I pull one out at random, take off the sleeve, and drop it onto the record player. My grandpa had one of these when he was alive. An Army man. He would have been ashamed of what his son had become. He would have been ashamed of me, too. I suppose it’s just as well he died of a heart attack decades ago.
The needle drops into the groove and the soulful voice of Etta James fills the space.
Maybe she’s listened to this, too, standing in this very spot. Maybe she was only dressed in panties and a bra. Maybe she was wearing nothing. Her body would have been relaxed. It wouldn’t be like it is with me. London pretends to be at ease but I know she’s not. She knows what I’m capable of.
“What are you doing?”
London’s voice is a spear through At Last. My hand goes to the bullet wound before I can stop myself, skin tightening. I’ve been swaying a little with the music. Mistake.
She’s planted her feet in the doorway, eyes dark with suspicion. London has both arms around a paper grocery bag and her lips in a thin line.
I can’t stand it. Can’t stand the frown, can’t stand the tense set to her shoulders, can’t stand any of it. It’s only a few steps across the room.
When I reach for the bag she turns slightly away, eyes narrowing. “What are you—”
“Don’t fight with me. Don’t argue.” London releases her death grip on the groceries and lets me put them on the bed. And then I reach for her hand. “Dance with me.”
She has already taken my hand by the time the words are past my lips. Already stepped toward me, still in her winter jacket. Oh, London. You can’t resist me, either.
It could be the music, but I suspect it’s something else that makes her move in closer. Long eyelashes flutter closed over eyes like the forest at night. She sighs. It sounds like surrender. “What are you doing?” This time, it’s more of a plea than an accusation.
“Dancing with you.”
I lift my arm and London twirls underneath it. The breath goes out of my lungs. A man who has been shot should keep his arms below his shoulders to avoid worsening the wound. I’ve worsened it. And I’ve had a vision of her in a white dress, with flowers in her hair.
She finishes the turn and searches my face. “You look like shit.”
“You only keep Tylenol in your apartment.”
“You looking for something harder?”
“Why? You got a stash of pot in here somewhere? It’s not even illegal here.”
“Sorry. Only Tylenol. I might be able to spring for Advil, if you play your cards right, but no promises. I might give you essential oils instead.”
I search her beautiful hazel eyes. Sometimes people are careful about what drugs they keep around because they dealt with addiction. “Did you use?”
“Cocaine,” she says, her voice flat and matter of fact.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m cleaned up. It doesn’t control me anymore.”
My voice comes out soft. “I’m glad.”
“Should you even be dancing right now? You just got shot.”
So it hurts. So does everything. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
“That’s a slick line. I don’t fall for guys with slick lines. Not anymore.”
“But you used to?”
“Used to do a lot of things. Used to be an influencer. A couple million people like to watch me splash around on the beach at Bali or walk barefoot in the desert in Egypt.”
“Nice work if you can get it.”
She gives a delicate snort laugh. “Yeah, what they didn’t see was the hours it took to do my hair so it would have those beachy waves before my toes even touched the water. Or the sunburn I got from posing for two hours to get the perfect shot.”
“And you met a lot of slick guys this way, huh?”
“It’s the party scene. I started off wanting to travel the world. Wanderlust. My parents had it, too. I never wanted to stay in one place. The Instagram, the photos. It was all for fun at first. Then I started getting contracts as an influencer. All you have to do is say you drank this coconut water or wear those clothes. I thought, what’s the harm? I started getting invited to all these parties. Meeting models and celebrities. Doing drugs.”
“And you’re done with that now.”
“Definitely done with the drugs. Maybe done with the whole scene. Instagram. TikTok. Selfies. Makeup. Traveling the world. It’s a lot scarier when you’ve been on the run across the Italian countryside. You realize just how dangerous that world can be.”
I sweep her in a circle around her old embroidered armchair. It makes my side ache, but I don’t really fucking care, not when her hair’s flowing around her shoulders. “You don’t have to swear off traveling. Or selfies. It could happen without the drugs.”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s not like it was important work, anyway. Convincing people they should drink coconut water or making them feel envious of my life.”
“Not important?”
“Not like Holly. She’s a bestselling author. Millions of people read her words.”
“And millions of people see your photos.”
She scrunches her nose, looking adorable. “It’s not the same.”
“No,” I say slowly. “Not the same, but still important. You give people a sense of adventure, even when they’re afraid to take that step for themselves.”
“Don’t make me sound all noble and interesting. I don’t even like coconut water.”
That makes me laugh, which hurts more than the dancing. I press my lips to the top of her head. God, she smells good. Not like coconut, though. Sweeter than that. “Maybe not noble, but you’re definitely interesting, London Frank. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
CHAPTER NINE
Elijah
Holly sleeps like we’re in a five-star hotel, all pink and flushed beneath the sheet on the cot.
I stayed until my leg fell asleep from hanging off the side. If there’s one thing I can’t afford, it’s to be caught with pins and needles in one of my feet. The city breathes around us. With every inhale our enemies get closer. This is a hunting expedition, and we’re the prey.
I find a blanket and tuck Holly in, then take the chair by her side to keep watch.
There’s nothing to see except the way the blankets rise and fall with every even breath she takes. The rhythm is enough to hypnotize a man, and it does. I become attuned to the steady in and out, in and out, in and out. I watch, enraptured, while my mind works through the decisions that need to be made. Though they’re already made, really. Everything has already been chosen for us. It was chosen years ago, and it’s time to tell Holly the truth.
As soon as she wakes up.
She sleeps for a long time, alive and breathing. So long that my own eyelids grow heavy. At some point toward dawn I close my eyes for a moment. Soldiers learn how to sleep in short, necessary bursts. I open my eyes when I hear Holly shifting on the cot.
It’s heartbreaking, watching her wake up.
She stretches her arms over her head. I reach to stop her—too late. Holly stops herself with a wince. A gasp. I shouldn’t have fucked her last night. It was wrong.