“Trust me,
sunshine. You’re not going back to that crappy little bungalow of yours until
I’m sure you won’t try anything stupid again.”
“So where were
you when I married Carlo?” she retorted.
“At home. Just
like now, a phone call away. You flew off to Vegas hush-hush. I would have told
you he was a mistake, which is exactly why you didn’t fill me in on the details
before you left.”
He had a point.
Knowing full well her true friends would have tried to talk her out of it, she
hadn’t told a soul until
after
she and Carlo had emerged from the Little
White Chapel as man and wife.
“I saw the
photos in last week’s rags,” he added softly. “How old is Carlo’s new arm
candy?”
“You mean his
latest ‘assistant’?” She couldn’t bite back the sarcasm. “I dunno. Twenty-two?
Twenty-three?”
“She looked
twelve in the pictures.”
“Which explains
Carlo’s attraction. The minute she starts to look her age, he’ll dump her for
another waif.” Her voice cracked on the last word. That had been Carlo’s
special term of endearment for her:
his waif
. Special, until she’d heard
him call his agent’s receptionist by the very same nickname. Of course, the
fact the two of them were stark naked in her bed at the time only added insult
to injury.
“Please don’t
tell me you tried to kill yourself over that pond scum.” Justin’s bitterness
cut into her musings.
“God, no.”
Dammit. Still lost in the memory of that painfully embarrassing scene, she’d
spoken the denial too quickly. When Justin didn’t reply, she added, “At least,
not entirely.”
“Belle—”
“Don’t ‘Belle’
me,” she snapped. “You have no idea what I’m dealing with.” She tucked her top
teeth over her bottom lip to keep the rest of the confession at bay.
“What
are
you dealing with?”
“Nothing,” she
mumbled. “Forget it.”
“Christ, Belle,
I wish you’d tell me.”
God, how she
wanted to tell him! To tell someone.
But saying the
words out loud: “I have terminal cancer,” would make them a reality.
And she just
wasn’t ready to face the deadly diagnosis yet.
Xavia’s office
door opened, then slammed shut with enough force to shake the walls. “Isabelle
Fichetti’s dying!”
She looked up
from her clipboard and into Sean Martino’s agonized expression. “So?”
He strode toward
Xavia’s desk. Each thud of his boots on her floor intensified a whirlwind of emotions
inside this cramped cubicle she called an office, whipping electricity with the
force of a hurricane.
This
was a former cop? From New York? Hell, he was
nothing like the cops she’d always come up against in life—that legendary blue
wall of arrogance so prevalent in her old neighborhood. In Sean Martino’s case,
toasted marshmallows were tougher.
“How the hell am
I supposed to stop her from committing suicide? Tell her she can’t die until
the Board deems it’s the right time for her? And why shouldn’t she be allowed
to have the final say on her final end?” His lips took a crooked downturn, and
lines furrowed his brow. When he spoke again, empathy and sorrow roughened his
tone. “Isabelle’s got brain cancer. Her last few months will be filled with
indignity and a loss of who she is. What kind of incentive is that for me to
keep her living?”
While Xavia
agreed with everything he said, she had her orders. The Board insisted on
foisting this challenge on him for some strange reason. The message she’d
received had, in fact, demanded she “…hold his feet to the flames.” No one
bothered to mention in doing so, however, she might become collateral damage.
His ire scalded
the air around them, hotter than a subway platform in August. “Do you suppose
dreams of unicorns and rainbows will make Isabelle Fichetti feel better?
Especially after the life she’s survived so far?”
“We don’t use
unicorns and rainbows for adults.” To gain some distance from his
intensity, Xavia pushed her chair away from her desk. The wall behind her
limited escape to a few feet at best, but an inch would suffice to break the
spell this man cast. “Forgive my candor, but the life she’s survived is of no
consequence to us, except as a means to understand how to soothe her fears and
keep her living until her time comes naturally.”
Violent energy
deepened Sean’s sunny orange aura to blood red, his mood from a mixed bag to
pure rage. “Are you for real? All her life she’s been used and taken advantage
of. A money-grubbing stage mom, an abusive stepfather, faithless friends—”
“She has Justin
Penn,” Xavia reminded him. “He’s loyal.”
Martino snorted.
“Big deal. The requisite gay friend all Hollywood actresses pull out of the
closet when their toy dogs won’t do. Isabelle has no one who truly loves her.
Not her philandering husband, that’s for damned sure. No children. No one. What
does she have to live for? Christ, no wonder suicide seemed like a viable
option for her. Surely the Board can understand her desperation.”
