Текст книги "Bend"

Автор книги: Alessandra Torre

Соавторы: Ella James,K. Bromberg
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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 41 страниц)

Chapter Thirteen
HARPER

He scoots up towards the head of the bed, keeping himself inside me as we move together. He collapses back on the pillow and hugs me close. “Harper, God, I can’t believe we’re here.”

I scrunch my face up as I ponder that question. “What do you mean?”

He rolls, removing his cock from me, and then flips me around and pulls my ass up to his hips. “Sleep,” he says. “We’ll finish this in the morning.”

I frown as I lie here. Running all this back in my mind. His sudden appearance on the pier. The way he dove in after me. I guess it makes sense that he fingered me for the missing girl. But then… if he’s really Number Six, he would’ve called this in immediately. If he knew who I was, then he’s asking for a death sentence by not calling it in.

“Sleep, Harper,” he says with a little more authority. “We’ll talk tomorrow.” I wiggle out of his grip and get up. “Where—”

“The bathroom,” I say back defensively. I suppose it’s a bad time to actually start using my head. I mean, I just gave him my virginity. The Admiral will go ballistic. And if James is Number Six, then he knows this. Maybe he’s on the run too? Maybe he’s my father’s enemy?

I close the bathroom door and start the shower. I feel dirty all of a sudden. It felt good, hell yes, it felt good. But now that my need has been satiated and my mind is clearing—I have questions. I have a lot of questions.

Like… how long has he been watching me? He hinted at months. Months? That makes very little sense, really. He said he killed his brother, Number Five, and they needed him to take some downtime. Evaluate him. I can see that. You don’t kill another Company assassin with no consequences. And you certainly don’t kill your brother.

I would kill to have my brother right now. I’d do just about anything to have my brother.

I start the hot water and watch my naked self in the mirror as I wait for it to warm up.

Why am I still here? In this apartment? In this town? On land? Is it really possible that the Admiral has no idea where I’m at? I mean, I was careful when I left. I poisoned the entire ship. They were sick as dogs, even the captain, so we were dead in the water about sixty miles south of Tahiti. I might even have killed some of them. I have no idea, because our ship has a very nice tender boat. One of the nicest in the world, just like the super yacht that carries it. And since my entire life, from birth to that moment when I opened the garage door and lowered the tender out onto the sea, was spent sailing the oceans of the world on these massive yachts, driving it straight to the port all by myself was not at all difficult.

We’ve been to Tahiti lots of times. So many times I was recognized. And welcomed. Of course, I’ve never showed up alone before, but this was the day after my birthday, I told them with genuine excitement. The adrenaline coursing through my blood was making me jittery, but the local customs agent took it as nerves from being on my own for the first time.

I got everything in order at the dock, paid the fee. And took a cab straight to Faa'a International where I boarded a plane to Hawaii. I stepped off that plane Harper Tate and boarded the next one as Jillian Stewart. And when I landed in Los Angeles I was free.

I had one backpack, but it contained a key. A key my brother gave me the day before our eighteenth birthday. I have no idea how he got a hold of it, but I didn’t ask. Because that was our last day together and I was still in denial that he would leave without me.

It’s not like he had a choice. They took him. But he left behind the key.

There was an address and a number engraved on it. I took a cab to the UCLA Library, rode the elevator up to the fifth-floor quarter lockers. And found my future.

Thirty thousand dollars. A phone number. A phone. A flash drive in the shape of a fish. And a bottle of Ativan, with a warning on the outside from Nick not to take them unless it was absolutely necessary. It took us six months to wean me off them. It was a long process and even now, after being mostly clean for almost a year, I still run to the pills when things get overwhelming.

And then I took my money, called the number, took a cab to the address, paid the rent in full for one year, and sat down in that solitary chair in the living room and waited.

It took me weeks to settle in. I looked over my shoulder everywhere I went. I imagined my life if I had stayed one more day. Married off to some old man.

