by Colt, Elodie
I couldn’t find much about how the algorithm works exactly—guess I wouldn’t have understood half of it, anyway—but I was relieved to learn that, even when you can’t see anything, you can be assured that your match doesn’t look like Quasimodo. It shouldn’t matter, right? But it does. It always does.
In fact, short-term relationships, especially exclusive sexual relationships, require the highest amount of physical attractiveness. So, what happens when you lock two people in a pitch-black room? They talk. They touch. They communicate with body language. A language you can only understand when you’re close.
The language of intimacy.
“Shit!” Yanking back the can of hot sauce in my hand, I lean over the bubbling pot of red beans to inspect the damage. “Guess this was a tad too much. Huh, a good thing I like it hot.”
My phone pings and I snatch it from the counter. Zoya is here. Pressing a button, I open the door remotely. Squeaking footsteps resound, and I angle my head back to see Zoya rubbing her hand through her wet hair.
“You look like you just took a shower.”
“It’s raining cats and dogs,” Zoya grumbles, shimmying out of her raincoat.
“Where’s Holly?” I ask as she closes the door behind her.
“Stuck in traffic. A truck spun out of control on the highway. She just called telling me she won’t make it.” Zoya shuffles into the kitchen, bending around my frame to peek at our dinner. “Red beans with rice?”
“Yup.”
“Smells amazing, sis.” Fetching a spatula from a drawer, she digs into the second pot and loads two plates with rice.
“Yeah, it might be a little spicy, though. I accidentally used an overdose of hot sauce.”
She slaps my ass. “We were born hot, baby.”
Just not as hot as our dinner, as it turns out, because the damn beans are so spicy, Zoya and I cry a river over our plates.
“Oh, my God,” Zoya croaks for the hundredth time and grabs her already snotty napkin to blow her nose. “I’m on fire. Am I on fire?” She points to her beet-red face. “It feels like flames are bursting from my ears.”
Snickering, I chug a glass of water to wash down the burn. It doesn’t help. “Hot food burns more calories. You might be five pounds lighter tomorrow.”
“Unless I suffer a heart attack right now…” Zoya wheezes, dabbing her eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” I huff with a laugh as I pile the empty plates.
Zoya slumps back in her chair. “I need a Vodka shot. Or three.”
“On the way,” I say with a wink and scuttle into the kitchen to fetch glasses and a bottle of ice-cold Vodka Mamont from the freezer.
“Did you already make up your mind about Silent Sins?” she asks when I return, nodding to the brochures fanned out on the dresser in the corner.
Without replying, I set the shot glasses on the table and fill each.
“Let me guess,” she continues. “You’re still weighing up the facts.”
She makes a motion as if juggling melons in her hands, and I hand her the shot glass with a scowl on my face.
“Believe it or not, I made an appointment and met with someone from eNtimacy last week.”
I raise my glass for a toast, but Zoya doesn’t move and just gives me a bugged-eyed look.
“You did? As in, you’re actually considering giving it a shot? For real?”
Not waiting for her to clink her glass with mine, I throw my head back and toss down the liquid. “Considering, yes.”
I still need to leave my comfort zone, take a leap in the dark, blow up my insecurities, kill my fears, and blast a hole into my impenetrable wall. Easy-peasy.
Zoya seems to watch the emotions playing on my face, so I try to keep my expression blank. With a sigh, she grabs the bottle and fills up another round.
“You installed window sensors,” she remarks in a casual tone. “On the sixth floor.”
I don’t take the bait. “I did.”
She sizes me up with a calculated look. “You’re drifting along, Ella. You have to open up. Let people in.”
“You mean I have to open my legs and let a dick in.” I scoff, chugging shot number two.
“Wouldn’t harm from time to time.”
A heavy silence settles around us while I scrape at the bottle label to keep my hands busy. Zoya smacks her lips, and I’ve got the notion we’re nearing dangerous terrain.