“Somehow I doubt
bounty hunters have the privilege of second-guessing the Board.” Despite the
turmoil his nearness created, her reply to Martino held a razor’s edge, keen
enough to bite. “Neither does anyone in the Probation Department. We do the
job. As a former NYPD detective, you must be familiar with that phrase.”
His neon blue
eyes narrowed to serpentine slits, and Xavia felt a sudden kinship with
Cleopatra seconds before the asp sank its teeth into her flesh.
On a sigh, Xavia
tilted her head back to stare at the ceiling. “Let’s be honest, Martino. You
and I both know things are not what they
seem
on this side of death.
Life doesn’t get better because you end your suffering on Earth. Suicide only
adds to a soul’s laundry list of problems. It certainly doesn’t end them.”
“Her case is a
little different, don’t you think? What kind of time am I buying her? A few
months? A year at best? Hell, it’s not like her life’s gonna get rosier if she
survives.”
“That’s not our
concern. You have your orders, and you will follow them to the letter.” She
dropped her gaze level to his again in the hopes he might read the severity of
the situation in her eyes. “Bear in mind, also, that you are a trainee in this
department. Your actions will be closely monitored by me. So much as bend a
rule, and I’ll break you.”
He jerked back
as if she’d slapped him. “What the fuck is your problem?”
“At the moment,
you
are my problem. I don’t know what you did to get thrown out of Bounty
Retrieval, but I’ll be damned if you’ll disrupt the smooth rhythm we have going
in Probation.” She shot a hand toward the door. “The officers out there? They
carry a workload of fifteen to twenty offenders at any given time. Right now,
you have
one
. And as you’ve already pointed out, she’s dying anyway. Her
peace will come more quickly than for most of our other cases. So don’t screw
up.”
Please. For my sake, as well as yours…
But of course,
he didn’t hear her plea. He probably wouldn’t heed her if he
had
heard
it.
“Are you sure
you’re a suicide?” he retorted. “Because as far as I know, people who kill
themselves do so since they feel things too deeply. Someone as stone-hearted as
you was more likely murdered and left to rot until neighbors reported the
stench.”
Her hands
gripped the arms of her chair, transferring the insult’s sting through her
fingertips then out into the highly charged air. “You have
no
clue what
brought me here.”
“I could say the
same thing to you. You don’t know what brought me here. Not from Earth, not
from Bounty Retrieval. What exactly did the Board tell you? That I’m some kind
of renegade? D
id
anyone happen to mention that I watched the Elders toy with and destroy two
souls I cared about? That afterwards, they carried on, business as usual? Like
it didn’t matter to them at all.” On a sigh, he leaned back, then shot forward
again until his face was a breath from hers. “Luc and Jodie were real, dammit.
They were in love.
Real
love. The kind of love
poets write about. And thanks to one lousy miscommunication, caused by the
Elders, they were punished with obliteration.”
Xavia stifled a wince. “None of that is my problem.”
“No.
I’m
your problem. And I
don’t give a damn about your smooth rhythm in this department. You may want to
blindly follow whatever heartless prick hides behind a bunch of clipboards and the
Council of Elders. Go right ahead. You and your guys out there, go ahead. Do
the job. My days of loyalty are gone, turned to pink glitter that spilled all
over the Chasm.”
She rose slowly, her eyes a steady glare at him. “You have your
assignment. I expect you to handle Isabelle Fichetti as an unbiased
professional. Just like everyone else, I expect you to do the job.”
“Fuck you.”
After he stalked out of her office, she sank into her chair, drained of
energy. Her mind replayed his words about the fate of his friends. “…Pink
glitter that spilled all over the Chasm.” Shivers racked her vaporous form, and
she wrapped her arms tight around herself, as if she were still solid and
together.
Please.
Don’t let that happen to me
.
~~~~
Isabelle
collapsed onto the bed in the pretty guest bedroom in Justin’s prissy Santa
Monica beach house. Water-hued silk swathed the oversized windows, the canopy
over the bed, even the headboard behind her. In keeping with the whole
shoreline theme he and Tony had created, delicate conch shells, polished to a
high gloss, took up space on the nightstands that would normally be reserved
for necessities like a clock radio, a phone, or a lamp. A fishing net filled
with colorful starfish draped around the French doors that led to the balcony
overlooking the Pacific.