That’s what my father was planning. It was no secret that Nick and I would be separated on our eighteenth birthday, but they kept this little marriage deal quiet until I was sixteen. Then ever so slowly, hints would be dropped. Oh, Harper, you will make some lucky man very happy when you turn eighteen. Hints like that was how it started. But by the time I was seventeen they were overt. Which dress do you like for your wedding, Harper? the shoppers in port would ask me.

But I am quiet. I don’t interrupt. And I pick and choose my battles. There is no point in fighting until I can win the war.

Have I won? I have a beautiful assassin in my bed. I’m still free. He didn’t kill me—he fucked me. I’m falling for him. He makes me feel safe. I want to be next to him. Even now, I want him.

But maybe he’s just as good at picking battles as I am?

There’s a small knock at the door. “Harper,” James says quietly. “Everything OK?” he doesn’t wait for my answer, just turns the handle and opens the door. I smile at him. I can’t help it, he’s so damn beautiful. “Shower?” he asks, nodding his head in the direction of the steaming hot water spraying down in the tub.

I nod and smile. He walks over to the shower knobs and adjusts the temperature, then pulls out the top drawer of my vanity and finds a new shaver. I raise my eyebrows at him. Not about the shaving. I believed him when he said he’d do it. But the fact that he knows where I keep the shavers means he’s checked out my entire apartment when he was in here stalking me.

“Does that creep you out?” he asks, like he’s reading my mind.

“Yeah,” I answer back, nodding. “Why were you watching me?” I try not to be accusatory, but that’s how it comes out.

He takes my hand and leads me over to the shower. He steps into the tub and I follow. He stands under the spray of water and closes his eyes as he drags his hands down his face and then he shakes his head, sending drops flying in my direction and messing up his hair in a way that makes me crave his touch.

He steps out of the water and gently maneuvers me in his place. I tip my head back and enjoy the pulsations and the stream flowing down the back of my head. I step away and drag my fingers over my eyes so I can watch his soapy hands massage my arm.

“Once I made you, I had to figure out who you were. I had a good idea. I’d seen the pictures they circulated a few months earlier. They knew you were here in the LA area, that passport fooled no one once they accessed the security footage. So I suppose that’s why they wanted me to take my time off down here in the OC.”

“Do they know where I am exactly?”

“I haven’t reported you,” he says simply. But that’s not really an answer.

“Won’t you get in a lot of trouble? For keeping me a secret? Won’t the Admiral be pissed when he finds out?”

“Maybe he doesn’t find out?” His hands move onto my thighs. Lathering them up with soap. Dragging his palms all the way down to my calves, then sliding back up and dipping between my legs to tease me. He gets my pubic hair filled with bubbles and then taps my inner thigh lightly. “Open your legs, Harper.”

He reaches for the razor while I spread my legs. I trim myself down there. It’s not wild and uncontrollable, so he places the razor at the apex and gently removes the hair from the front. His fingers probe between my folds as he continues, making me wet and wanting as my skin becomes smooth. He takes my hand and places it over the shaved area. “Feel it, Harper.”

I pass my fingertips across the area and enjoy the feeling. He places his hand on mine and we both move up and down my crease. He pushes my fingers inside me, then he kneels down, picks up my leg, and places it over his shoulder. His face dips between my legs and he licks. God, I just want to die. Just fall into a heap of nothing as I relish the pleasure he’s bestowing on me.

All thoughts of his secrets and devious ways evaporate. I’m at his mercy once again. I come almost instantly, this orgasm just as powerful as the rest. I slump against him as he washes my hair, then turns the water off and gently pats me down with a towel.

“We’re not done yet, Harper.”

I gaze up at him, in awe of his beauty. His ability to be gentle and soft with me, even though he counts as one of the most dangerous men in the entire world.

I might be falling in love with a killer.

