Exposed (26 page)

I consider it. “You really think so?”

He nods. “I really do. But the thing here is that you’d be doing it on your own terms. No persona. Just you being you. You’d do what you did before, meet and assess each client, and come up with a treatment plan or whatever you want to call it. Teach them manners. Like, basic manners. Make them wait tables. Make them do charity work, like at a soup kitchen or something. Whatever you think necessary to enact the change in them.”

“Where would I find clients? I—I don’t even know where to start.”

He smiles at me and squeezes my hand. “I can help. It’s sort of what I do, you know. I can even float you a startup loan.”

“I need to consider.”

He nods. “Of course. It’s a big step.”

I put it out of my mind as we exit the SUV and sit down to eat. The food is delicious, of course. I let him order for me, and thus do not know the names of any of the dishes. I just know that everything is heavy in garlic, features rice and olives and lamb and chicken and thick crispy pita bread. It is flavorful and filling, but not heavy. As we eat, Logan brings the conversation back around to the idea of me starting my own business.

“One thing I’d say for sure is that you wouldn’t work out of your home. You need a separation of work and home. Unless you’re, like, a computer programmer or something, you need your own space that’s just for you. Especially in the line of business you’re considering. You can’t have clients coming and going from your living room. That just invites familiarity, and you need to remain aloof. Untouchable. Imposing. The atmosphere would still have to seem informal, comfortable, but separate from your personal space.” He shovels a few forkfuls of rice into his mouth and then stabs a green olive, gesturing with the fork and the olive. “I think—I think . . .” He eats the olive, and I’m noticing that the more he discusses this, the more effusive he becomes. It’s endearing and adorable and inspiring, seeing his excitement over this idea. It’s contagious. “I think if you bought a town house kind of like mine, we could renovate it to suit your needs. Make a front room, a deep comfortable leather couch, a little kitchenette and bar, a bay window overlooking the street. And then make a separate entrance leading to your space, which would take up the rest of the house, use both upper and lower levels. Maybe make the bedroom a loft over the rest. Keep it open, you know? The door to your
space would need to be really secure, though, maybe use biometrics. Thumbprints and whatever, right?”

I interrupt his flow. “Logan. This all sounds wonderful, but . . .” I cannot help a sigh of defeat. “I don’t have a single dime to my name. I don’t own a single article of clothing of my own. Nothing. Where am I going to get the money to buy a town house in Manhattan, much less capital to open a business?”

He waves my objection away with his fork. “Told you, I’ll help you out. Run you a business loan.”

“I’m not taking your money, Logan. That would only—”

He sets his fork down, his gaze serious. “I didn’t say ‘give,’ Isabel, I said ‘loan.’ I’ll have my banker work up the paperwork for you. I know you wouldn’t take money from me, and that’s not what I’m offering. I’d have no stake in your business itself, other than the hope that you’re profitable so I see a return on my investment. I’m not looking to make a profit myself off this, so the terms would be pretty forgiving, low interest, make it easy for you to pay it off. This is to help you. Get you started.”

“Why, Logan?”

He makes a funny face. Sad, tender, loving, and confused all at once. “Because everyone needs help sometimes. And because I love you. I want to help you. I’d just give you the damn money if I thought you’d take it. I have more than I’ll ever be able to spend, even with giving a shitload away to charity. I want to see you succeed. I want to . . .” He sighs and leans back in his chair. “There’s selfish motivation at work here, too. If you’re successful, if you’re working for yourself, then you’re more likely to be happy. And if you’re happy, that just means things between us will be that much better.”

I can’t help a smile. “So even your selfish motivations are centered on my happiness?”

A grin. “Well, yeah. I mean, think about it. If you’re happy, then
your focus can be on me. If you’re happy, my chances of being able to keep you naked in my bed for entire weekends are that much better. And after last night and this morning, Isabel honey, I’ve got plans to keep you naked and sweaty for as long as you’ll let me.”

“I like the sound of those plans.”

His eyes heat up. “We could buy a little place in the Caribbean, stay naked on the beach for weeks on end.”