“You never spoke much about Luka…”
“And I won’t start now,” I snap, firing a warning glare her way.
“Why not? The guy is in the past. He left.”
But he didn’t.
I left.
Snuck out in the middle of the night and took a cab to the airport, leaving everything behind—my clothes, my belongings, even my car. Pulling out all the stops so as not to leave any trace. Anything so he wouldn’t hunt me down.
I didn’t even stay to sell the house. Just transferred Zoya half of the money and contacted a real estate agent to take care of it, weeks after I moved here. Zoya has no idea that things with Luka had spiraled out of control six ways from Sunday. She has no idea how much I had to give up. How long I was on the run.
You’re still on the run, girl.
And I’m slowly running out of air…
“You think he’ll come here,” Zoya mutters in disbelief, her tone almost accusing. “You’re afraid he’s going to leave Belgorod and come after you. After all this time you still think—”
“No.” I shake my head, dragging four fingers down my cheek. “It’s just... I can’t shake him off, you know? He’s stuck to my skin like goo. Every guy with ash brown curls gives me the creeps. Every guy in a collared coat triggers my flight instinct. It’s, like… ingrained in my core.”
An ugly sheen of pity glazes over Zoya’s eyes and my teeth clack shut.
“Well, lucky for you, not every guy wears collared coats. And as far as I know,” Zoya carries on, pushing back her chair and getting ready to call it a night, “you step into the Silent Sins room naked. So, no worries here.”
I shake my head with a chuckle and see her to the door. She turns to me, her eyes boring into mine as she delivers her parting gift in the form of an order.
“Sign up for that case study, Elenka.”
I pin her with a deadly gaze, one she chooses to ignore.
“You’re a tough girl,” she concludes. “You need some tough love. Simple as that.”
The people bustle about in front of the imposing building, hurrying to get inside and find shelter from the pouring rain.
Not me. A slug could outrun me right now.
Every instinct in my gut screams at me to turn tail and drive back. Instead, I clutch my bag tighter and drag my feet over the ground, each step harder than the last.
When I reach the revolving doors, I halt. People grimace as they have to elbow their way past me, but I ignore them, wringing my hands as I debate what to do. The bag feels heavy on my shoulder. It will be a lot lighter when they’re done with me.
You can still change your mind. You can still go home and flush your anguish with a bottle of vodka. You can still—
Someone waves from the other side of the glass, jolting me out of my misery, and I tentatively raise my hand in greeting, my smile half-assed contrary to Kate’s grin.
Damn. Guess I have to bite the bullet now.
Pushing my wet hair out of my face, I step inside at the same time as Kate sweeps over to me. Wide pants in baby blue flutter around her legs, making her appear five inches taller with her heels hidden underneath.
“Ella, I’m so happy you came.” She places a hand on my leather jacket and guides me through the busy lobby. “Perfect timing.”
Gathering from the wink she throws at me, my face seems to give away my trepidation, and it’s only when we’re alone in her office that she slides her hand from my shoulder.
She gestures for me to take a seat. “Coffee, black, sugar—right?”
“Yeah.”
<
br /> Kate is pampering me today, eager to get my signature and receive a big, fat commission. But I won’t let her push me. I haven’t made a decision yet.
Yes, you have. Why else would you drive here in this shitty weather?
“I know that face,” she says when she hands me my coffee. “I’m pretty sure this is how I look at the dentist waiting for a root treatment.”
I snort. “That bad, huh?”
“You’re cautious. Nothing wrong with that.” Adjusting her blazer, she resumes her place behind the desk. “It’s okay to have doubts.”
Her eyes drop to my bag. She knows what’s inside. My identity. My privacy. My life.
Reluctantly, I open the zipper.
“Here’s the thing.” I clear my throat, pulling out a thick folder and placing it onto the table. “I’ve gone over the terms on your website. eNtimacy guarantees that all personal information stays a hundred percent confidential. Nothing will be shared, distributed, or reach the public in any other way. Ever.”
