Perfect Strangers

Back at the apartment, I’m a mess. I crave a drink, but am spooked that a team of masked men are about to burst through the front door and haul me off to the airport in an unmarked van. I need to keep my head clear.

So I wander from room to room, wringing my hands and fighting panic, going over everything Chris said to me at lunch and on his earlier phone call.

None of it computes. If he and I were characters in one of my novels, I’d have to give him an inoperable brain tumor the size of a grapefruit for his behavior to make sense.

When a phone rings somewhere in the apartment, I freeze and look around.

It’s not the house phone. And my cell is still where it fell, busted up and silent on the floor. But the ringing persists despite those facts, so I head tentatively to the kitchen, following the muffled sound.

It’s coming from a drawer next to the sink.

Feeling like I’m in a spy movie, I open the drawer and stare at the sleek black cell phone nestled in among a set of tea towels. The phone the size of a credit card that looks exactly like the one James has.

It rings and rings, insisting that I pick it up.

When I do, I realize the thing doesn’t have an Answer button. There aren’t any buttons on it at all. When I turn it over, the back side is as blank as the front. The only way I can tell it’s the back is because the surface is matte instead of shiny.

I shake it. When that doesn’t make the screen light up, I tap my finger all over the screen, hoping that will have some effect. When that fails, too, I sigh and simply hold the phone to my ear, jokingly saying, “Yo,” as if that will make it work.

In return, I hear James’s velvety voice. “Hello, sweetheart.”

I shout, “James!”

“Guilty. I see you found the phone.”

“What is happening right now?”

His low chuckle sends a wave of relief through me. “I noticed your cell had some kind of accident that left it in pieces, so I got you a new one. Do you like it?”

He says “got” not “bought.” For some strange reason, it feels as if that’s an important distinction. “Where are the buttons on this thing? When did you put it in the drawer? Are you already in Germany?”

I’m still shouting. For a moment, I think that’s the cause of James’s odd pause, but then I realize I’m wrong when he answers.

“Yes,” he says softly. “I’m in Germany.”

I go cold with horror.

I’m not supposed to know where he was going.

I’m not supposed to know he’s in clinical trials. Or that he has ALS.

Or that he’s dying.

Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck. Maybe he’ll think he told me where he was headed. I stand frozen with the phone clamped to my ear, my heart up in my throat, and wait for him to say something. What he comes up with doesn’t help matters much.

“Just breathe, Olivia. I can hear you panicking.”

I exhale in a huge gust and hobble over to the kitchen table, where I collapse into a chair. “I…uh…I…” I have no idea how I’m going to get myself out of this mess. Idiot!

“Let me hear you take a breath. A big one. Go on.”

I suck in a lungful like I’ve been drowning in the ocean and just broke through the surface. Tell him the truth. When he asks how you knew about Germany, just spill the beans. Admit everything. Be honest.

All my honking and wheezing makes him chuckle again. He drawls, “That asthmatic duck impression you’re doing is cute. Have you missed me so much? I’ve only been gone a few hours.”

“Yes, I’ve missed you.” I think of Chris at lunch and shudder. “I can’t wait until I see you again.”

He must hear something off in my voice, because his sharpens. “What’s happened?”

“Sweet Jesus, how can you read my mind over the phone?”

He growls my name. Bossy mode is now engaged. At least he’s distracted from the Germany thing. I sigh heavily and slump lower in the chair. “My lunch with Chris happened.”This is the property of Nô-velDrama.Org.

The silence crackles. “I want to demand you tell me everything, but I don’t want to be a nosy asshole. If you say we should change the subject, we will.”

I love his straightforward way of saying what’s on his mind while also respecting my wishes.

Debating how to answer, I decide that my messy personal life is the last thing he needs to be dealing with right now, away in another country trying to find a cure for the disease that’s trying to kill him.

“We haven’t spoken since we were divorced. He just wanted…” To have thugs kidnap me. I clear my throat before the lie, so hopefully it sounds more plausible. “To check in.”

After another crackling silence, James says, “He’s still in love with you. Seeing me at your apartment can’t have been easy for him.”

I smother the memory of Chris telling me he loved me in the men’s room and ask too loudly, “What makes you think he’s still in love with me?”

James’s voice turns stroking, the softest, warmest caress. “How could he not be? You’re the most perfect woman a man could wish for, Olivia. You’re the brass ring.”

My heart proceeds to do strange things. Weird, twisting gymnastic kinds of things. I swallow, breathing shallowly, letting myself sit with his beautiful words.

“You’re not saying anything.”

“Just enjoying the talents of your script writers. Boy, those guys are good.”

I hear voices in the background. Male voices. Male voices that aren’t speaking English…but they’re not speaking German, either. I don’t speak German, but it’s very distinct, and that definitely isn’t it.

In fact, it sounds much like the exotic language I heard—or imagined I heard—James murmur into my ear as I thrashed through an epic orgasm.

I listen to the sound of footsteps until the voices fade into the background and disappear. Either the men moved away from James, or he moved away from them.

His voice husky, he says, “I left something else for you in the apartment. Go check the left drawer of the dresser in the bedroom.”