I close my eyes and dream. Pretend I’m successful. Making my own money running my own business. Logan is mine, all mine. There is no one else. I imagine being on a beach somewhere. With him. Lying naked on a blanket in the sand, the sun hot above us. His mouth all over me. I squirm, desire flushing through me at the idea.

“You’re picturing it, aren’t you?” He’s leaning toward me over the table, whispering in my ear. “You and me, naked on a beach?”

“Yes,” I breathe.

“Picture it, babe. Keep that image in your mind. We’ll make it a reality.”

There are a few moments of silence then, as we finish our food. My mind wanders, back to his bedroom, to us. To him, asleep on the couch. The notepad, the scribblings.

“Logan?” I have to know. I have to ask.

He glances up, eyebrows lifted in query. “Hmmm?”

“Who is Jakob Kasparek?”

He freezes. “You saw that.”

“Yeah. I saw. What did that note mean, Logan?”

He chews, swallows, breathes. “I did a little more digging. I managed to get a peek at the discharge papers from the hospital. The signature on your discharge sheet is Jakob Kasparek.”

“Not Caleb Indigo?”

He shakes his head. “No. Jakob Kasparek.” A lift of his shoulder. “I looked for that name, but I found nothing. Not a single thing. So
I don’t know anything except that whoever signed you out of the hospital was named Jakob Kasparek, not Caleb Indigo.”

I swallow hard. Try to breathe evenly. “I . . . I don’t mean to doubt you, but . . . are you sure?”

“One hundred percent. I’m sorry, I know that . . . probably doesn’t make things easier for you.”

“I just . . . I remember the day he signed me out. I remember him signing the paper. I—I didn’t see the signature, but . . . it just makes no sense. I don’t know. I don’t know.”

My head spins. Whirls. Aches. Nothing makes any sense. Nothing adds up. Nothing is true.

I feel panic boiling under my skin, gripping my throat and my mind. I have to shut it down. Think of something else. Don’t go there, not now. Not here.

“You said you give money to charity?” I ask, just to shift the conversation.

He shrugs, recognizing my gambit for what it is. “Yeah. I mean, my business is worth . . . well, a lot. Thirty million, last time I checked. I spread it around, make sure my people are raking in their own personal fortunes, because they do the lion’s share of the work. But even if I only kept thirty percent of the company’s profit, that’d be nine million a year, something like that. And I’m just one guy, you know? What does one guy do with nine million dollars a year? I keep my life simple. I own one home, and I stay around Manhattan for the most part. Take a few vacations here and there. But I like working, so I work a lot. Means I don’t spend a lot. I only have the one car, because driving in New York is a bitch so there’s no real point in owning a bunch of fancy cars. Not my thing anyway.” He waves a hand. “So I give a lot to various charities.”

“Like what?”

He’s clearly uncomfortable with this line of conversation.
“There’s one that does a lot of work with combat veterans, guys coming home from Iraq and Afghanistan. Therapy, retreats, shit like that. It’s a nonprofit I started with a couple other guys from Blackwater. They do a lot of really amazing work with guys that have PTSD, outside-the-box stuff, not just sitting in a fucking room talking about our emotions with a shrink. Soldiers hate that shit. We hate talking about what we did. We just want to put it behind us and not have nightmares, you know? So the focus is PTSD treatment that’s not just talking. Equine therapy, canine therapy. Art, music, sports. Stuff like that. Then there’s the education fund. That one directs money past all the red tape of bureaucracy and directly into school districts that need money, inner-city schools here in New York and all across the country. They’re expanding all the time, getting into new school districts with every check written. No testing requirements, no bullshit, no politicians skimming off the top. Just cold hard cash going into schools so kids can learn.” He opens up as he speaks, and his eyes and his expression reveal his passion. “I love that one especially. When I was a kid, my education wasn’t all that important to me. I was more concerned with getting high and into trouble with the fellas. But even if I had been, where I lived, I wouldn’t have gotten much of an education anyway. And San Diego is a lot better off than somewhere like L.A. or the schools in somewhere like Queens, you know? There’s just not enough money for the schools to do shit about shit for anyone.”

“That’s amazing, Logan,” I say.

