside. Waiting to see what he has for me. And then I have a horrible thought, and I can’t breathe without asking: “Is that the NDA?”
He smiles, a little distracted as he thumbs through folders. “No. Race didn’t want a NDA with you.”
He plucks out a folder, cracks it open, and begins to look over something. I wait a few beats, and when he doesn’t lift his head, my curiosity overwhelms me.
“Where is Race now? Is he okay?”
Bob frowns. “He hasn’t been in touch with you?”
“No. Should he have?”
He shrugs. “My cousin, he’s got his own ideas about the best way.”
I have no idea what that means, so I nod, hoping I don’t look too pensive. Too impatient. I want to jump over the table and demand Bob tell me everything there ever was to know about Race.
Instead, I focus on measuring my breaths and eat my fucking bread.
Finally, he slides the folder to me. “Here ya go.”
I open it and skim the first sheet of paper inside. “It’s a consent form?” I frown. “For a painting?”
Bob nods. “Consent to use you as a model. This will give you fifteen percent of the proceeds, just the way he wanted.”
“Wanted?” I breathe.
“Wants,” he corrects with an awkward laugh.
I feel my cheeks go sunburn-hot. “What kind of picture is it?” I squeak. I fear I know the answer.
He laughs again. “I thought maybe you could explain to me. In the description here,” he points, “it says the painting is of a stallion and a fox.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
WOLFE
It’s the first time since Red left that I’ve seen another human face. The courier is a tall, thin, bearded man who looks about sixty. He arrives on a large sail boat, which he docks with surprising efficiency beside my small dock. He climbs out, walks straight to me, and introduces himself as Frank.
“I live nearby,” he tells me conversationally. “One of the smaller islands that way—” He points west. “You’re Race, I hear,” he tells me, holding out his hand. “I offer a discreet courier service. Don’t know what’s in those boxes, don’t care. In the future, you want to just leave ’em, you go right ahead. Anything goes as long as the cargo doesn’t scream.”
He winks, and I smile tightly. “Good to meet you.”
Fifteen minutes, and he’s gone. I walk slowly back to Trudie’s.
I’ve been here every day since Red left—when I’m not in the tree stand hunched over a canvas—and I’ve packed a few rooms: laundry, living room, and now most of the kitchen. There are only a couple of rules, and I never break them. I use the john at my place, and I never go near Trudie’s office.
I’m boxing up a collection of Garfield-themed coffee mugs when I hear a low whine, followed by another one. Sounds like speedboats, though who enjoys driving a speedboat on the ocean—I don’t know. I look out a few windows, but I can’t see anything. The damn thing is loud. As if it’s approaching the island.
I walk into Gertrude’s offic
e, which faces the point. I know I shouldn’t do it, and maybe that’s why I do. Sometimes pain is good. Keeps numbness at bay.
I step into the office and walk over to the window, where sure enough, I see a lone speedboat bumping through the waves.
Right away, I think of Smythson. I’ve heard nothing from anyone since the day Linn and his crew left. I’ve had two tails on Linn, and confirmed he’s done nothing out of the ordinary. He and his wife are seeing a marriage counselor.
