Текст книги "Thirty Nights"
Автор книги: Ani Keating
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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 27 страниц)
Chapter Thirteen
Hale Storm
It finally gets dark, and I can’t take any more pictures. At least I’ve documented Powell’s City of Books even if I won’t be here to read its one million volumes. I head back home for Sunday RED night—Reagan and Elisa Dinner night. Reagan’s Rule Number One: break the streak for no bloke. Obviously, she’s the only one restrained by that rule.
As I turn the corner to our apartment building, the first thing I see is a black, presidential-looking Range Rover SUV parked not on the street but over the sidewalk and flush with the stairs. It’s practically a barricade. Calico, my neighbor’s rescue cat who is not actually a calico, is eyeing someone inside the car with wrathful eyes. I go to scratch his ears but the SUV door opens. I freeze. My knees lock, and my heart claws in my chest. Because out of the SUV, uncoiling gracefully, comes my Mr. Hale. But not my Mr. Hale.
He looks forbidding. His eyes are glacial blue, paler than usual. He stands taller, tenser, more angular—as though every cell in his body is straining to contain a force within. This is not the dragon. This is whatever dragons are afraid of.
“Elisa.” He does not give me his customary nod, and his voice is Kasia-cold. Thinking of Kasia, I realize why he is livid. Feign must have torpedoed the painting.
“Mr. Hale. This is a nice surprise. Have you been waiting long?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry, I had no idea you were coming. Is everything all right?”
“There are about seventeen answers to that question in a dichotomous key, Elisa.”
Heat burns my cheeks—nothing less than I deserve—so I start to babble. “That bad, huh? May I recommend hot chocolate instead of sangria? The theobromine—”
“Why is Brett Feign trying to convince me to use his protégé, Harvey Sellers, for your painting?” His voice cuts me off like an ice blade.
Bollocks! Sweat gathers in my armpits and my stomach clenches violently. He must have offered Feign an enormous amount of money for Feign to take this risk. But I can’t take any chances with Javier’s life—even if my instincts tell me that Hale would not hurt him.
“What do you mean?” I hedge, wishing for nothing more than a Margaret Thatcher voice but sounding instead like Snow White by the wishing well.
He gazes at me until I reach potassium. Then something changes in his eyes. They lose their icy regard and zoom in on my face like a camera lens.
“What are you hiding, Elisa?” he asks. The change is there in his voice too. For the first time, it is not cold. It’s calculating, with a warm undercurrent.
In that moment, I want to tell him my secret. I want to tell him everything about me. But I can’t form the words, and I finally understand why. Because the moment Hale knows, it becomes real. He has become the fantasy, just like this land once was. And he will be one more thing I have to lose.
“I don’t know why Feign is asking you to use Harvey Sellers.” I can’t look at him and lie, so I start worrying my camera’s strap around my wrist.
“Maybe you know this then. Why is there no record of anyone named Harvey Sellers anywhere? No personnel files, no bank accounts, no driver’s licenses, no addresses, no credit reports, nothing. It’s almost…as if he does not exist.” He speaks in a steady, measured tone—the way a chess player moves the pawns before playing the queen.
“In fact, Elisa, the dearth of information on Harvey Sellers is even more absolute than information about you. Then I remembered you said that CIS keeps immigration records sealed. So I became suspicious, Elisa. Very suspicious.”
He lowers his head and his eyes come level with mine. Moth and flame. I can’t even blink. When I don’t say anything, he goes on.
“But then last night, I found my clue in the most unexpected place.” He pauses again, and I sense he just played his queen. My breathing grows shallow and I think wildly of a hummingbird with broken wings. “Do you know what I’m talking about?”
I shake my head.
“Don’t you? Well, let me see if I can help you. I remembered what Kasia Moss told me the very first time I laid eyes on you. Do you remember?”
“I remember seeing you.” I say the only truthful thing I have spoken for a while.
