Perfect Strangers

Sometime near dawn, the rain tapers off. I lie drowsing in the warm sanctuary of my lover’s arms, listening to his heart thump slowly and steadily against my cheek, feeling the wonderful soreness in my body, the tender spots where he used his teeth on my skin and sank his strong fingers deep into my flesh as he took me.

He’s marked me. In more ways than one.

I’m trying not to think about it.

James murmurs, “You’re awake.”

“So are you, apparently.”

“I never went to sleep.”

I tilt my head back and look up at him. He gazes down at me with soft eyes and an even softer smile. His dark hair is mussed and he badly needs a shave, but he’s so gorgeous he takes my breath away.

He bends his head and presses a tender kiss to my lips, then adjusts my body against his, pulling me closer so I’m snug against his side. His shoulder supports my neck. Our legs twine together under the rumpled sheets. He rests his cheek on my forehead and toys with my hair with one hand, while the other glides gently up and down my bare back.

He traces the bumps of my spine with his fingertips, slowly and reverently, as if he’s memorizing the shape of each one.

It feels so right, lying here with him like this. So intimate and right.

A well of raw emotion makes me hide my face in his neck and squeeze my eyes shut. I draw a breath and fight the feelings back. Get your shit together. This isn’t personal. This is sex. This is fantasy land. It’s nothing more than a summer fling.

“I know,” James murmurs, his lips moving against my hair. “I’m struggling with it, too.”

I’m so startled by his uncanny perception that for a moment all I can do is lie there in shock. When I’ve recovered, I say too loudly, “That is so weird. You have to stop doing that!”

“I can’t help it.”

“You could not say anything!”

“I’d still notice.”

“Maybe, but I wouldn’t feel like you’ve hacked straight into my medulla oblongata!”

He chuckles, giving me a squeeze. “You mean your cerebrum.”

I scowl at his chin. “What?”

“The cerebrum performs higher intellectual functions like processing speech and emotion. The medulla oblongata handles involuntary bodily functions like sneezing or vomiting.”

I mutter, “I’m about to show you a few involuntary bodily functions right now, I’ll tell you what.”

He squeezes me again, trying to smother his laughter because he knows I’m pissed.

“Stop being smarter than me. It’s annoying.”

He adopts a serious tone. “Sorry. I forgot about your advanced degrees.”

“Exactly.”

“It’s probably an insult to your proud feminism, too.”

“Dude, you have no idea.”

He pauses. “Did you just call me ‘dude?’”

“I grew up in San Diego. If you’re not properly programmed with surfer slang by your senior year in high school, they don’t let you graduate.”

The moment it’s out, I realize my mistake. I close my eyes and rest my head against his shoulder, hoping he won’t notice what I’ve done.

But I’ve forgotten whom I’m dealing with. The man is a savant. He notices everything.

“A California beach girl,” he says, nuzzling his nose into my hair. “Does this mean you know how to surf?”

I debate whether or not to call Touchy Subject, but decide the cat’s already out of the bag on this one. Might as well go with it. “I tried to surf as a teenager, but it turns out staying indoors lost in books for an entire childhood doesn’t make a person particularly athletic.”

“You couldn’t get up on the board?”

“I wish it were that simple. Not only could I not stand up, I nearly drowned.”

He replies with complete confidence, “I could teach you how to surf. I have excellent water skills.”

“Water skills? You say that like you took a course or something.”

“An advanced course, yes. Water competency is fundamental.”

It’s a good thing I don’t use Botox, because I scrunch up my forehead so hard in response to that bizarre statement that I would’ve cracked my face.

After a time, James says, “Go ahead. Ask me.”

His tone is indulgent. He doesn’t sound worried. “What about Touchy Subject land?”

“I’ll waive it this time. But I get one free pass in return.”

“I just gave you a free pass when I said where I grew up!”

“Yes, but that was by accident. I want one on purpose.”

I look up at him and study his face. “You are a profoundly strange person.”

He smiles. “Right back atcha, hot stuff. Do we have a deal?”

Defeated, I sigh. “Okay. Deal.”