God, how long
would she be forced to stay in this Barbie Dream House by the sea? Not that she
wasn’t grateful. Like her own personal Superman, Justin had flown into the
hospital and freed her from the clutches of the evil Dr. Valentine and Nurse
Nancy of the Frozen Face. Only he used nefarious means to get her agreement to
come here. He’d threatened to call Carlo. Given the choice, she’d allow a rabid
pitbull to nurse her back to health before she’d place herself in Carlo’s
hands. Which, of course, was the reason Justin issued the ultimatum.
Outside,
seagulls squawked, and she rose from the bed to step onto the balcony that
overlooked the wide expanse of private beach. That ten-foot walk sapped her
strength, and she had to grip the railing to keep from sinking to the ground.
Below where she struggled to stay upright, the rest of the world indulged in
life’s pleasures on a perfect southern California day. Joggers passed by, some
pushing toddlers in strollers, oblivious to her misery. A few yards down the
beach, several of Justin’s neighbors hosted a volleyball game.
The sudden loss
of equilibrium swept her into a maelstrom, and she sank to her knees.
“Where’s my
girl?” Tony sing-songed from the hall, but followed his greeting up with a,
“Sweet Jesus! Justin, get up here!”
Her vision
grayed and fuzzed, and she struck out blindly for purchase. Someone grabbed her
before she hit the ground.
“Easy, sweetie,
I gotcha.”
Tony. His voice
seemed to come from some black hole, but she felt his solid bulk beneath her
clawing hands. The dizziness whirled her faster, and the urge to retch
overwhelmed her.
“I don’t know
what possessed you to get out of bed and go for a stroll,” Tony growled, “but
if you were planning to hurl yourself off the balcony, it ain’t happening on my
watch.”
“Wasn’t…” She
struggled to speak over the nausea rising in her throat. “…gonna jump. Just
wanted…to…see…the beach.”
“Yeah, right.
Because you’ve never seen water before.” Cradling her against his chest, he
scooped her up and carried her away from the outdoor vista. He placed her
gently on the soft mattress in the middle of the Barbie bed.
Rolling onto her
side, she curled her knees into her chest to ease her roiling belly. “I fucking
hate everything about this room,” she managed through gritted teeth.
“Get better,
Belle, and I’ll let you paint the whole house black, if that floats your boat.”
Too bad it would
never happen. Oh, sure. She’d survived the overdose and the obligatory stomach
pumping that kept an ache in her abdomen and intensified the symptoms in her
head. But she would never “get better.” Not with malignant cells eating her
brain day after day.
“Just go away,
Tony,” she groaned. “Let me sleep.”
“Not until you
promise you won’t try to kill yourself again.”
“I promise I
won’t try while I’m here. How’s that?”
“Not good
enough, but it’s a start.” He bent to kiss her, his breath smelling of
wintergreen layered over tobacco.
“You might wanna
brush your teeth and gargle,” she remarked dryly. “The Life Savers aren’t
masking the cigarette you smoked.”
“It’s your
fault,” he bleated. “I haven’t had a cigarette in two weeks. Then Justin called
to say he found you on the bathroom floor.”
Great. So it was
her
fault. Tony had been trying to quit smoking for years, ever since
Justin’s mother had wasted away from emphysema. Hypnosis, acupuncture, patches,
gum: none of the traditional options could overpower his addiction to nicotine.
Rather than
admit his weakness came from his lack of self-control, he blamed external
forces every time he faltered. Today, her suicide attempt became his downfall.
She wanted to despise his weakness—and his finger-pointing—but couldn’t ignore
the hypocrisy. Wasn’t it weakness to see death as the only way to avoid her
wretched future?
Instead of
resenting him, she found herself empathizing with Tony. And wanting to help
him. He and Justin were the only people in the world who loved her—
truly
loved her. If they could do anything for her, they would. It was only fair she
return some of that love to them. While they couldn’t heal
her
, maybe
she could help
them
. She would eventually leave this earth—sooner than
anyone else knew. Whatever waited for her on the other side, she might score
big points with whomever was in charge if her best friends faced a happier,
healthier future, thanks to her. Even if she didn’t face judgment after her
death, she appreciated the idea that when Tony and Justin thought of her in
those days after she died, they’d be grateful they’d known her.
Maybe she could
succeed where all those other cure-alls had failed.
She sat up
slowly and faced a teary-eyed Tony. “I’ll make you a deal. You give up the
cancer sticks for good, and I promise not to try to kill myself again.”
He sniffed. “You
promise?”
She held up her
right hand. “Swear to God. You promise?”
A smile trembled
on his lips as he imitated her. “Swear to God.”
“Good.” She slid
farther into the crisp pink sheets and closed her eyes. “Now get outta here so
I can sleep.”