If he heard the softness of my voice, he shows no sign. “Kasia Moss said that the artist uses only black, white and gray in his paintings. Is that ringing any bells?”
I nod.
“Imagine my surprise when I saw those very same colors staining the T-shirt of your tango partner, Javier Solis, last night.”
Checkmate! Javier’s paint stains—I never thought they would be the telltale clues.
“Can you explain the coincidence, Elisa?”
“No, I cannot.” I speak the truth because I really can’t explain. It is not my secret to tell.
He nods as if he already anticipated my answer. “Why is it that a woman with a four-point-oh GPA, who has invented a highly complex protein, and who has an IQ score of one-sixty, is unable to connect these dots?”
“How do you know my IQ score?”
“Arthur Denton gushed about you. Impressive, indeed. It explains your invention, your GPA, your ability to calculate dichotomous keys on the spot and your contribution at age sixteen to a paper called ‘The Hunger Genome’ authored by Peter Andrew Snow for the Cambridge University Press.”
At the sound of my father’s name, I gain some strength. “You take a lot of liberties with other people’s privacy, Mr. Hale, yet you seem to guard yours so closely. I’m sure you have your reasons. I’m really curious about them but I won’t probe. Maybe you should afford the same courtesy to others?” My voice is strong but my stomach is churning. Beads of sweats tickle my spine.
The change in his face is drastic. It goes from cautious to impassive in a nanosecond. He regards me intently, but the tension in his eyes slackens a little.
“His privacy, I can allow. But not yours. I have every intention of learning everything about you, Elisa.” He says my name very softly.
Under his gaze, I change. It’s not just the flash of heat and the flexing thighs. It’s something warm that pulsates between my lungs, perhaps a new organ that comes to life only in response to the likes of Mr. Hale.
For the first time this evening, I allow myself to look below his neck at all his finery—cashmere navy sweater, expensive dark jeans—money and power screaming from every inch. Instinctively, my eyes flit to my sneakers. How many hours do they have left in them? I shiver when I think of what he would say if my toe finally broke through the worn fabric. Next to him, I look like Cinderella at midnight but with no glass slipper left behind for him to find me. As if we weren’t already two worlds and thirty-one days apart. I risk a peek at him and see that same tender face as he regards my sneakers too.
He looks like he is about to say something but right then, the door of my apartment building opens and Reagan barges toward us, scarlet fascinator askew.
“Isa!” she roars. “Where the hell have you been?”
Before I can begin to explain, she’s off. “I’ve been worried sick. Your note said you’d be back forty-five minutes ago. No phone calls! No car! No money! What if they came—” She stops abruptly when she finally notices my Mr. Hale. I peek at him. He is watching her carefully, his eyebrows knitted. I try to act as if nothing happened.
“Reg, I know, I’m sorry. I’ll explain when we get in.” I beg her with my eyes to stop. She nods and smiles at him.
“What’s up, Hale?” she throws at him. He looks like he has never been greeted with the words what’s up before. He nods once, which apparently means “fine, how are you?” and turns to me.
“How soon are you available for your first session in my home?” His voice is warm but firm, as if he wants to leave no doubt that the painting is definitely happening.
“Tomorrow.” Ugh, I sound like I swallowed helium.
“You don’t have plans to celebrate your graduation?” His voice softens.
These are my plans to celebrate. “I did that last night.”
He frowns as though recalling something unpleasant. “Are you sure? It’s a big achievement in life,” he persists.
“The Solises are throwing me a party next weekend,” I answer, hoping to get him off this subject. And also wondering if it would be weird to invite him.
He nods as if pleased with my answer. “Then, I’ll meet you in front of the Reed Library right after your graduation ceremony.”
Uh-oh. That might throw a wrench in my plans. “Umm, Mr. Hale, could you give me about half an hour after that? And you don’t have to pick me up. I can come to you.”