My curiosity piqued, I rise and go to the bedroom. In the dresser drawer I find a square black box tied with a red ribbon. “You bought me another gift?” I ask, touched. “When did you find time to hide all this stuff?”

“Open it.”

“Let me put the phone down for a sec so I can use both hands.” I set the phone on the dresser and eagerly untie the ribbon, then lift off the top of the box. When I see the beautiful gold and diamond earrings with a matching necklace sparkling on a bed of white silk, I gasp.

Holy shit. These must’ve cost a fortune.

I blow out a breath and pick up the phone again. “James, this necklace is incredible. And those butterflies…I’ve never seen such pretty earrings in my life.”

He laughs, delighted by the awe in my voice. “That isn’t a necklace and earrings, sweetheart. Take it out.”

Not a necklace and earrings?

Confused, I pick up one of the diamond butterflies and discover that they’re attached to the chain by delicate chains of their own. Small gold clamps decorate the backs. When I lift the butterfly higher, more of the delicate chain unwinds from the bed of silk, which is when I realize the end of the chain also has a butterfly with a small gold clamp.

The whole thing makes the shape of a Y, with a gold circle the size of a quarter in the center where the three chains are attached.

I hold it up and stare at it, trying to figure it out. “I don’t get it.”

“Think, love. Where might I like to use three small clamps on your body?”

My eyes go wide and my voice gets high. “I’m guessing…not on my toes?”

“Somewhere a little more sensitive,” he murmurs, his voice warm.

Probably not my earlobes or fingertips, either. I gulp, starting to sweat.

“Put it on and send me pictures.”

“I have no idea how to put this thing on. I might permanently damage something. Besides, I’m technology challenged. I don’t even know how to use this phone.”

If I thought that would get me off the hook, I was wrong. James has everything covered.

“The phone is voice activated, and my number’s already programmed into it. Just point it at yourself and say, ‘Take a picture and send to James.’ Go ahead and try it.”

I hold the phone a foot away from my face and repeat his direction. There’s the smallest electronic ding, and that’s it. The screen stays pitch black. I put the phone back to my ear. “How do I know it worked? I can’t see anything on my end!”

“Because I have a picture of you scrunching up your nose at me, that’s how. By the way, your hair looks great.” He switches back into bossy mode, his voice going dark. “Now take off all your clothes, put on the butterflies, and send me my pictures.”

“Um…yeah, I’m gonna have to take a pass on that, Romeo. If nudes of me ever leaked online, my publisher would drop me like a hot potato.”

“You know I’d never share pictures of you with anyone else.”

The hot possessiveness in his tone makes me smile. “Yes, I do. But phones have a nasty habit of getting hacked.”

“That phone is unhackable. Anything you send to me is encrypted with ciphers that can’t be broken.”

When I pause for too long, wondering why he’d own an unhackable phone, he says lightly, “I’ve got a buddy who manufactures them for the government.”

“Oh. Cool. Wait—does that mean the government can spy on me with this thing?”

He chuckles. “They don’t need a phone to spy on you.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“Don’t worry about it too much. If you’re not a bad guy, they’re not interested in you. Back to my pictures. Send me some.”

I scrunch up my face. “I mean, I want to? In theory? Because I know you’d like it? But honestly, it’s not really my thing. I wasn’t exaggerating when I said I’m technology challenged. I’d accidentally send a close up of my armpit. Which, in case you haven’t noticed, is not the armpit of a supermodel. There’s some serious random stuff going on in there. If armpit cellulite is a thing, I’ve got it. I’d rather rig myself up with this beautiful sex jewelry when you’re here in person to help me.”

His laugh is long, throaty, and beautiful. “Fuck. You’re criminally adorable.”

For some strange reason, that comment makes me think of Chris. Crying-in-the-men’s-room Chris, who suddenly thinks he’s in love with me.

“Yeah. I’m a real prize, all right.”

Whatever James hears in my answer makes his voice turn sharp and demanding. “What does that mean?”

His acute perception is getting to be so commonplace, I’m hardly surprised by it anymore. But still, I don’t want to dig into this particular dirt. “I was only being sarcastic. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Are you aware, Olivia, that you’re a terrible liar?”

My sigh is deep and resigned. “Okay, fine. But don’t be mad when I tell you, because you asked.” I wait until he growls his assent to continue. “Chris was acting really strange at lunch today. He said a lot of weird things.”

James’s voice turns deadly soft. “What things?”

Oh dear. “Really, it’s nothing.”

He insists, “Tell me.”

I laugh nervously. “Like I should get back to New York right away.”

“Because?”

Uh-oh. That sounded murderous. I should change the subject. “Ugh. Because he’s an idiot. Forget I said anything.”

There’s a long, hard silence. “Did he threaten you?”

“No!” I pause. “I mean, not the way you mean it.”

The sound of teeth grinding together comes over the phone. “I’m tearing out my fucking hair over here.”

“That’s why I didn’t want to say anything. I don’t want you to worry.”

“Too late. If you don’t tell me everything, I’m on the next plane back to Paris.”