He rolls his eyes. “It’s not. I just donate money. I’ve got it coming out of my fucking earholes, and charity is somewhere to put it so it’s not just sitting there. And besides, it’s a tax deduction.”

“What others are there?”

“Lots of little ones here and there. Helping at-risk teens, ’cause I’ve been one, women’s shelters, food banks, drug recovery clinics.”

“Don’t downplay what you’re doing, Logan. It makes a difference.”

He smiles at me. “I know it does. That’s why I do it. Warrior’s Welcome, the one that works with soldiers . . . I host retreats every year for that one. Get a whole bunch of rotated-out soldiers and Marines and security contractors, take ’em to a farm in upstate New York, and do a bunch of fun stuff. Trail rides, paintball games, basketball tournaments. The whole point of the retreats, though, is the Bonfire Bullshit. Make this huge-ass bonfire, tap a keg, and trade war stories. It’s a judgment-free zone, you know? That’s the point of it. You don’t tell stories to friends or family, ’cause they won’t get it. They
can’t
. When it’s a bunch of other dudes who’ve fuckin’
been there
, it’s different. Some guys don’t want to talk, and they don’t have to, but even listening to other guys’ stories, hearing the truth that there are people who know exactly what you’re going through, what it’s like, that’s cathartic as anything else ever could be.”

“You never cease to both surprise and amaze me, Logan.” I cup his cheek. “Every time I think I know you, you reveal something new.”

He shakes his head and laughs softly. “Yeah, I’m a real puzzle.”

“You are, though. You’re a successful businessman, yet you came from urban poverty and an at-risk childhood. You were in a gang. You watched your best friend get murdered. You’ve been to war. You’ve been to prison. Yet despite all that, you’re successful and well adjusted.” I give a lock of his hair a playful tug. “And you’re the sexiest man I’ve ever met.”

“You’re gonna give me a complex, babe,” Logan says.

We’re outside, standing on the sidewalk near his SUV. For once in my life, things feel . . . normal. I’ve got hope. I feel like I am a new person, becoming someone complete.

My heart feels full.

I love Logan. He loves me.

The world is afire with possibility.

And then my blood runs cold.

I see Thomas, first. Tall, frightening, skin black as night, teeth white as piano keys. He has something long and thin and dark in his hands, not a gun, but a stick of some kind. A bludgeon. I don’t know where Thomas came from. He was not there, not anywhere, and then in an eyeblink, there he is. I don’t have time to even open my mouth.

Thomas’s hand flashes in the bright golden light of early afternoon. There is a dull
thud
, and the stick connects with Logan’s head, right behind his ear, just so. Precise. A practiced move. I see Logan collapse, the light instantly bleeding out of his eyes.

I inhale to scream, but a hand covers my mouth. Len. I twist, kick.

“You think I wouldn’t find you?” This isn’t Len’s voice in my ear.

It’s yours.

I feel tears of despair prick my eyelids. No. No. Not this. Not you. Not again. Not now.

I feel motion, feel the whispering breeze of your passage from behind me to in front of me. There you are. Perfect, handsome. Calm and collected. Cool. I smell your cologne. Black suit, crimson shirt, top button loose, no tie. You have a pistol in your hand. Flat black, small in your large paw.

You glance at me. You do not smile. “I thought I could let you go,” you say. Your expression is . . . almost sad. Regretful. You glance at Len, behind and above me. “I was wrong.”

I feel something sharp touch my neck. A needle. It pricks me, and something cold rushes through me.

Darkness rises from the shadows at my feet. Reaches up for me.

I fight it.

You point your gun at Logan.

No!

No!
I scream, but it comes out a faint whimper.

I watch in slow motion as your finger tightens on the metal crescent of the trigger.

NO!

I want to scream and cry, but I cannot. I can only fade into darkness.

I don’t see it happen. I only hear a loud
BANG!

And then there is nothingness.

Only cold and black and
empty.

C
onsciousness eludes me. I seek it, struggling up through darkness, wallowing in silence, floating in absence of sound and sensation. Near consciousness. A slow, delicate sliding across the cusp of wakefulness. Where there is awareness of self, but no ability to truly perform higher functions.

