Exiled (A Madame X Novel) (8 page)

I can’t tell him. I don’t even know yet.

“I—I feel lost, again.”

“You’re right here. With me.”

“But I feel like . . . like there’s an ocean between us.”

He presses up against me. “I know I said I needed time. And I did. I’ve had time. That’s what this afternoon was about. I’m okay with it all. As okay as I can be. We’re here. We’re together. We work, as a couple. Even without sex, you and I work, as a couple. Even without sex, I enjoy your company.”

“But I feel like there’s space between us.” A dam is cracking open, words pouring out I hadn’t known existed within me. “Like the connection we had is . . . not gone, but—different. The way you look at me, the way you touched me this afternoon. It was . . . different. And I just feel . . . off. Everything feels off, ever since Caleb let me go.”

“Isabel—”

“Nothing is right.”

“Isabel—”

“And there’s so much I—so much I need to say, but I don’t know. So much I need to do, but I don’t know how. I need an identity, Logan. Even just legally. I’m not really a person, legally. And . . . inside, I’m just—I’m a mess. And I don’t know how to fix it. I love being here, with you. Living with you. Sleeping beside you. Eating with you. But tonight—it was . . . I don’t know.”

“Listen, Isabel—”

“I feel like there’s so much in the way between us. Caleb is between us. My weakness, where he’s concerned. What happened. The fact that he shot you. Almost killed you. Cost you your eye. That’s my fault. You can say what you like, but that’s how I feel. And that scares me, that there’s so much between us, so much inside me I don’t know how to express, even to myself. I want us. I want you. I want how easy it was, before. I’m afraid I—I’m afraid I ruined things.”

“Goddammit.” This is under his breath.

And then he kisses me. Abruptly, almost violently. He takes my
face in his big warm hands, and his lips crash against mine. His tongue steals between my teeth.

Heat suffuses me.

I collapse forward, and my arms wind around his neck. I cling to him. Just touching him, thus, it centers me.

I have to touch him. Feel him. Feel
us
.

I am pushing at him. At his clothes. At his tuxedo jacket. It softly thuds to the floor in the foyer. His back is to the door; the alarm is beeping. Logan reaches past me, jabs at the green-lit buttons, and the alarm goes quiet. Cocoa is whining, barking.

Nothing matters.

I am obsessed. I need him. I need his skin. I need to know that
this
, the physical, mental, emotional connection that binds us, I need to know it still exists. And right now, the only way I know how to find that is by touching him. Filling myself with his body, his scent, his heat, his hardness. To feel him. To know. To relearn him.

I have his tie untied. Tossed away. Tear at the buttons. I hear one pop and clatter on the floor.

“Whoa, Isabel, honey, slow down a second—”

I kiss him silent. Shove the shirt off his shoulders, and he fumbles with the cuff links, shoves them in his trousers pocket. I have his belt gone now, the buckle jingling onto the floor at my feet. The double clasp and button closure of his trousers, the zipper. He kicks off his shoes and he lifts his feet free, and now, finally, God finally I have him bare, naked in my hands. His abs, his broad back, his hard round ass, the hot rigidity of his cock. I caress him all over, just touching him. Lean in, and kiss him. His shoulders. His throat. His tattoos. His scars. Fondle his erection, grasp him. Stroke him.

Logan gently but firmly pushes me back, stares at me, confused. “Isabel, babe. What’s going on?”

“I need you.”

I don’t think, don’t hesitate. Unzip my dress and step out of it, nude now except for my heels, earrings, and necklace. A moment, as he stares at me. Nipples peaked, core wet. I can smell my own desire.

“Logan, I
need
you,” I repeat.

“Why do you seem so . . . desperate?”

“I don’t know why, but I am. I’m desperate for you. I need you.”

I reach for him, cling to him. Kiss the shell of his ear. His temple. Tug his hair free of the ponytail and spear my fingers through his blond wavy hair. Drag his mouth to mine. Kiss him with every molecule of my being.

“Is this good-bye, Isabel?”

“No,” I breathe. “
Fuck
no. It’s—It’s . . .” I pull back but don’t let go of him, cling to his hair and his cheek. “It’s me saying, ‘Love me,’ Logan. Love me. Please . . . just love me. Show me. Remind me. I need us. I need
us
.”

He bends at the knees, grabs the backs of my thighs, and lifts. I wrap my legs around him, lean in and devour his breath. Touch my forehead to his as his back hits the door. We groan in unison as he fills me. He moves to kiss me, but I steal it from him. Take the kiss from him. Bite his lower lip as he impales me, seats deep, sunk to the root. Hips to hips. Mouth to mouth. Heart to heart.