What’s changed so much about me lately that I’ve now got men flying all over the world in a panic to fling themselves bodily onto my doorstep? “That’s not necessary.”

“It will be if you don’t start talking.”

I sit on the edge of the bed and pinch the bridge of my nose between my fingers, the golden chain dangling over my thighs. “He said if I wasn’t back in New York in twenty-four hours, he’d arrange for someone to make sure that happened.”

Without missing a beat, James snaps, “Get out of that apartment! Now!”

Opening my eyes, I frown at the wall. “Excuse me?”

“Go to my place. It’s unit 912. There’s a keypad on the wall next to the door. Type in your name backward and it will open.”

Type in my name backward and his door will open. Like my mouth is open. Like the top of my head is open, because it just exploded. “What?”

“Do it. Pack your bags and get out. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going. Get over to my apartment—right fucking now—and wait for me there.”

The line disconnects.

Stunned, I stare at the phone in my hand. My heart starts to pound. Anxiety sizzles through me. Looking at the blank screen, I say, “Call James!”

When I put the phone back to my ear, it’s ringing. He picks up and growls, “Goddammit, woman—”

“You don’t get to curse at me right now!” I holler, red-faced. “Tell me what the hell is happening or I’m not going anywhere!”

His breathing is ragged. His words come out sounding like he swallowed a handful of rocks. “You said you trusted me.”

“James—”

“Did you or did you not say you trusted me?”

I look at the glittering diamond butterflies I’m holding, and curl my hand around them, wishing I’d never opened my big fat mouth. “Yes,” I admit grudgingly.

His rough exhalation holds a tinge of relief. “And you were right to. I’ll never let anything harm you, and that’s a vow. But I’m not there right now, and in order for you to be safe, you have to listen to me.”

I cry, “Why is everyone so worried about my safety now? How am I suddenly in danger?”

James’s voice drops. “It isn’t sudden, sweetheart. You’ve been in danger for years. You just didn’t know it.”

I start to shake. My armpits go damp. I can’t control the tremor in my voice when I whisper, “How do you know?”

“I swear I’ll tell you everything, just please, please go over to my apartment right now. Will you do that for me?”

It’s the undercurrent of worry in his voice that finally makes me decide to obey him.

Probably the begging, too. He isn’t a man who begs.

When I say yes, he mutters, “Thank fuck.”

“But you better be prepared to answer a lot of questions, Romeo,” I threaten. “And if I think you’re not telling me the unvarnished truth, I will be on a plane back to New York within twenty-four hours.”

This time, I’m the one who disconnects. At least I think I do. Who can tell with this stupid phone?

With a profound sense of disbelief that this is my life, I put the chain back in its pretty box, hustle over to the closet, pull out my suitcase, and drag it over to the dresser. I unzip it and start throwing things in. Jeans, T-shirts, panties, all the stuff I so carefully unpacked and folded now gets tossed in like garbage.

Danger. I’m in danger—and have been for years.

What the actual fuck?

I can’t think straight. None of this makes any sense whatsoever. The only thing I can focus on is getting the hell out of this apartment, which now has the oppressive feeling of a prison cell.

Or a coffin.

Shoving the phone James gave me into the back pocket of my jeans, I hurry with the suitcase to Estelle’s office, where I grab my manuscript off the desk and stuff it into the outside zippered pocket.

I don’t even bother with my cosmetics or toiletries. I just hightail it out of there, grabbing my purse and slamming the door shut as I go. Panting and sweating, I jog down the hallway to the elevators.

When the doors slide open, I’m halfway expecting a pair of armed men to jump out and tackle me, but it’s empty. The short ride down to James’s floor feels like it takes a millennium. Then the doors open again, and I bound down the hall.

When I realize I’m going in the wrong direction, I turn and run the other way.

True to his word, there’s a slick electronic keypad attached to the wall next to his front door. I use the keypad to type in the letters of my name backward, hoping that this is all a bad practical joke, but when the light on the keypad turns green and the door clicks open so I can see inside, hope turns rancid in my stomach.

You know that old saying, if something seems too good to be true, it is?

It’s been around a long time for a reason.

The good news is that one entire wall of his elegantly furnished living room is lined with books. There’s a glass-front bookcase with one of those cool rolling ladders libraries have that stretch all the way to the ceiling. A big brown leather armchair sits beside a window with a small table and reading lamp off to the side.

So he’s a reader. At least he wasn’t lying about that.

The bad news is that the window is blacked out with a thick panel of steel, and the wall opposite the bookcase houses another collection of items encased in glass…items designed with only one purpose in mind.

Killing.

“I’m dead. You’ve killed me.”

I recall with horrible clarity how James’s mood changed from light to dark in the blink of an eye when I said those words to him. Words meant as a compliment to his kissing, but that, for him, obviously signified something very different.

Like maybe I’d figured something out.

For a cold, breathless moment, I gape at the collection of pistols, rifles, and machine guns so neatly displayed on pegboard racks, cheerfully lit from above with pin spots and lined below with hundreds of boxes of various size ammunition.

Then I do the only thing that makes sense.

Run the fuck away.