Hero (17 page)

Birds sing outside my window for the first time. The room is as bright as a spring day. Despite my late night conversation with Calvin in the library, I feel rested. Instead of sitting on my sill and daydreaming from behind glass, I go downstairs for a late breakfast.

I’m finishing a stack of homemade pancakes when Calvin walks in.

“Cataline,” he greets with a smile, wiping a gloss of sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. “Sleep well?”

My eyes scan over his outfit, narrowing as I chew. “You’ve been horseback riding?”

“It’s beautiful outside. Nothing better than a crisp fall day.”

I look down at my fork as it zigzags through maple syrup. It does look beautiful outside, the sun brightening the woods’ brown-orange trees. I fight the question coming, but it’s barely a struggle. “Can I go?”

“No.”

“With you?” I ask, glancing up. “I promise to behave. I haven’t been outside in months. And I’ve never been horseback riding.”

“Never?”

I shake my head hard.

He shifts from one foot to the other. “In exchange for your best behavior, I’ll consider it.”

“Okay,” I say, unable to suppress a small smile. “I’d like that.”

Norman brings coffee for us, setting both mugs at my end of the table. Instead of his usual spot, Calvin takes the chair next to me. “I have no impending business, so I’ll be around today.”

I examine my plate, watching brown syrup suck crumbs under like quicksand. “Is that a warning?”

He laughs. “That’s up to you, I suppose.”

“What do you do? Like, when you have free time?”

“I rarely have free time. There’s always something to be done. I’ll hit the gym at some point today, though. Have you been in there?”

“The gym? No. I don’t run indoors. I feel trapped.”

“You should try it. Come with me. Some exercise will be good for you.”

I drop my fork with a clatter and look up at him. “Are you saying I’m fat?”

He laughs again, and I mentally begin tracking the times I’ve seen him smile. “No matter the situation, women all have the same concerns. No, Sparrow, I don’t think you’re fat. You’ve lost a little weight since your arrival.”

I nod. “I know. I can tell by the fit of my clothing.”

“Do you need new things?”

“No,” I say, my eyes widening. “I have more than enough.”

“All right, then. So will you join me?”

I search his face, and he lets me. “Really?” I ask after a moment. “I can come with you?”

His head tilts forward. “You can come.”

“Okay. Yes. Thank you.”

“Finish up, and meet me there in an hour.”

I’m left at the table with my empty plate, wondering if I’ve just walked into a trap. On the way to my room, though, I’m as giddy as if I’ve won something. I wonder if we’ll talk, or if he prefers silence when he’s exercising. I don’t think I mind either way. Predictability makes up my days except when Calvin is involved. Sometimes I believe even when that means something awful, it’s better than day-to-day nothingness.

Fortunately, my closet is stocked with untouched workout gear. I’m outside the gym in forty-five minutes. The door is unlocked, but I seat myself in the hallway to stretch.

I’m reaching over my right leg, my hand hooked over the toe of my shoe when Calvin appears. “Ready?” he asks. Without his glasses, nothing obstructs my view of his angular, handsome face.

“Don’t you need to stretch?”

He gives me a look and disappears into the room. I hop up and follow him through the doorway, where I’m hit with the smells of rubber and stale sweat. A seamless mirror makes up one wall of the equipment-filled room. There are TVs, free weights, and even a bookshelf with volumes on the human body and nutrition. Calvin is hunched over with his back to me as I wring my hands. “What should I do?” I ask him.

He looks over his shoulder. “Whatever you want, Cataline.”

I head away from him for the treadmill. “Can I use this? Or do you need it?”

He holds up his right hand, which is partially taped. “Want to hold it for me?” he asks, nodding his head at the punching bag. I blink between it and him until he laughs. “I’m joking.”

I exhale and nod. “Oh.”