“This is what you need, Is?”

“Yes, God yes.”

He moves. Carries me to the kitchen, sets me on the island, buttocks right at the edge. Grabs my hips, and pulls. Fills me with a thrust. Breathes onto my lips, groans, and kisses me. Pulls back, his one brilliant blue indigo eye on me, staring at me. Letting me see into him, as he always does, when we’re like this. When he’s inside me.

Still wearing my black high heels, I use my feet to pull him against me. As if he could get closer, as if it were possible to go deeper. It’s
not, but I try. As if him being deeper will unite us more. As if feeling more of him, as if being filled more completely by him will bind us more tightly. As if to love him thus—wildly, desperately, furiously—could erase my sins, could cure my addiction.

It won’t, but I try.

Oh god, God, gods—I try. To erase, with Logan. To cure, with Logan. To remake myself, with Logan. He is inside me, but yet I am in him. Wound up, delved deep, tangled up, woven in. I writhe then and feel his cock slide through my stretched and burning and aching core, and I lean forward. Collapse against his chest, lips to his breastbone. Curl my hand around his ass and pull. Urge him.

“Love me, Logan.”

He moves then. Thrusts. Pulls me closer. I lean back, close my eyes, push my hips against his, angle away. Hook my high heels around his calves and clutch the cool hard round bubble of his muscular buttocks and let him move. Just feel it. Feel him move. Feel him fill me.

But it’s not enough.

I push at his chest.

He lifts me, pulls out of me, and sets me down. And now I push him again, shove him to the couch. He falls backward to the cushions, and I fall onto him. Straddle him. Kneel over him. Drape my breasts against his face, drag my aching nipples against his mouth. Reach down between us and guide his cock to my entrance. Don’t waste a moment, not a single second. Impale him into me. Sink down on him. Grip his shoulder with one hand and the back of the couch with the other. Knees in the back of the couch, taking my weight. Lift up, sink down. God, so deep. So full. So thick. So much. I lean back, stare down at our bodies as I rise, watch his shaft slide out of me, gleaming and wet and slick and wide, and watch as he thrusts up and buries himself into me, watch as that thick beautiful
erection disappears into me. He has my breast in his mouth, tongue lapping at my nipple. Licking my tits. I arch my back and beg him without words to never ever stop doing that.

I ride him, frantic, frenetic, and wild. He grunts, moves with me, but this is all about me. I’m taking this. I need this. This is mine. I cling to him, both hands now. On his shoulders, almost gripping his throat. His hair is loose and wild, in his face. I leave it that way, obscuring him. The patch is black through yellow strands, his eye is ultrablueblueblue. His skin is golden, his hair the color of the noonday sun. Body hard and lean and strong and perfect, and all mine.

I kiss him, quickly. “You are mine.”

He laughs. He
laughs
. “Yes, Isabel. I am yours.”

His hands grip my hips and urge me to move harder, faster, to sink him deeper. And this, his hands thus on my hips, it is him saying without words—
and you are mine
. He doesn’t need to say it, and if he did, I would hate it. I’ve heard those words far too many times from someone not him, and I cannot hear them again, not from Logan. He knows. He sees. So he says it another way, he tells me with his hands. He slides his big rough palms up my torso to cup my big, heavy, bouncing breasts.
Mine.
He brings one breast to his mouth, kisses it, devours my nipple, the areola;
mine.
The other;
mine.
Hands grazing now down my sides, cupping up under my buttocks, gripping them, lifting me, letting me fall down to bury him deepdeepdeep, so deep;
mine.

Then—while we move, while he drives up into me, while I sink down on him, while my tits sway and bounce in his face, while he stares into me with his one good eye, the one eye now more arresting and piercing than ever—he puts a thumb to my lips, a palm to my cheek, his fingers through my hair;
mine.
Grips my hair in rough fistfuls, suddenly, and kisses me so hard I forget to breathe, and thank God for that because in this moment with Logan Ryder I’d
rather kiss than breathe, need his kiss this kiss more than oxygen, more than life, more than anything, however elemental.

Because this, us, we are elemental, thus. Bonded, connected, soul to soul;

MINE.

A jealousy, a possession going both ways. Ownership freely given, rather than taken.

I will myself to him. I would with all my soul belong to him and only him forever.

Our movements become ragged. Mine, his, ours. I feel his breath come as gasps. His grip in my hair and on my hip goes bruisingly beautifully rough. If I was loving him—not just moving, certainly not
fucking
, but
loving him
—wildly before, now I am primal. Feral. Mad. I even make sounds that aren’t quite human. Sounds of need, sounds of utter abandonment. Bliss. Perfection. Beauty. Raw love being created between us.