He shakes his head. “I said I’m picking you up. But you can have your half hour. I will meet you here at one thirty.” He sounds like an army general. If I weren’t so depleted from our conversation, it would be funny.
“Okay. I’ll see you then.”
Suddenly, I realize I’m out of things to say and he is about to leave. I’m not sure what we accomplished here today, but I have the feeling that we just got a little closer. And despite all my wishes to stop time, tomorrow can’t come fast enough.
“Well, now that that’s all sorted out, you, inside with me.” Reagan has had it. “Your Cornish clotted cream is waiting and Colin Firth is not getting any younger.”
Hale watches her with a raised eyebrow. She grips my hand and hauls me away.
“Good night, Mr. Hale.” I smile at him over my shoulder, wondering why Colin Firth no longer looks handsome to me.
“Oh, Elisa?” he calls as we reach the steps.
I turn, too eager, and my breath catches in my throat. His otherworldly face—now free of anger or tension or accusations—has gentled with a glow from his eyes.
“Yes?” I breathe. Or maybe I sigh.
“Next time, please don’t write down your address on materials you give to strangers. It’s not very safe.”
He wants me safe, like he said yesterday. My heart picks up a frantic rhythm. As though he can hear it, his lips lift into my favorite dimpled smile. I barely nod; I’m staring at his face, trying to commit every pore to memory.
Chapter Fourteen
Valedictorian
After watching the full BBC series of Pride and Prejudice, I finally go to bed. Even though I should be exhausted, I’m so wired thinking of tomorrow that I start on the periodic table, this time in Spanish. Reagan grilled me through dinner and it took one hour to calm Javier down over the phone. Apparently, Benson will pick him up at the gallery two hours after Hale picks me up here. I wonder why he staggered our appointments, and my stomach does backflips.
For the first time, I experiment with whispering his name out loud. Aiden. Aiden. Aiden. It’s getting easier to say it. Easier to let him in. When I finally fall sleep, his name echoes in my head.
I wake up at the sound of Reagan pounding on my door.
“Isa, wake up, you’ll miss graduation if you don’t start getting ready.”
Oh, bollocks! I didn’t break this news to her last night because she was freaking out about Hale and Colin Firth. I crawl out of bed and open my door.
“Morning, Reg.”
“Come on sleepy head, I’ll do your hair. Your big speech!” She claps her hands.
Okay, here goes nothing. “Reg, I’m not giving a speech. Actually, I—umm—I’m not going.”
She gawks at me like I’m speaking pig Latin. “What the fuck?”
I don’t expect her to understand, or anyone else for that matter. But there’s no way I’m wasting four hours of my numbered days to hear about what a great beginning this is. ICE’s formal countdown starts today, even if mine started a week ago. I’d much rather spend the next four hours getting ready for my painting, practicing the name Aiden, shaving my legs and doing other wonderful things. Not to mention that walking at graduation without my parents there makes my stomach twist worse than any hangover. I give Reagan an edited version of this. It takes a good fifteen minutes to convince her. Finally, she relents.
“Fine. I guess I get it. Frankly, I’d be upset too. So, do you want me accept on your behalf?”
“I don’t think they’ll let you. It’s not the Oscars, Reg.”
She gives me a puppy-eyes look and skips to her room to get ready while I eat some cereal in the kitchen.
The moment I’m alone, my nerves start making an unwelcome but assertive appearance. I’m about to face Aiden Hale with nothing but knickers and an undone shirt. Bloody hell, what if he picks a thong? What if the room is cold and I get all…nippy? Javier will be there too. He will see all that as well. Why on earth did I agree to this with so little information? Oh, right, because my brain was mush at the time and because I never thought it would actually happen. Now that it’s only five hours away, my hands start shaking and I have to set my cereal bowl down on the table. Deep breaths, deep breaths. Hydrogen, 1.008. Helium, 4.003. Lithium, 6.94…
Reagan walks into the kitchen, delaying the breakdown that is sure to come. She looks stunning in a simple moss-green dress. Before she can see the madness inside, I distract her.