He leads me naked back into the living area, stopping in front of the chair. “Bend over,” he says in that calm voice. I look over my shoulder at these words. He smiles and my fear begins to melt. “Trust,” he says, leaning down to kiss me. “I’m not gonna hurt you.” And then he pushes on my back until I bend over the chair, exposing my ass to him.

He begins a slow rub of each cheek, kneading my supple muscles and occasionally passing over the backside of my pussy. He kneels down and begins to lick again, his fingers joining in until I’m primed and ready once more. I’m sore from all the attention, but then he removes his fingers and probes at the little bud of my ass.

He slips a finger inside and I gasp. “Oh, that’s painful,” I say as he removes it.

“Relax,” he whispers into my neck. “I’m too tired to go slow right now. I’d like it hard and fast this time. So we’ll try new things next time.” And then he bites my shoulder and thrusts inside my pussy. I struggle under him, the pain ripping through me this time. He was not lying, it’s not gentle and it’s not slow. But his hands caress up and down my thigh as he whispers sweet things. “You’re so beautiful,” he says. “You drive me wild,” he moans as he pulls back and then thrusts again. This time the pain is less, and each time after, the pleasure overtakes it.

When he’s confident I’m OK, he stands back up, his hands on my hips.

And then he fucks me. Hard. Like a man fucks a woman and not the way a man fucks a girl. He makes me a woman. And even though it hurts, it feels so good. It feels so fucking good I can’t imagine not wanting him to take me like this over and over again.

He pulls out and turns me around, thrusting me to my knees in front of him, and then he comes all over my chest. I watch his face this time. He throws back his head and opens his mouth in a groan of pleasure.

And I see it.

I feel it.

The power I have over him is as real as the power he has over me.

He leads me over to the bed and lays me down. “Be right back. Stay still and I’ll clean you up.” And then he strides into the bathroom and closes the door. At the same time his phone vibrates on the floor and I look down. It must’ve fallen out of his pants earlier.

I don’t mean to spy, but it’s lit up on the floor, staring at me. I squint to see the words. It’s an address. I read it to myself and then commit it to memory. Another text comes in, making the phone vibrate again. All set, this one says.

The bathroom doorknob jiggles and I turn over quickly, grabbing the pillow and covering my face to feign sleep. If he’s bothered by the lit-up message on the floor, it’s not apparent to me. Because his step never falters as he makes his way over to the bed. “Harper,” he says as he pulls on my shoulder to turn me back over. I open my eyes slightly, smile, and then close them again as he wipes the warm washcloth up and down my breasts.

A few minutes later he climbs into bed with me and pulls me into his chest again. He kisses me on the head and leans in. “You’re mine now, Harp. You’re mine now. No matter what happens, you’re mine.”

Chapter Fourteen
HARPER

When I wake he’s gone.

There’s a note on the counter and a shitload of cash. I count out the bills as I stand there naked. Seven hundred and forty-two dollars. He carries a lot of money on him. The note says—Go grocery shopping. You’re too skinny. Be back soon.

That’s it.

Be back soon.

But tomorrow comes and goes. And more and more tomorrows come and go. And still James does not come back. I stare at my phone, willing him to call me. Why didn’t I get his stupid phone number when I was spying on his useless text messages?

I stand in the little mechanical room looking down at my stash of cash. I have fifteen hundred dollars now. And an address committed to memory. My backpack is stuffed with clothes and necessities as I leave my key and take my money.

Maybe I’m coming back, maybe I’m not. But I’m leaving nothing behind. I’m tired of waiting around for the people I care about to come collect me. I’m tired of wondering if Nick is dead or alive. And even though it’s only been a few days, I’m tired of wondering about James as well.

I’m tired of being invisible.

I’m tired of being quiet, and patient, and following directions.

But most of all, I’m tired of the endless pause my life has become. I’m going to find the men who took the one person in this world I can trust.

I’m gonna get back the brother I lost or I’m gonna die trying.