He is growling.

I am whimpering and whining and snarling and clutching at him everywhere.

A hand in his hair, fisted in his sun-locks. Biting his lip. Eating his breath. Sucking down nipping dipping kisses.

I feel him come, and I explode around him in that precise moment. I feel him release, hear his lion’s roar of ecstasy, and I give my own orgasm vent. Loud, crazed. We are clinging to each other. Mouth to mouth, kissing as if kissing were breath, were life, and we were drowning without it. He comes and comes and comes, and I am thrashing above him, squeezing him as he orgasms, undulating above him, driving him deeper and harder as I come so hard I see stars, go dizzy, nearly faint with the shattering power of it.

When he has finished his orgasm, and I have also, I grip his hair in both hands and yank his face back so he cannot but look at me.
He lets me do this. Enjoys it. Stares up at me unblinking, unwavering, and roams my body with his hands while I gaze into his soul.

“I love you, Logan.” I whisper it, raggedly. “I love you.”

A moment, fraught, rife.

And then we’re twisting and falling and I’m lying on his chest and his arms around me and holding me tight and he’s holding me together. Keeping all my pieces together.

“Isabel . . . Isabel.” A thumb across my temple. A palm on my back, broad and warm and comforting. “I love you.”

In that moment, I feel like just maybe things might be okay, somehow,
someday.

I
wake in our bed. Covered in blankets, still naked. A glance tells me it’s after eight in the morning, and—

I barely make it to the bathroom.

After rinsing my mouth and brushing my teeth, I look at myself in the mirror. Front view, side view. Palm on my stomach. My still-flat stomach. I know nothing about such things. If I am—if . . . God, I still cannot even think it to myself—when I know, just by looking at myself in the mirror?

How do I find out for sure? I have no identification. No money. If I am ever to have any independence, I must have these things. I don’t think Logan realizes. That I don’t have an ID, that I’ve never had my own finances. Or how much I want those things.

I shower, wash away the evidence of last night. I smile to myself, thinking of that.

I am dressed, scrubbing my hair dry, and there’s a knock at the door. Cocoa, lying on the floor of the bedroom, lifts her head off her paws, growls low in her throat. Hackles rise at her shoulders.
She stands up, slowly, lithely, in a move that reminds one she is descended from predators. She prowls to the front door, growling. I follow her, put a hand on her collar, and peek through the peephole.

A man in a brown uniform, holding a large square envelope. There’s a truck parked in the street, emergency flashers blinking,
UPS
written on the side.

Another knock.

I open the door, holding on to Cocoa’s collar, but loosely. I trust her to protect me. She’s leaning against my knees, putting herself in front of me. Growling at the deliveryman, who glances down at her, nervous. I would be, were I on the other side of a growling, distrustful Cocoa.

“Isabel de la Vega?”

“Yes. How can I help you?”

He hands me the package, then extends a device with a screen and a small stylus. “Sign on the line, please.”

“What is this?”

“Package for Isabel de la Vega. All I know.”

“Who is it from?”

“It’s from someone named . . .” A glance at the top left corner of the label, and then the package is handed back to me. “Caleb Indigo.”

I take the stylus and sign my name, slowly, carefully.

“Have a nice day, ma’am.” And then the carrier jogs to the street and is gone in a rumble of diesel fumes.

I stand in the open doorway, staring at the package.

From you.

What is it? What could you possibly be sending me? I almost don’t want to open it. But I must.

I close the door, move as if in a dream to the kitchen island. Set the package down. Find the tab on the back side and pull it open.
Reach in, withdraw a small pile of papers. The paper on top is white, and smells old. There are three words across the top:
Acta de Nacimiento.

Birth Certificate.

I see my name. My father’s name. My mother’s. The whole thing, naturally, is in Spanish, but I somehow translate everything without even thinking. Without trying. My brain just . . . does it. How bizarre.

The next item is a small blue card with
Social Security
across the top. My name, and a number, three digits, a dash, two digits, another dash, and four more digits.

My social security card?

The next item is larger, square, white paper with black inked designs printed around the edges. Across the top is
The United States of America
, and beneath that is
Certificate of Naturalization
, the first two words and the third separated by a gold leaf image of the U.S. seal. In the bottom left corner is a small photograph of me. Young, fourteen. Long black hair braided and hanging over my shoulder. A shy smile. That damned blue dress, I can tell I’m wearing it in the photo, by the hint of my shoulders visible. The damned blue dress. There is my signature, near the top. Neat, careful; the way I signed for the package.