“Good. So you’ll want to know about the water competency, then.”

“Yes.”

“Were you thinking I’m secretly a Navy SEAL, something along those lines?”

I consider it. “Not really, but now that you mention it, you do seem as if you could’ve had some formal military training.”

He gazes down at me with arched brows. “Really? How so?”

“You’re very…alpha.”

He bursts out laughing. “Alpha?”

I say sourly, “As opposed to beta, yes.”

“Is this how all feminists think of men? In terms of Greek letters?”

I roll my eyes at that. “Not alpha like the Greek letter, alpha like the wolf. The leader of the pack. The strongest one who protects all the others.”

His laughter slowly dies until he’s staring at me with his signature intensity and blistering focus.

I say, “I can see the gears turning.”

“I’m only giving you one free pass.”

“I’m not asking, I’m just saying.”

“What exactly are you saying?”

“Doesn’t matter. Back to the water competency question. Spill.”

James gazes at me. The silence grows until it becomes unbearable. My mind crackles with a million different theories, each more implausible than the last, everything from him once being a movie stuntman to a water boarding expert, interrogating enemy combatants in a filthy Guantanamo Bay prison cell.

When he finally answers, his tone is matter-of-fact. “Growing up, I was the lifeguard at our community pool.”

My disappointment is crushing. “Oh.”

Seeing how crestfallen I am at hearing his simple explanation, he starts to laugh again, only this time he can’t stop.

I pound a fist on his chest. “Shut up, you jerk!”

He drags me on top of his body and laughs and laughs, his head tipped back into the pillow and his eyes closed, arms tight around me so I can’t escape, even as I squirm and struggle.

“You should’ve seen your face!” He hoots. The entire bed shakes with his laughter. “You looked like someone just told you Christmas was cancelled!”

“Ha ha,” I say drily. “Laugh it up, lover boy, because the next time you fall asleep and you’re gently snoring, I’m going to sneak into your apartment and drop a worm into your open mouth. You won’t be laughing then.”

James abruptly stops laughing and looks at me. “Worms get a bad rap. They’re highly nutritious and actually don’t taste so bad, once you get used to the texture.”

I stare at him with my mouth hanging open until he dissolves into gales of laughter once more.

I sigh in disgust, rest my head on his broad chest, and wait for him to get it out of his system.

“God, you’re so fucking adorable.” He peppers kisses all over the top of my head.

Glaring at the dresser across the room, I say, “Glad you find me so amusing. Maybe I’ve got a future in stand up comedy.”

He takes my face in his hands and kisses me deeply, his tongue searching my mouth. When he pulls away and speaks, his voice has gone husky and his eyes have grown hot. “Yes, I find you amusing. Amusing and addicting and fascinating and so goddamn sexy I could spend an entire lifetime with you and never get my fill.”

Shaken by the intensity and unexpected pleasure of his words, by the rule-breaking honesty of them—and especially by the mention of ‘an entire lifetime’—I have trouble drawing a full breath. In a small, strangled voice, I say, “You’re not so bad yourself.”

That earns me a smile. He whispers, “You know, for such a badass brilliant writer, you get awfully tongue-tied when someone gives you a compliment.”

“Writing is different than speaking. It’s much harder to be coherent out loud than it is on paper.”

He gazes at me thoughtfully, stroking his thumbs over my cheeks. “Write it down for me, then.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean instead of a smartass response to what I said, write down what you really felt.”

I stare at him, alarmed, my eyes growing wide. “But…we’re not getting personal.”

His blue eyes lock onto mine with the force of a gravitational field. He says gruffly, “You’re too smart to believe that.”

“James—”

He flips me over and rolls on top of me, so quickly I let out a startled peep. Then, with his fingertips gripping my scalp and his eyes blazing blue fire, he says, “You said you didn’t want me to ask you any personal questions, and I’m trying to respect that. I’m trying to respect that, for whatever reason, you don’t want me to get close.”

My heart bangs around wildly inside my chest. “The reason is that I’m leaving the country at the end of the summer.”

“No, it’s not,” comes the hard and fast response. “The real reason is because you’re afraid.”