* * *

This novella is the prequel to the new Dirty, Dark, and Dangerous romantic suspense duet that I’m writing. The next full-length book is due to be released the end of June and the second and final book is due in late September.

Wanna get the inside scoop on all my projects? Sign up for the newsletter and never miss out on an upcoming event. Follow me on Facebook and you’ll get all the deets. If you want to hang out with my Street Team and me in my group called SHRIKE BIKES, just click here and ask to be added to the group on Facebook. :) We have a lot of fun in there.

If you’ve enjoyed the stories in this anthology, please, please consider leaving us a review on Amazon or wherever you purchased your copy.

Red & Wolfe
Part One
an erotic fairy tale
By Ella James

Chapter One

RED

Dear Grandma,

I’ve never written you before, so this is weird.

* * *

Dear Gertrude,

I know you don’t know me, but I know you. Aaaaand I sound like a stalker.

* * *

Dear Gertrude,

Hi, it’s me. Your granddaughter. The one you’ve never met. I know it’s been a long time. My whole life, in fact, but

* * *

Dear Gertrude,

My name is Red. I am your granddaughter. I’d like to meet you. I know you and my mom were estranged. She told me you didn’t want to see us when I was younger, but it would be nice if you would give me a chance. I’m a writer, like you. Okay, not like you per se. That would be something of a stretch. I haven’t won a Pulitzer, and I’m not a poet, but I worked for the Boston Journal until recently, when I was laid off. I was a courts reporter, then an art critic.

I don’t have any family except you. I need money. Or a friend. Or both. But I’ll get nothing, because I’m too proud to send this e-mail.

My rent is late. Like…really late. I’m eating ice cream by the gallon and over-using Mr. Happy, my huge, purple, LELO rabbit vibrator. That’s because my boyfriend left me…for a dude. Yeah, I know. It’s fucking weird. It sucks.

I wonder why the hell you and my mom were estranged. She didn’t like to talk about it. I can’t believe you didn’t come to her funeral. Or did you? I’m not even sure what you look like. I think your Wiki picture is about sixty years outdated. Maybe you could visit me in Boston and take a new one.

Wonder if I’ll ever really write you. I doubt it. I bet I get my pride from you, you old coot.

~Red

I slam my Macbook shut and race for the bathroom. The bathroom I’ve been using as seldom as possible, because I’m running out of toilet paper.

I leap over a pile of dirty clothes beside my tan recliner, dash past a three-foot tall stack of paperbacks in the hallway, and narrowly avoid tripping on a pair of ice skates before I punch through the bathroom door.

Pink. This small room looks like the inside of a Bubble Yum bubble. I drop down on the pale pink toilet, let out a sigh, and blink at my reflection. Me: naked in front of an oyster-shell sink, surrounded by pink tile. I look thinner. More like I did in college. And it’s not just the leanness. A few weeks ago, shortly after I lost my job, I hacked myself some brand new bangs. I’m wearing them longish, almost in my eyes, the way I did my senior year at Northwestern. The rest of my bright red hair is long like college, too. Past my shoulders, hanging just over the swell of my breasts.

They look pert right now, and full. I’m an apple, with more weight on my tummy than my legs, and my breasts are a generous “C” cup. I’ve been irrationally proud of this since I hit puberty the summer after eighth grade.

But there’s no point admiring my new, thinner figure or my bust. These boobs haven’t done a damn thing for me lately. Suddenly I can’t even stand to look at my naked body. I tear four squares of toilet paper off the roll and wipe quickly. I flush and look into the basket beside the toilet: six more rolls. That’s not so bad. With any luck, I can make that last three weeks. Maybe more like two. If I run out, I’ll sneak back into the Journal and steal more.

I tuck my hair behind my ears, frown at my freckled, blue-eyed reflection, and pick my way back into the little living area.