Holding these items, I half expect to have a flashback, a memory. But . . . there is nothing.

There is a money order made out to the Commissioner of Motor Vehicles in the amount of fourteen dollars.

One last item flutters out of the package when I upend it. A small scrap of yellow paper, torn from a legal pad. The handwriting is beautiful. Perfect. Uppercase letters, slanted a bit, each letter printed so neatly it is almost calligraphy. But the words are scrawled diagonally
across the scrap of paper, completely disregarding the ruled lines, meaning the note was scribbled quickly, dashed and torn off.

Isabel,

I obtained these for you. They are brand-new copies of your original Spanish birth certificate, your U.S. social security card, and your certificate of naturalization. It is all you will need to obtain an ID card. Merely take these three pieces of identification to the DMV—Department of Motor Vehicles. Your boyfriend will know where one is.

Caleb

Your name is signed messily, the
C
curling and looping, huge, almost entirely enclosing the other four letters, which are printed uppercase.

There is no explanation as to how you got them, no explanation as to why. Just the five sentences, your name, and my name.

Terse, brief, efficient.

And the word
boyfriend
; I can almost feel the sarcasm, the vitriol. The letters of the word are darker, as if the hand holding the pen was gripping more tightly, pressing down harder upon the paper.

I open Logan’s laptop, type in
DMV
, and a list pops up. There is one not far from Logan’s home. I memorize the address, the intersection, the blocks intervening, memorize the route I will need to take. I want to do this myself. Logan would take me, and will be upset I did it alone. But this is for me to do.

Thank you, Caleb.

I don’t know why you saw fit to provide me with this information, but you did. And I am grateful.

I replace the items in the package, find my shoes. They are flats, like ballet slippers. Comfortable, plain. I am wearing tight-fitting blue jeans and a plain green V-neck T-shirt, a knitted white wool cardigan over it. Comfortable clothes. Simple. Plain cotton briefs, and a supportive but comfortable bra. My hair is messy, but it looks good this way. No makeup.

I am Isabel. I do not need Valentino shoes or Chanel dresses, or Carine Gilson lingerie.

Almost out the door, my hand on the knob, about to close it, the key Logan gave me in my pocket, I hesitate.

And then go back inside. Open the laptop, pull up Google. Let out a shaky, shuddery breath.

Type in three words:
free pregnancy test
.

A moment as the computer thinks, and then it brings up a list of options. One, Avail NYC, is near enough to the DMV that I can walk there as well. I click the link to go to the website. See that I have to make an appointment, so I follow the directions and make an online appointment for later today. Close the tab, lower the lid of the laptop with shaking hands. My heart is whacking painfully in my chest. It’s just a precaution, I tell myself. It’s not true. It can’t be.

I know better. I know when I’m lying to myself.

I leave Logan’s house, putting Cocoa in her room, setting the alarm, and locking the door behind me.

It is a much longer walk than it seemed when examining the map.

*   *   *

O
ne-oh-four!” a voice calls out.

A slip of paper in my hands reads 104, so I stand up, move to the owner of the voice. A black woman. Short, thin, middle aged, hair cropped short and dusted with gray, large gold hoop earrings dangling from earlobes. No eye contact.

“Help you?”

“I need an ID card.”

“Not a driver’s license?”

“No. Just an ID.”

“Got the application done?” I hand over the application I filled out while I was waiting. “You’ll need to provide two forms of identification. Social security card, a utility bill, something like that.”

I place the three forms I have on the counter. The woman retrieves two at random, the social security card and the certificate of naturalization. Not at random, actually. She probably doesn’t read Spanish, and a document from a foreign country probably doesn’t count anyway.

Fingers clack on keys for a while and then a pink lacquered nail gestures. “Stand there for the photograph.” A moment of adjusting equipment. “One . . . two . . . three.” A bright flash.

More typing.

“Fourteen dollars, please.” I hand over the money order. “Here’s your temporary ID. Your card will arrive within two weeks.”

“Thank you—”

“You bet. Have a nice day. NEXT! Number . . . one-oh-seven!”

And just like that, I have an ID.

I make sure I have all of my papers, place the temporary card with it into the DHL envelope. Orient myself, and begin the walk to the Avail clinic. It also is much, much farther away than it seemed on the map. By the time I get there, my feet ache, and I just want to go home.

But that is more likely because I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to have to face this truth. My knees shake as I sign in and take a seat in the waiting room. My hands shake. My stomach flips. I am fighting tears.

After a few minutes of waiting and filling out a form—the answers to many of the questions I leave blank, because I just don’t know—a door opens and a young woman stands in the doorway, holding a clipboard. “Isabel?”