“Reg, you look great. Here, let me take some pics.” It works immediately. She giggles and poses, blowing kisses at my camera as I snap away.
“Speaking of looking great, what are you wearing today?” she asks, striking a serious-psychology-student pose.
I know exactly what I’m wearing. Or not wearing. “Whatever I can find in your closet.” I shrug with a smile.
“My push-up bras are in the second drawer.” She giggles.
This was not the thought I needed in my head.
“Here, happy graduation!” I say, handing her a small box, wrapped in red, white and blue. My hand shakes a little.
“Isa! You’re not supposed to buy me—”
“I didn’t. It’s something I’ve had for a while.”
She must hear the thickness in my voice because she squints at me. But Reagan cannot resist a present for more than three seconds. Three, two, one.
She tears the patriotic paper and lifts the lid. Then she gasps and jumps back two steps.
“Oh my God!” she whispers and looks up at me, green eyes wide. “Is this your mom’s emerald brooch?”
I smile. “Yes. And my grandma Cecilia’s. It has always belonged to the women in my family. And now it belongs to you.”
Reagan’s eyes fill up with tears. “Isa, I can’t—”
I take her hand in both of mine. “Yes, you can. I want you to. Besides, it matches your eyes—”
A red-haired fireball almost knocks me to the kitchen floor. She doesn’t speak. Nor do I. We just hold each other, refusing to say what we are both thinking. Goodbye.
“Go on, then,” I say. “Or President Campbell will get all shirty.”
She sniffles and smiles. “That means mad, right?”
“Right.”
She pins Clare’s brooch on her dress and pats it. “Okay, I’m staying at Hotel Lucia with Mom and Dad tonight. Come over if Hale is being a wanker. Or better yet, shag him silly.”
“Reagan!”
“Cheerio!” she calls over her shoulder and slams the door behind her.
In the ringing silence, my nerves hit full force. I distract myself by tackling the dilemma of what to wear. Yes, it’s ridiculous because it will come off the moment I go to his house, but still, in my escapist fantasy this is almost a date. A very one-sided date. I try at least twenty outfits before I decide on a navy sheath dress and red flats. Patriotic. For good luck. Then, I march into the restroom to shower. I shave my legs, saying a silent thanks to my ancestors for the genetic quirk that has caused me to have so very little pubic hair. A Brazilian wax would be just as effective but more expensive. If Hale has opted for some lacy, see-through affair, pubic hair would definitely kill me if the nerves don’t do the job before he gets here.
When I’m finally ready and dressed, the nerves get so bad that I start sweating. I plug in the floor fan and stand in front of it with my arms up in the air, trying to reason with myself.
Javier will be there. He knows you. If Hale asks for anything too crazy, like legs behind the ears, Javier will put his foot down for aesthetic reasons. He’s nothing if not persnickety about his art. If you’re asked to wear a G-string, you just say “no” in a polite fashion and insist on wearing your knickers. And no matter what, don’t drop them at the sight of him.
My thighs flex at the thought, and I triple-check my knickers to make sure they’re the right ones. The only lace ones I have, just in case I need to resort to them. My pep talk is not working so I go to my favorite chocolate, Baci, stashed in the back of the spice drawer in the kitchen. I usually have one of these for emergencies. I take two today, and tuck them in my purse. Then I go back to the fan and start the periodic table backward in Italian.
On fosforo, the door rattles under four sharp, loud knocks. According to my dad’s watch, I still have one hour before Hale gets here. I peek through the hole and freeze. Bloody hell, it’s the Dragon, with a capital D this time. What did I do today? Oh, maybe he is canceling the painting. I put a half-baked plan together and open the door.
“Mr. Hale, what a nice surprise,” I start with a big smile, my voice high enough for the bats to hear it.