Boston is expensive, so when I leased this place two years ago, a studio was all I could afford. And even then, rent was $2,200 per month. My landlord, a ball-cap-sporting, glasses-wearing hipster named Dursey, raised it to $2,250 this past fall. At the time, I barely thought about it. Carl had moved in a few months prior, so I was only paying half.

Now I look around the hardwood den and kitchen area and wonder how long until someone else’s dust is piling in the corners.

I sink into the nest of pillows and blankets on the couch, where I’ve been sleeping since I sold my canopy bed, and ask myself if it was worth it, being ‘house poor.’ I never minded not having a lot in savings, because I never figured I would need it. Before January 30, I spent most of my money on clothes, food, and utilities. Just the basics. I’m not a very materialistic person, which is good, because I guess I’m not very good with money, either.

I glance at the coffee table, where my laptop sits, adorned with stickers I put there in college. I keep telling myself I might have to sell it, too, but honestly, I’m not sure I can. I kind of think I’d check myself into a homeless shelter with it hidden inside a blanket if I had to. I know I’m not a great writer—I’m definitely not famous like my grandmother, Gertrude O’Malley—but I love writing.

Whatever, though.

Enough moping.

I spent the morning job-hunting, the afternoon reading the latest Richard Powers novel, and the early evening typing up a meal plan, just to be sure I make the food in my pantry last as long as possible. I’ve got one bottle of Sauvignon Blanc left, and I’m thinking about downing it. Goes well with everything, even tonight’s dinner: a little bowl of insta-mac and cheese.

I hop up, slip into the red silk robe hanging on the couch’s arm, and walk into the kitchen to microwave the mac and cheese, when my iPhone rings.

I turn a circle, skimming my gaze over the granite countertops and mahogany cabinets, then dash back into the den, where it looks like the women’s section of a large department store has vomited everywhere.

“Damnit…”

I can’t find anything in this—

There!

I pluck the phone from between a cereal bowl and a copy of The New Yorker on my coffee table and see that “Katie Underpants Danger” is calling. My BFF’s name is actually Katie Stranger, but everyone from the Journal calls her Katie Danger, which makes sense because she’s a police reporter. Unlike my amoral self, Katie believes in never going without your underpants, so that’s how she got her middle name.

I press the green button. “Cat-yyyyyy!”

“Red!” Katie has a prim, little old lady kind of voice. She sounds like your grandmother crying out your name from the first row of fold-out chairs at the seventh-grade spelling bee. This makes it super funny when she curses.

“Whatcha doing?” I ask, plodding back into the kitchen.

“I’m at the KSC.” The Kendall Square Cinema, a little mom and pop place in Cambridge. “Ronnie and Betsy and I. And you, if you can come.”

Shit.

Katie keeps inviting me out, and I keep having to tell her ‘no,’ because I can’t afford it. I bite my lower lip. I’m going to have to tell her something like the truth, or she’s going to think I’m dodging her.

I sigh. “I would love to come with you guys, but I’m running a little low on funds.” I twirl a lock of hair around my finger, figuring there’s no need to elaborate. I’ve been nine weeks without income. I’m footing the entire bill for an apartment I used to share. I’m also having to use a bunch of my unemployment money paying for an emergency room visit after spraining my ankle ice skating at the Frog Pond New Years’ day.

“Oh, okay. Well I see. I’m sorry.”

I shrug, adding water to my mac and cheese. “I didn’t mention it. And no problem. Is tomorrow Saturday? Yep, tomorrow’s Saturday. Come by on Sunday. We’ll go…I dunno. We’ll go walking or something. Something super cool. And tell Ronnie and B I’ll see them next week at Hugh’s.”

A few minutes later, I’m sliding the phone into the pocket of my robe and pouring cheese powder into my steaming noodles. I stop to pop the cork on my last bottle of wine before I even stir the powder in. It’s Villa Maria Sauvignon Blanc: my favorite, which I used to buy maybe too regularly. I take a long swig from the bottle and pinch my lips together.

My robe vibrates. The phone. Katie again.