“You’re conveniently forgetting your cryptic statement about how it wouldn’t be good for me to belong to you. And your sudden, unexplained disappearance during dinner, and how you said you’re fucked up. And let’s not forget about your abnormal obsession with death. Is all that supposed to make me feel secure about opening up?”

“I never said I was obsessed with death,” he says, teeth gritted.

My reply is icy. “Tell the truth now, James.”

“Just because my latest collection features portraits of people grieving doesn’t mean—”

“What did you see when you first spotted me at the café?”

His breathing rough and his nostrils flared, he stares down at me in silence.

“I know exactly what you saw,” I say quietly, looking him in the eye. “And it wasn’t all butterflies and rainbows.”

“I saw a beautiful woman I wanted to get to know.”

“Bullshit. You saw a woman walking around in her own personal graveyard. The same way, I suspect, you’re walking around yours.”

The expression on his face is indescribable. It’s part anger, part frustration, and part horrified surprise.

Because I nailed it. I nailed that damn nail right on the head.

Just as fast as he rolled on top of me, he rolls off. Staring at the floor, he sits on the edge of the mattress and drags a hand through his hair. Unsettled, I sit up, draw my knees to my chest, and pull the sheets over my breasts, watching him.

After a while, he says, “Do you want me to go?”

“I want you to be honest with me.”

His tone is flat. “You really don’t.”

Heat creeps up my neck. I stay quiet for a moment to get my anger under control, then say, “That was condescending and not appreciated.”

He turns his head and stares at me over his shoulder. His eyes are as flat as his voice. “Did you ever see the movie The Matrix?”

“What the hell does that have to do with this conversation?”

“Just answer the question.”

The heat in my neck spreads up to my ears, where it settles, throbbing. “Fine. Yes, I saw it. And?”

“When Morpheus approaches Neo and offers him two pills—a red one that will reveal the truth that the world he knows is an illusion, or a blue one that will allow him to stay blissfully ignorant and return to his old life—which pill would you choose, knowing what comes after?”

I glance at the tattoo on his shoulder, the strange Latin phrase and the rows of thin black lines, and a cold wind slices through me. My mouth goes dry.

James says with hard finality, “You’d choose the blue pill.”

“Is that supposed to be some kind of allegory for you being a red pill?”

“No. It’s supposed to reveal how much reality you’re willing to deal with. Because the truth is that sometimes ignorance is a far wiser choice. Wiser and safer for everyone concerned.”

He stands and starts to get dressed.

Filled with ambivalence and a sharp, unnamed fear, I watch him pull on his briefs and trousers, socks and shirt. He buckles his belt with quick efficiency, slips his feet into his expensive black loafers, and retrieves his rumpled suit jacket from where he discarded it to the floor.

Then he stands gazing down at me in bed, his eyes dark.

“Those rules you made for us were smart. No questions, no strings…it really is better that way. Better for you, mostly, but also for me, because if I didn’t have that framework to operate within, I would’ve already decided that I was going to give you a red pill, consequences be damned.”

He turns and makes his way across the room. At the doorway, he pauses and glances back at me. “If you want to see me again, Olivia, you know how to reach me. And if you don’t, I understand. If I don’t hear from you within two days, I’ll take that as my answer.”

He turns and walks out.

“Shut the front door! What on God’s green acre was the man talking about?”

“I don’t know, Kelly, but it freaked me the fuck out.”

I pace back the other way in front of the large desk in Estelle’s library, the phone’s receiver clenched in a death grip in my hand. My cell is still in pieces on the kitchen floor, so I had to use a landline.

Though it’s almost midnight in New York, I’m so discombobulated by what happened with James that I couldn’t wait to call Kelly until it was morning there.

“So what’re you gonna do, babe?”

I blow out a hard breath. “Do you think Mike might be able to look into him? Just to find out if I’m dealing with a psychopath or not?”

There’s a shrug in her voice. “Don’t see why not. I’ll ask him right now.” She covers the phone with her hand. I hear muffled shouting, a brief silence, then more muffled shouting. Then she comes back on the line. “He’ll take care of it. Just email me your stud’s name and whatever other info you’ve got.”