I struggle. But it is like being wrapped up in a cocoon; it is a fight I cannot win. I succumb.

•   •   •

T
here is a fist in my hair. My head is tugged back. I’m moaning. I’m faking the sound, though, because the grip on my hair is painful, but the moans are expected.

I’m on my hands and knees. On a bed. In the dark. Silence, but for my moans, and the low male grunts behind me.

It hurts. Too big, too much. Too hard, too rough.

I’ve been here on my knees for an eternity. Taking the punishing, driving thrusts for forever. I’m raw.

I want it to stop.

But I’m not allowed to talk. Not allowed to make a sound but for the moans. I know the rules. I know the punishment if I break them.

I am expected to orgasm. But the breath washing over my neck smells of whisky, and orgasm seems to be out of reach.

A hand smacks across my buttock. “Say my name.” The order is a rough, slurred growl.

“Caleb . . .” I whisper it.

Another smack, to the other side. “Say it again.”

“Caleb.”

“Louder.” A harder smack.

The pain sears through me. These aren’t playful, sexual spanks. They are meant, they are punishment for a failing. They hurt.

But the pain at least is a distraction from other discomforts.

“Caleb!” I say it loudly.

“You’re going to come now.” Despite the whisky breath, the words are clear and lucid and not slurred.

I cannot. But I do not dare say this. Nor do I dare fake it as I do the moans. I am very bad at faking orgasms, I’ve learned. I am always caught out.

“Come, X. Come hard.”

“I—”

Upright now. Still behind me, the thrusts continue unabated. Fingers steal around my waist and between my thighs. It’s only a sizzle at first, but it’s something.

The fist in my hair tugs hard. Pulls my head back so I’m forced to stare at the ceiling. Whisky breath on my face, in my ear. “Come for me, X.”

The fingers at my core move swiftly, precisely, and lightning lances through me, hot and sudden. I do not have to fake it, thank god. The pleasure is a dull throb next to the anticipation of being released.

But I’m not released. The presence behind and within me pulls away,
moves to sit at the edge of the bed. I remain kneeling, hunting for breath. My scalp tingles.

But I’m not done. A hard hand grips my wrist and tugs hard. Pulls me roughly across the mattress, shoves me to the floor, to my knees. Fingers curl into my chin-length hair. Guide me to the waiting member. Hard, but not completely.

“Finish me.”

I do as I am ordered. With my hands, with my mouth. It takes a long time. I am tired. So tired. My jaw aches. My forearms ache as well from constant up-and-down motion. When the release comes, it is much less forcefully than usual.

I am allowed to climb into my bed then. I curl up on the mattress, in the center, and a blanket settles over me.

I note the absence of footsteps, feel the presence beside me. Standing. Watching me.

I allow my body to go limp. Even my breathing. Let my mouth fall open. After many long minutes of pretending to sleep, I smell whisky, hear breathing. I am not entirely faking this descent into slumber anymore. I am nearly asleep now.

“Isabel.” This is whispered, so low it is nearly inaudible. “My lovely Isabel.” Sadness. Regret. Longing. Misery. The whisper is fraught with these things.

Who is Isabel?

Lips touch temple. Gently, so softly it could have been a whisper of air, a figment of my imagination. “It wasn’t supposed to be this way.”

What wasn’t?

“I’m so sorry. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.”

I am losing the battle to stay awake. I fight it. This close to sleep, nothing seems real. I am delirious with exhaustion. I am imagining this, surely. I’ve fallen asleep and I am dreaming. Surely. Surely.

The man I have come to understand over the past year would not speak thus, does not experience such emotions. It is a dream.

Just a dream.

Only a dream.

•   •   •

W
ake up, X.” The familiar rumble in my ear.

I blink. Open my eyes, and experience a debilitating disorientation. Am I awake? Am I dreaming, still?

Where am I?
When
am I?

I am in my room. My blackout curtains are in place. My noise machine shushes with the sound of soothing crashing waves. My bed. The door to my bedroom is cracked, emitting a sliver of light. Through it I can just barely make out a slice of my living room. My couch. The Louis XIV armchair, the coffee table with its antique map.