“Red, OMG, I forgot to tell you! True Crime channel, twenty minutes! Can you DVR for me? They’re doing a special on James Wolfe, and Rob told me they’re using some footage from the Times!”

“Sure.” I nod. “No prob.”

“Thanks, Red. And hey…we miss you.”

“Ditto. TTYL.”

I hang up before I can get all dumb and emotional. I see Katie at least twice a week, and the rest of the gang at our Wednesday night bingo game at Hugh’s. I have nothing to cry about.

Except that I don’t see them every day.

And this week, I realized I can’t even afford to go to the MFA to see a traveling collection of “W” paintings. A few months ago, I’d have gotten a private tour. Shit, I might have even gotten to meet the reclusive “W.” Okay—maybe not, but still.

I take a long chug from the bottle. Then another. I stir the powder into my noodles and swallow a few bites, followed by another gulp. It tastes so fucking good. God, I’ve missed drinking.

I miss getting drunk.

I take my bowl and bottle into the den and find the True Crime channel. I’m greeted by a close-up of an attractive guy with shaggy-looking dark brown hair; cold, dark brown eyes; and a mean jawline. Total serial killer material. Only I’m pretty sure this guy only killed his wife. Maybe her lover, too. I don’t remember. I was working here at the Journal when Katie worked this case as an intern with The New York Times. I didn’t know her until the next year, when she came on as the new cops reporter at the Journal.

I was hired first, and still, I’m the one who got canned.

“Who cares, Red?” I tip back the bottle to shut my bitter self up.

I sink back into the couch and listen to the sad story of one James Wolfe, a privileged upstate New Yorker who married a celebutant and longtime family friend. Her name was Cookie. Seriously—Cookie. I drink my way through the story of their debauched marriage: ménages, swinging, maybe a little bit of BDSM. Naturally, our murdering homeboy was the dom. I listen to college friends of both James and Cookie; officers who worked the crime scene; and the senior crime reporter for the Times. I think that guy was Katie’s superior.

I soak up details of the trial, reacquainting myself with familiar courtroom terms. When I hear the word “redirect,” I start to cry. It’s not logical. It’s silly. But suddenly I miss my old court beat. I pull my computer into my lap, and just to torture myself, I go to the MFA’s web site, where I scroll through “W.”’s breathtaking nature paintings. I cry a little more at ‘Self Portrait of an Owl.’ That one has really nice colors.

I slap a mental headline on my distress: ‘Canned reporter chokes to death on $20 wine’

A few minutes later, when I hear how James Wolfe walked free, I actually do choke. From there, I slip back into my crying jag. Why do some people have things easy while others don’t? Some people get murdered. Some people get fired. Some people starve to death. Kids get cancer. I hate life.

In this frame of mind, I open my computer.

Gertrude:

You have a granddaughter. Remember? I’ve never met you, and you’re getting really fucking old. This is me, inviting myself for drinks. I’ll bring the scotch. You send the treasure map to your swanky ass island.

~Sarah Ryder (known to people in the know as “Red,” on account of my fabulous red hair).

When I wake up with a terrible hangover, I’m not sure if I really sent the e-mail to the address posted on The O’Malley Foundation’s web site. But I know for sure I didn’t DVR the special on James Wolfe.

* * *

Checking my sent box and realizing I did, in fact, e-mail Gertrude brings a strange relief. I know I’ve cashed in my only chip. I can finally surrender myself to fate.

Sunday morning, I list my iPad, my flatscreen, my coffee table, and my antique chifferobe for sale on Craig’s List and I call my landlord, letting him know I still don’t have March’s rent money. He offers to let me make a half payment. I tell him I’ll move out in two weeks, and I’ll give him as much as I can when I hand in the key; the rest when I find a new job. I’m not sure where I’ll go, but it doesn’t really matter. I can’t stay here.

In the two hours before I meet up with Katie, I list the rest of my furniture, my rugs, my Mikasa dinnerware, two antique mirrors, and my collection of shoes and handbags on Craig’s List.