“Correct,” she confirms with a nod.
I lay a hand on the folder, leaning forward and locking my eyes on hers. “I need your word that you’ll keep this locked up in a vault with seven seals and throw the key into the ocean. I mean it.” My throat bobs with a hard swallow. “This can’t fall into the wrong hands. Not my name, not my address, not my social security number. Nothing.”
I keep my steely expression in place as I let my words sink in, my eyes boring into hers.
Kate draws a deep breath. “Do you know what kind of people sign up for Silent Sins?” She scrapes a finger over her lower lip. “People with secrets. People with baggage. People with lots of shit to hide. That’s why it’s called Silent Sins.”
With a last glower, I slide the folder over the table, sealing the deal the moment Kate’s fingers touch the edges.
Funny. I don’t have lots of shit to hide. Just a tiny thing. Just two words.
I’m not so stupid as to hand over my real name, putting my personal safety on the line. They’ll get my signature confirming that all the information I provided is accurate, but the birth certificate is as fake as it gets. Ella Jenkins is my name. Ella Jenkins is my life.
“Shall we begin?” she asks, and I nod, my fingers digging into the armrests. “Okay, we’ll start with the NDA first.”
Opening a drawer, she fishes out a clipboard with a three-page document and hands me a pen. I scan each paragraph, although I’ve already memorized the preview on their website.
“You agree that eNtimacy is the owner of highly valuable propriety information as well as the matching system and member profiles,” she says. “Furthermore, you agree that we’re allowed to conduct criminal background screenings and give us access to all your social media accounts so we can guarantee that—”
“I don’t have any social media accounts,” I say, cutting into her speech, and her eyes grow wide.
“No Facebook? No Instagram? No Twitter?”
I purse my lips. “I had a MySpace account when I was a kid, but don’t ask me about my username because I wouldn’t remember.”
Kate chuckles. “Noted. Uhm, one last thing... eNtimacy assumes no liability if you get pregnant.”
No worries. Hell will freeze over first.
“And we don’t guarantee that you never cross paths with your match,” she adds.
My head bobs with a nod while I jot my signature down on the dotted line. “Not that I would recognize the other, right?”
“Wouldn’t you?” she challenges with a secretive smile as I reach for my coffee. “Wouldn’t you recognize the man who whispered into your ear when you hear his voice? Or recognize the scar on his back—the one you’ve touched countless times before?”
Huh. I haven’t considered this. A disturbing thought, seeing as my rough, Russian accent is my trademark. Then again, I’m not exactly a chatterbox, and the rare times I speak, I usually talk to the female population.
Kate slides a stack of papers over the table, and I groan into my cup of coffee, annoyance written all over my face.
“I know it’s a lot, but we need to give the algorithm a comprehensive profile so it can work out your most compatible matches. The questionnaire is divided into four parts. The basics, a personality test, some questions on your sexual orientation and interests, and miscellaneous. I’ll answer any questions you might have on the go.”
With a sigh, I put down my cup and start filling out the questionnaire.
The basics are a breeze: age, gender, ethnicity, occupation, religion, education level, and whatever. After a bunch of health questions about allergies and illnesses, there’s more personal stuff like hair color, skin color, marital status, interests, blah blah blah.
The personality part is torture. All those nasty questions with the sliding scales ranging from ‘describes me well’ to ‘doesn’t describe me at all.’ Any shrink would take to their heels if they analyzed my profile. Optimistic or pessimistic? Introverted or extroverted? Strong or weak? Adventurous or not?
I throw Kate an uncertain glance from under my lashes. This feels like a test, one I’m going to fail big-time.
She responds with a reassuring smile. “There are no wrong answers, Ella. Remember, people with secrets.”
Noted.
The sexual interests part is easy and rather short in comparison to the rest. A few questions about sexual diversity, fetishes, and taboos. I blot out most of it. No sadism or masochism, sorry.