“Oh shit.”

“What?”

“I don’t know his last name.”

Kelly snorts. “Slut.”

“I can get it from the building manager.”

“He lives in the same apartment building?”

“Yeah.”

“Then why don’t you just go break into his place and have a nice look-see around?”

I stop pacing. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

She says matter-of-factly, “Make sure you look in his medicine cabinet. Everyone’s juicy secrets are in their medicine cabinets, and you don’t need a password to get in like you would with a computer.”

“So that’s how you found out I was on anti-depressants.”

“Oh, hon, that was no state secret. You went from walking around like a zombie to walking around like…well, like a medicated zombie.”

Good to know I was so transparent. “Getting back to James. Mike won’t get in trouble for looking into him, will he? Because if it’s going to be any kind of risk, I don’t want him to do it.”

“Don’t worry about that. Mike’s got the clearance. Just get me your boy toy’s full name and you’ll have the real 4-1-1 by the end of the day.”

A long yawn comes over the line, making me feel guilty. “I’ll let you get back to bed, Kell. I’m sorry for bothering you so late.”

“Don’t be. This shit is gold. I can’t wait to see what Mike digs up on your stud.” Her voice brightens. “Hey, do you think he’s in the witness protection program?”

Great minds think alike. “Doubtful. Would you be putting on art shows all over Paris if you were in the witness protection program?”

“Hmm. Good point. But honestly, even if he was, would you really want to give up that beautiful twelve-inch dick?”

I say seriously, “I regret telling you anything about that.”

“Ha! As if! You painted such a vivid picture of his junk, I can see the damn thing like it’s been branded onto my brain!” She sobers. “But we should talk about outcomes.”

“Why does that sound ominous?”

“So, for instance, what if it turns out that he’s a member of the mob?”

“What do you mean, ‘what if?’ I run very far away is what if!”

She sounds doubtful. “Really? You’d walk away from a man who goes down on you before he even says hello just because he’s involved with the mob?”

“Just because? Who am I talking to right now? What’ve you done with my best friend?”

“So the mob is a hard no.”

“Of course it’s a hard no! Kelly!” I rap the receiver several times on the top of the desk. “I can’t be hearing you right!”

Her tone is casual. “I mean, nobody’s perfect. And a big dick makes up for a lot.”

I make a face at the phone. “How much wine did you have with dinner?”

She ignores me. “What if he’s a spy?”

I sigh, looking at the ceiling and shaking my head. “Same answer as if he’s in the mob.”

“An escapee from a mental institution?”

“Okay, this conversation has reached terminal velocity of silliness. Time for you to go to bed.” But that one unsettles me, just a bit.

“Ugh, you’re ruining all my fun. Fine, I’m off to bed. Technically, I’m already in bed, but I’m off to sleep. Not that I’ll be able to sleep because of that story about your orgasmic little liaison in the Russian section of the bookstore, but whatever. I’ll have nice dreams.”

I told her everything that happened with James since we last spoke. It’s not as if I had a choice: she outright demanded the details as soon as she picked up the phone.

I don’t think she was joking when she said she’d be living vicariously through me. Mike seems to have slacked off in the sex department of late.

Kelly and I say our goodbyes and hang up, then I return to the kitchen and get Edmond’s number from the note Estelle left on the fridge. I start dialing, but stop after taking a look at the clock.

It’s six in the morning.

Then I get the brilliant idea to look at the wall of mailboxes in the mail room on the first floor. The building’s ten stories tall, and, from what Estelle said, there are four apartments on each floor. So there should be only forty mailboxes.

Each marked with a name.

There could be more than one James who lives in the building, but I’ll just have to give Kelly those names, too. Determined, I head into the bedroom to get dressed, then take the elevator downstairs.

Fifteen minutes later, I send Kelly an email composed of only two words.

James Blackwood.

Within minutes, she emails back.

Sounds like a movie star.

“Or an alias,” I mutter, staring at the screen.

I can’t shake the odd feeling that I’ve heard that name somewhere before.