Minutes later, my phone vibrates with the first of what becomes many e-mail notifications. People want my shit.

While I stand in front of the mirror to get dressed, I realize it’s the first time in a while that I haven’t felt like I’m staring at a loser.

Maybe I’ll end up sleeping on friends’ couches, but at least I’ll know I did everything I could.

I dress in jeans, a thermal shirt, my puffy, navy blue jacket, and my favorite pair of pink and black Nike sneakers, and lock the front door with a growing sense of nostalgia. As I walk the snow-caked sidewalk, headed toward the shops at Beacon Hill, I check my phone. I’ve got $63.29 in my checking account and $344.02 in savings. I move all but $5.00 from savings into checking and slide my phone back into my pocket.

It’s a gray day, not unusual for March in Boston. The kind of day I never minded when I was working, because writing about art is dramatic and fun, and riding the rail to a museum or a gallery or a show or an auction was part of my daily commute.

Before I reach the cozy little business district surrounding Beacon Hill, I try to brace myself for Katie’s work talk. Katie loves being a reporter. She tweets about the stories she covers almost ’round the clock. She’d rather check out a crime scene than eat or sleep or fuck her boyfriend, Gage.

Thinking of Gage makes me think of Carl, and I do not need to think of Carl. Carl, who waited until the dim afterglow of some fantastically mediocre Christmas Eve sex to tell me he was leaving me for Sam. Blonde, blue-eyed, freckle-faced Sam from Denver. A ripped bartender with a forearm tattoo of a red-haired mermaid. Sam who wears a black apron and an emerald earring. Sam who has a cock.

I shove my hands into the pockets of my coat as I pass the narrow streets of Beacon Hill, a cute historical district just two blocks from my apartment. Down one of the streets is the Journal office. Down another, Hugh’s Bar, where we play drunk bingo. I’m headed for another Boston staple: the frozen Frog Pond at Boston Commons. I realize belatedly that I’ve forgotten my ice skates and wonder if I could sell them, too. I doubt it. I let my breath out in a steamy cloud. How pathetic is it that I just want to go back to my apartment and box up clothes for Goodwill? That I feel as if my time would be better spent begging for jobs at the shops here than with my best friend?

I follow the sidewalk past bookstores and coffee shops and sandwich shops and offices, moving quickly over the icy ground. A few more blocks and I’m in the snow-caked green space of the Commons. I pass couples holding hands, a woman smoking a pipe, a man in a trench coat, a mom with two young, coughing kids. And then there’s the pond: decked out with lights strung through the trees around it, dotted by skaters: people laughing, twirling, playing. I spot Katie’s short, curvy figure from fifty yards away and immediately feel warmed.

We share a quick hug behind the ice skate rental booth, then exchange five dollar bills for skates and sit on a covered bench to pull them on.

“How are you ya?” Katie asks as she tugs a boot off. Her eyebrows rise halfway up her forehead, near her blonde hairline.

“Still kicking.”

“We’re worried.” By ‘we,’ she means the Journal crew. That’s how enmeshed we all are. Were. Everything is ‘we.’ Damn, I miss that. I get my first skate over my thick wool sock and shake my head.

“Don’t worry. I’ll land on my feet.” And, because I know Katie and I know she’s a worrier, I dredge up my cheeriest voice and add: “I’ve applied for lots of good jobs in the last few days. A copy editor position at the New York Sentinel and a court reporting job at the Long Island Courier. Eight more jobs in the Boston metro area, including some nanny jobs. Those pay really well.”

Katie nods, wearing what she thinks is a poker-face, but what is actually a worried mom face.

“If all else fails,” I tell her, “I’ll wait tables at Hugh’s.”

She blows a stray piece of hair off her forehead. “If all else fails, we’ll murder Crissy—” the newbiest of the newbie reporters who survived the layoff.