“What about miscellaneous?” I ask when I finally reach the last part.
“Write down the names of your closest friends and relatives. You can also let us know which matches you refuse, like men with long hair or different skin color or a specific religion. You can’t see the other, but you can still let us know about your dislikes.”
I nibble at my bottom lip, twirling the pen between my fingers. I don’t care about skin or hair, but…
“No Russians,” I declare, half expecting Kate to throw me a wry look, but she just nods.
“We’ll take it into consideration.”
No, I don’t hate my own ethnicity, but I don’t want to be locked up in a dark room with a guy who reminds me of Luka the second he opens his mouth. Better to play it safe.
After Kate takes my measurements—size, weight, and God knows what—along with a few profile pictures from different angles, she retrieves a black bracelet about as thick as my pinky.
“This is your identity card when you enter The Room, used for check-in and check-out.” She stretches it like a rubber band, and then flips it around to show me two buttons—one yellow, one red. “Remember?”
“Yellow is for ‘piss off,’ and red is for ‘get me out.’”
“Yes,” she says with a chuckle and hands me the silicone bracelet. “Now that we’ve gathered all the necessary information, we can start running the algorithm. You’ll have to take a rapid HIV test before you go, but as soon as the algorithm spits out the results, we’ll connect the bracelet with your account and grant you access to our private online platform.”
Nodding, I shove the bracelet into my bag. “How long will that take?”
“Usually about twenty-four hours. I’ll call you when I receive the results. You get your best three matches, and we set up a meeting with your top match.”
She stands from her chair, and I down the rest of my coffee before I follow suit. “What about the other two matches?”
“They are your reserve for now. If your top match doesn’t meet your expectations or you decide it’s time for a switch and would rather meet someone else, we can go on to the next one. You can also try out each of them if you wish.”
I shoulder my bag, squinting at her. “What if I don’t like all three?”
She laughs as if I just made a joke. “We can always let the algorithm do another run, but I can assure you, this has never happened before.”
My eyebrows shoot up to my hairline, and Kate winks.
“eNtimacy isn’t the wo
rld’s most successful dating agency for nothing. We’re here to find you the best match.” After a dramatic pause, she rests a hand on my shoulder and adds, “And we never fail.”
Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of.
Family dinners with the Crawfords are like a sample of Pinot Noir. Sweet on the palate but dry in the finish.
Hence, my wine choice tonight.
“We’ll take a bottle of Bordeaux,” Brooke orders, slapping her menu shut and shoving it at the server without a glance.
“I’m going for a glass of Bellini Vin Santo, please,” I add, ignoring Brooke’s harrumph.
Nick snorts from opposite me. “Since when do you drink white wine?”
“He doesn’t,” Brooke chimes in with an edge to her voice. “He just needs to act out again.”
I narrow my eyes at her when I say, “I’m not in the mood for something sour tonight.”
The server throws us wary looks, his white-gloved fingers twitching until Nick has mercy on him and dismisses him with a nod.
Brooke juts out her chin, the motion making her diamond earrings glitter in the light. Five carat unearthed from the Golconda mine in India. Another side fact—Vincent’s gift to her on their sixth wedding day.
A sharp look from Nick draws my gaze when Brooke fishes out a folding mirror from her clutch to check if the tenth hair from the hundredth row in her tight chignon is still in place. Play nice, his eyes plead while his fiancée shifts in discomfort next to him.
“This is a nice restaurant, Brooke,” Janice strikes up a conversation in an attempt to defuse the bomb.
Brooke plasters a shiny smile on her face. “It sure is. See the table over there?” She points to a dining table in front of the panoramic-view panels where an older couple enjoys a candlelight dinner. I go rigid. Here goes. “This is where Vincent proposed to me all these years ago.”
Now, it’s my time to send my brother a pointed look. See?
Nick rolls his eyes and drapes an arm around Janice just as the server arrives with our drinks and sets down a plate of scallops and black truffle.