The treadmill is top of the line, and it takes me a few moments to figure out how to set up my run. I’m trying to focus, but I can’t help watching as Calvin pushes hair from his face with his forearms. I hit “Start” just as he peels off his t-shirt and tosses it over a dumbbell rack. There’s nothing bulky about Calvin, but his strength is undeniable. There’s not a hint of fat on his immense frame. His muscles bulge and curve in the right places, and when he flexes, his six-pack becomes an eight-pack.

He is a work of art, each muscle sculpted by its owner. I get the feeling when he launches his fist into the bag, he isn’t even using all of his strength. I’m settled into my jog now, and my gaze drifts between my reflection and him. I wish somehow that I could see myself standing next to him. I want to know how he makes me look, how we fit together. We both have light eyes and brown hair, though mine is darker than his. Except for the age gap, we could be mistaken for brother and sister. We could be mistaken for a lot of things: friends, lovers, enemies.

His blows get faster, more aggressive. His body shines in the flood of harsh white light, and his hair looks damp and sticky. The heavy bag takes each thud with a dull vibration. It’s patient and obedient, accepting of Calvin’s violent fury. When I look down at the screen, I’ve been running for fifteen minutes, and my breathing is labored. What used to be just a warm-up is wearing me out too quickly. I drag the back of my hand across my forehead and distract myself by watching him. After some time, he pauses, his hands on his hips, his chest heaving. His shorts sag low enough to stir things in me I wish would stay dormant.

He doesn’t seem to remember I’m even here, so I let myself stare as he steps over to the bookshelf. He opens a book, sits on a bench with his back against the mirror, and begins reading. There’s a slight rattle in my chest, but I refuse to quit at anything less than three miles, which was only half my previous route. Calvin glances up after a few minutes and I avert my eyes, but not before he catches me. He nods in my direction. “You all right?”

I nod.

He tosses the book on the bench and stands. “I can hear you wheezing from here, and you’re beet red. I think it’s time to call it.”

“I’m fine.”

He walks over, yanks out the emergency stop and pulls me over his shoulder before I go flying backwards off the belt.

“Hey,” I squeal. “I’m not done.”

He sets me on my feet. “You’re done,” he states as we wipe each other’s sweat from our bodies. “Ease back into it, or you could hurt yourself.”

I cross my arms and glimpse myself in the mirror. My face is flushed, my ponytail sagging. I turn my back to Calvin when I fix it. I slide out the ponytail holder and gather my hair again but pause when his finger runs along the back of my slick neck. He takes the rubber band from my fingers. “Leave it down.”

“I’m sweaty.”

“Then we’ll get in the pool.”

“The pool?” I ask, confused. “What pool? You have a pool? And I can go outside?”

“Slow down,” he says with a small smile. “It’s an indoor pool, and it’s heated. Perfect after a workout.”

“I don’t have a swimsuit.”

With a blink, his gaze falls to my neck and travels slowly down the length of my body. His eyes seem to make contact with my skin, pebbling it with just a look. My pulse is pounding at the base of my neck despite my efforts to calm it. He won’t care that I don’t have a swimsuit. Do I? He’s seen me nude. More than anyone else, in fact. Skinny dipping in a warm pool with him doesn’t repel me like it should. His tongue runs along the underside of his upper lip. “Back of the bottom drawer.”

My throat is dry from forgetting to swallow. “Hmm?”

His eyes jump back to mine. “Swimsuit. Bottom drawer. In the back.”

I stare at him. I haven’t opened that drawer since the day I arrived and found it filled with expensive lingerie. I wonder how he knows, why he would even care, what’s in my closet. “Right. I’ll, uh, go change.”

On our way out, he opens a door by the exit and hands me a white, oversized robe. “You’ll need this.” I accept it from him, folding my arms over its inviting softness. “Wait for me in your room. I’ll come get you.”

I have three variations of the same black bikini to choose from: one with a revealing but simple triangle top, one strapless, shoulder-bearing bandeau, and one banded halter that augments my cleavage. I try them each on and decide the triangle top is most flattering. My skin is still warm and sensitive from my workout, but it’s comforted when I enfold myself in the cotton ball robe.