I stand up, and the young woman smiles at me. Twenty-two, perhaps. Bottle blond, on the heavy side of curvy, a kind, comforting smile and a welcome presence. “Hi, Isabel. I’m Abby. Come on back.”

I follow her. I’m too nervous and terrified to even say hello back. Abby leads me to a room with an exam bed, closes the door behind us. “So, Isabel. You’re here for a pregnancy test?”

I nod. Try to breathe and can’t.

Abby sees my trembling, my obvious terror. Puts a small, cool hand on my shoulder. “It’s going to be okay, okay? We’re here to help. Just take a deep breath, let it out. . . . good. Now, can you tell me when your last period was?”

A digital thermometer under my tongue; a cuff Velcroed around my bicep, a gauge measuring something while Abby glances at a watch.

“Um. Last month. Middle of last month.”

“So how long since your missed period?”

“About . . . three weeks?”

Abby nods. Unstraps the cuff, hangs it in its place. Retrieves a small clear container from a cabinet, writes my name on a label. Hands it to me. “I just need a small urine sample.”

Abby shows me to the bathroom and I obtain the sample—which is a bit trickier than it sounds. Return to the room, and hand Abby the sample. There is something bizarre and embarrassing about handing a perfect stranger a cup full of my still-warm urine. But Abby seems totally at ease and unconcerned. Vanishes with the sample, promising to return within a few minutes with the results.

I sit on the exam bed and kick my feet, too nervous to sit still. Too afraid. Still not thinking about what it means. What I’ll do. I can’t think of anything. My mind is racing so fast with a million fears and thoughts and worst-case scenarios that I shut it all out and refuse to think at all. Blank. Staring into nothingness, breathing slowly in through my nose, out through my mouth, trying not to cry.

Abby comes back. Sits on the small stool, hands folded together resting on crossed legs. “So, Isabel. The results came back positive.” A smile. “You’re pregnant.”

I swallow hard. Blink back tears. “Is . . . could there be a mistake? A false . . . um, a false positive, perhaps?”

A shake of bottle-blond hair. “No, honey. There’s no such thing as a false positive when it comes to pregnancy. False negatives are real, and if the test had come back negative we’d give you a blood test, which is much more accurate if it’s early, still. But your last period was three weeks ago, which is kind of a long time in these kinds of scenarios. So, it’s conclusive.”

I am handed yet another clipboard and pen, told to fill out more forms. I do so quickly, and Abby leads me to a different room, this one a counseling room. The counselor is a woman, white, with gray hair tied in a bun; kind, wrinkled eyes; a soothing, soft voice. Mary, from social services.

“Are you alone?”

I shrug. “I . . . at this moment, yes.”

“Do you know who the father is?” This is asked gently, so as not to sound judgmental, I suppose.

“Um.” There are only two options. “Yes.” There should only be one option.

“But the father is not here with you?”

“It’s . . . complicated.”

“I see. Well, you have a few options, at this point, Isabel: abortion, adoption, or keeping it.”

“I—”

Mary lays out several pamphlets. “If you choose to abort the pregnancy, there are several different methods available to choose from—”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry—” I hold up my hands, stopping Mary’s explanations. “I just . . . I need some time. Can I . . . I need to think about this. I need to talk to—”

“Of course, of course.” Mary stacks the pamphlets, adds a few more on adoption and parenting, and stands up, hands them all to me, a thick stack of pamphlets explaining all of the various options for what to do now that I know I’m pregnant.

I’m pregnant.

I’m pregnant.

I feel faint. Dizzy. I have to sit down, put my head in my hands and breathe.

“Are you all right, Isabel?”

I force myself to my feet. Breathe. Breathe. The dizziness clears. I push it all aside, shove it back down. Can’t think about it yet. Not until I’m home and alone. And sitting down.

“Yes. I’m fine. I just . . .”

“It can be scary and overwhelming, I know. But you have options. We’re here to help, Isabel. If you need to discuss your options with someone besides your partner, come back here. I’m here to help you understand your options and I will help you choose the best thing for you. Okay?”

“Yes, I—thank you, Mary. I have to—I have to go.” I put all the pamphlets in the envelope with everything else.

*   *   *

I
don’t remember walking home.

Logan is waiting for me, sitting on the couch, cell phone in hand. When I walk in, he jumps up, strides over to me. Quick, jerky, angry strides.

“Where the hell have you been, Isabel? I was worried sick.”

“I had . . . I . . .” What do I say? “Caleb sent me some information. My birth certificate. Social security card. Naturalization certificate. So I went to the DMV to get my ID.”