What is going on?

Have I dreamed everything?

I am near tears. No. No. I didn’t dream Logan. That was
real
. He is
real
. It wasn’t a dream.

It wasn’t.

Was it?

I still have the fragments of memory floating in my head, you in my room, the aching, the exhaustion, the numbness. The near-sleep fantasy of a Caleb who experiences real emotions, for someone named Isabel.

Isabel.

I sit up. You crouch at my bedside, and when I sit up, you rise to your feet. You are imperious, cold, distant. Tan suit, dark blue button-down, top button undone. You fasten the middle button of the suit coat.

“Time to get up, X. You have a client in thirty minutes. I’ve prepared your breakfast.”

“Wha—um. What? Caleb? What am I doing here? What’s going on?”

You turn. “What do you mean, what’s going on? You have a client. Travis Mitchell, son of Michael Mitchell, founder and CEO of Mitchell Medical Enterprises.”

I shake my head. It aches. Feels thick. Memories jog and tumble with fragments of dream.

It wasn’t real? Logan, his town house on the quiet street. Cocoa. Naked in bed with Logan, savoring every touch, every kiss. I remember every moment. I can picture every scar, every tattoo.

“No.” My voice is raspy, hoarse. “No. Stop, Caleb.”

“Stop what?” You seem honestly confused.

“You’re fucking with my head. It won’t work.” I slide my feet out of bed and stand up. I am naked.

“Get in the shower, X.” A step toward me. “Now.”

I back up. “Stop. Just . . . stop.”

I run my hands through my hair, and that’s what shakes everything loose. My hair is short.

Mei.

Logan.
Oh god
, Logan. “You shot him!” I lunge forward, smash my fist into your cheekbone as hard as I can, suddenly full of fiery rage. “You fucking
shot
him!” I swing again, my other hand, connect with your jaw.

You rock backward, stunned, and then you catch my wrists and easily overpower me. A moment then, as I resist you. But you are far too powerful. You grunt, and throw me aside.

I land on the floor between the bed and the wall, and in a blur you are there, kneeling in front of me. Your hand latches onto my chin, gripping my jaw in a crushing vise grip.

“You . . . belong . . . to
me
.” Your voice is the venomous hiss of a viper. “You are mine. You are Madame X, and you are
mine
.”

I lash out with my heel, catch you off guard, and my foot impacts your chest, sends you toppling backward. I lurch to my feet. Back up. Catch against the corner of the bed.

“Fuck you, Caleb!” I spit. “
Fuck . . . you.
My name is Isabel Maria de la Vega Navarro. I am
not
Madame X, and I am not a possession. I do not belong to you. I will never belong to you again.”

You collapse backward against the wall, lying where you landed after I kicked you, as if you meant all along to lie there. “You
are
mine. You will always be mine. You’ve been mine since you were sixteen.”

“What? What does that mean?” I think of what Logan told me.

“I thought you had all the answers. I thought your precious Logan knew everything.”

“Don’t be petulant, Caleb.” I hunt in the darkness for some way to cover myself without having to pass you, since you are between me and the closet.

I end up tugging the sheet off the bed and wrapping it around me, letting the end drape behind me like the train of a wedding dress. After a moment, you stand up, brush off your suit. Glance at me. The cold hard mask is in place.

“You might as well have breakfast.” You exit my bedroom without a backward glance.

I follow. Everything is as it was. My books. Empty mantel, no TV, no radio, no computer. My library, the case with my antique books and signed first editions. The paintings—
Portrait of Madame X
;
Starry Night
. The breakfast nook. A single simple white porcelain plate, half a grapefruit, vanilla-flavored Greek yogurt, a mug of Earl Grey tea imported from England, a single square of organic wheat bread toast with a thin scrim of farm-to-table butter. I stare at the food, and my stomach rumbles. I want scrambled eggs with cheese, a Belgian waffle piled high with whipped cream and strawberries drowning in processed syrup, crispy brown bacon, white toast slathered thick with jelly.

I ignore the breakfast you’ve provided. Put four pieces of bread in the toaster. Find a container of cage-free eggs and an unopened rectangle of Dublin cheddar cheese. I set about making scrambled eggs, and I’m not sure how I know how to make them. But I do.