After reading some pages from my book, I’m bored and decide to get a snack. When I’m almost at the kitchen, I overhear voices coming from the same room that I was caught sneaking around last time, when I was exiled to the basement. I will myself to ignore it, but my feet stop.

My fear of losing companionship, of going back to the cell, of missing my chance to go outside is strong. But there’s only one thing that trumps it all: my need for information. For answers. I pull my robe tightly around me, rise onto the balls of my bare feet and continue toward the cracked door. I tune to Calvin’s voice as I peer into the room and see him shirtless in only his swim trunks, facing Norman.

“. . . it’s been a week, and I can feel the difference. It has to be now.”

“I understand, sir. All I’m saying is perhaps you could take the night off. It is Sunday after all. Give yourself a break. We can do it in the morning, and—”

“I don’t get a break,” Calvin says, his jaw more defined than usual. “I have to be ready in an instant, and a week is too long to go without it. What if there’s an emergency, and I have to stop for an injection? A few minutes can mean all the difference.”

“One night will be good for you. Go swimming with the girl. Try and enjoy yourself.”

Calvin snatches something from Norman’s hand. “I don’t need a night off. When people’s lives are at stake, there’s no such thing as time off.” His hands tremble slightly as he uncaps a syringe and holds it up. “I need this. I’ll do it on my own if you won’t.”

Norman holds out his open palm for the needle, and I watch the foreboding scene unveil. Calvin extends his arm for Norman. After a moment of searching for a vein, Norman lowers the syringe to the inside of Calvin’s elbow, pierces the skin, and drains it.

Calvin’s eyes close as his chest expands with a deep inhale. He runs his free hand through his hair and exhales, long and slow, his shoulders loosening. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. After Norman removes the needle and replaces it with a cotton ball, Calvin’s hands twitch and go still.

I retreat from the open door while Calvin’s eyes are still shut, his breathing even. I move swiftly but quietly back to my room, dissecting everything in my head. He was soothed by whatever was in that syringe. I think of Calvin’s bad temper, the way his mood can shift in an instant. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before, because now it seems obvious that his connection to the Cartel is drugs.

Calvin finds me on my sill. He stops in the middle of the bedroom with his hands on his hips. “Ready to hit the pool, Sparrow?”

I bite my lower lip. That drugs are involved makes me wary, but I know better than to let on to what I saw. “Birds can’t swim,” I point out.

“You’re right about that. But I’ll be there to save you if you sink.”

My load lightens seeing his good mood, and I smile as I stand. He leads the way to a locked door that opens to a wing of the house I’ve never seen. The pool is on the ground floor in a windowless, tiled room. It’s like stepping into another world, all cerulean glow and echoing water, seemingly cut off from the rest of the mansion. I follow Calvin’s lead as he removes his robe and sets it across a lounge chair. He doesn’t spare me a glance before diving seamlessly into the blue.

I use the steps to enter the warm water, watching him swim laps as I slowly submerge myself. When I’m up to my shoulders, I see Calvin through the steam, his long arms and legs slicing through the water like he was made for it. I duck under all the way with my eyes shut and listen to the dull, delayed chorus of his swimming. This feels like freedom. I pretend I’m on vacation with my boyfriend, and we’re at the hotel swimming pool. When I emerge, I’ll be bathed in the golden warmth of shining, shimmering, reflective sunlight. I wait until I have no more breath and shoot up from the water, gasping for air. Calvin’s nearby, running his hand over his face and swiping wet hair from his forehead. His eyes land on me, and though we’re looking directly at each other, all I can see is the essence of him amongst the steam, skin, heat, water.

“Why is this room closed off?” I ask.

“Because it’s for me.”

“And the rest of the mansion isn’t?”

“Just the fourth floor.”

“What about the library, cinema, game room . . . ?”

“For guests,” he says. “I don’t use them. The pool is mine.”

“Why?”

“Swimming takes the edge off.”

“That’s the only reason?”