He steps inside. I think he’s trying to calm himself but it’s hard to tell with the smoke coming out of his ears. He runs a hand over his hair. What the devil is wrong with him? My knickers are a little terrified, clinging to my hips for dear life. He takes one deep breath and explodes.
“Are you so above the rest, Miss Snow, that you will not deign to attend even your graduation from the institution that has granted you its highest academic honor? Or is this how little your own life means to you?” He speaks through gritted teeth.
Oh, bollocks! How did he find out, and why does he care? Be strong, Isa. “I’m sorry, but that’s none of your business.” I ignore his second question. Something about it makes me recoil.
He looks at me like I just insulted his mother. Honestly, I think I see fire from his nostrils. “None of my fucking business? Is that your answer?” Still gritted teeth, which I suppose is better than fangs.
“Yes, that’s my answer.” I stay calm, hoping some of it will rub off on him. No such luck.
“Over three thousand people watched President Campbell announce Miss Elisa Cecilia Snow, valedictorian in absentia, and a full minute of silence fell over the crowd, and you say it’s none of my fucking business?” He is spitting fire.
Damn it! Why would President Campbell announce it? I emailed the traitor. Well, one thing at a time. The Dragon first. “No, I didn’t say fucking business. I said simply business.”
He looks at me with flared nostrils and roars, his fists hanging down.
“What is wrong with you?”
Oh, this is rich. He is morphing into a Tolkien creature and I’m the freak? I am usually a calm, rational agent. It’s probably not apparent based on this last week, but I am. But right now, with my newly shaved legs and my lacy knickers on, after practicing his name all day in front of a stupid fan, I want to scratch his eyes out.
“There’s nothing wrong with me, Mr. Hale. However, based on your behavior these last two days, may I suggest the very real possibility that there is something seriously wrong with you? I strongly recommend that you visit a psychiatrist, sir, and soon, before you become a menace on the streets of Portland and incinerate us all for exercising our right as free human beings to go wherever we bloody well please,” I hiss, feeling a kindred spirit with Medusa because he has turned to stone.
Before I can draw a breath, he takes the two steps between us and his mouth closes in on mine, his hands like a vise around my face.
The force of his kiss slams me against the wall and makes me gasp. His lips mold with mine, and his tongue is dancing inside my mouth. My knees shake a little. As if he knows, one of his hands leaves my face, trails down my body and rests at the small of my back, arching me against him and supporting all my weight. I move my tongue shyly around his. I taste cinnamon and something else, something Aiden. My blood ignites, and another gasp escapes me. At the sound, he presses his hips against me, and his long fingers reach into my hair. He pulls my head back until my mouth opens wider. Our tongues move together, and his anger changes to desperation and then to a slower rhythm that I can follow. Of their own accord, my arms reach up around his neck and my fingers knot in his hair. He tenses, so I try to let go but he draws me closer until there is no more space left. I feel every line of his body against mine. His teeth graze my bottom lip. It takes me a moment to realize that the moan I hear is coming from me. He pulls away, his breathing harsh and labored.
“Impossible woman,” he growls.
I open my eyes. His sapphire depths are blazing. Without his arm supporting me, my knees go back to shaky and weak. Then it dawns on me. Bloody hell, I’ve just been kissed by Aiden Hale! And what a kiss it was. I’ll be the first to admit I don’t have much experience with such things, but I am willing to bet my supplement’s formula that no girl, anywhere, has been kissed like this. I pinch myself discreetly to make sure I’m awake. Yes, it was real. My lips are tingling.
“Are you ready to go?” he asks, his breathing now back in control. Apparently, we are not going to talk about it. That’s good. What if his next words end this? And what is there to say regardless? By some miracle, he wants me at some level, and I want him at all levels. That’s good enough for now. Good enough for forever for someone like me.
It takes me a while to formulate a thought, let alone an answer. Even then, all I can manage is to nod and pick up my purse.
He takes my hand and we step out in the first sunny morning of Portland’s spring.