I crack four eggs into a bowl and whip them while the pan heats.

I’m struck by a memory:

•   •   •

M
ama is at the counter, a white bowl in one hand, a fork in the other, whipping eggs in a smooth circular motion of the fork. Music fills the kitchen from a small radio on the counter near the stove, guitar and a man singing in Spanish. Mama’s hips sway and bob to the rhythm. The morning is bright. Waves crash. I sit at a table, running my thumbnail in a crack in the aged wood, watching Mama beat the eggs. I wait for my favorite part: the liquid bubbling hiss when she pours them into the pan.

A seagull caws, and a boat horn goes BWAAAAAAAANNNNHHHH! in the distance.

Mama smiles at me as she scrapes the fluffy, cheesy eggs onto my plate, and then kisses me on the temple. Her eyes twinkle.
“Coma, mi amor.”
Her voice is music.

•   •   •

T
he memory is so visceral that I can smell the eggs, and her perfume, the salt of the sea, hear the seagulls and the boat horn. Tears slide down my cheek, and I hide them by ducking over the bowl as I finish whipping the eggs. I pour the beaten eggs into the pan, and the bubbling hiss makes the memory roar through me, making me feel as if making these eggs somehow connects me to my mother. A simple but powerful thing.

I add a generous amount of cheese as I fold and stir the eggs, soaking in the memory of Mama, eggs, and a breakfast by the sea.

The toast pops, and I spread butter thickly onto the squares of toasted bread. When the eggs are cooked, I slide them onto a plate, pile the toast onto the plate, retrieve the still-steaming mug of tea from the table, and take my breakfast to the couch. I am careful to make sure the sheet remains tucked around me, keeping me covered.

You watch from the kitchen, anger boiling in your gaze. I ignore you and eat my breakfast.

As I eat, I remember the note I saw beside Logan’s laptop.

When I finish, I set the plate on the coffee table and lean back on the couch, sipping at the tea. “Caleb?”

You saunter toward me. Take a seat on the Louis XIV armchair, cross one ankle over your knee, drum fingertips against the armrests. “Yes, X?”

You are trying to rile me, and it won’t work. “Who is Jakob Kasparek?”

You pale, your eyes widen, your lips thin. You cease breathing. “Where—where did you hear that name?”

“Who is Jakob Kasparek?” I repeat.

A hesitation. “No one. I’ve never heard of him.”

I eye you across the rim of my teacup. “Liar.”

“X—”

“Tell me the truth, Caleb.” I am proud of how even my voice is.

“I told you—”

“Lies, you bastard! You’ve told me nothing but fucking lies!” I lean forward, shouting.
“TELL ME THE TRUTH!”

You seem rocked by my spittle-spraying scream.

I feel feral. Violent. “Just tell me the goddamn truth. Tell me what happened to me. Tell me who you are. Tell me how long I was in the coma. Tell me what year the accident happened. Admit there was no mugger. Tell me—just—just fucking tell me, Caleb!” I sob the last
part. “I need to know. Why do you feel like you own me? Why can’t you let me go? Where is Logan?”

You shoot to your feet. “You sit there demanding answers. But I owe you nothing. Nothing!” You stalk toward the door.

I hurl the teacup at you, tea dregs spraying across the room. The delicate porcelain smashes against the door beside your face, and you halt, spinning in place.

“Are you crazy? You could have hit me!”

“I was aiming for you, you fucking asshole.” I clutch the sheet to my chest. Stand behind you, seething. “Who . . . the
fuck
 . . . is Jakob Kasparek? Because Caleb? That’s who signed me out of the hospital, not Caleb Indigo.”

Your shoulders slump. “Fine. I’ll tell you.” A glance at me. “But go put on some clothing.”

“I’m not going anywhere. Start talking.” I fear that if I leave for a moment, you’ll be gone and the door will be locked and I’ll be a prisoner all over again.

You perhaps understand me better than I thought. You vanish into my room—my
former
room—and return with underwear and a matching bra, a dress, and heels. You hand it to me and wait expectantly.