Lie to Me (20 page)

“I’m mobile,” she says, looking at her foot. “I can get around just fine. But I can’t do this.”

“Lo,” I say. “Don’t.”

“I can’t. I’m reneging on our deal. Take me to Judge Judy, I don’t care. But I can’t do this.”

I take a deep breath and study her face. She’s still hurting. Fuck, just looking at me hurts her. I don’t know how to fix this, but I will. I will not leave it like this. I will not.

“Let me make good on my promise,” I say.

I’ve made her so many promises. It almost doesn’t matter which one I mean. They’re all the same.

Make it right.

She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t say no.

“I love you, Lo,” I say as I’m stepping out the door. It’s all I got.

“I know,” she says, finally meeting my eyes.

The pain I see there rakes through me all the way back to the hotel, where I go right back up to my fancy suite and throw up until I’m too tired to feel anything else.

***

The worst hangover I’ve ever had in my life is from Harlow Chase.

Just like being inside her again is the happiest I’ve ever been, knowing that she’s hurting now, again, because of me, is the closest to hell I hope to ever experience.

Normally I have an iron stomach. Even after a bottle of tequila, I’m not one to lose it. This? It’s like my body itself is disgusted, and wants to punish me.

I’m fine with that.

The only other time I’ve ever felt like this was the first time Alex Wolfe had me do body work.

I don’t mean on a car.

Isn’t it fucked up that I don’t even remember the details? It was right after I’d agreed to go out to California with Alex, right after I broke Harlow’s heart to do it, and I was in a kind of all over haze. Not really thinking right. I didn’t want to know too much, I know that, I didn’t want to know anything about the guy’s family, his life, any of that shit. I didn’t want to see shades of gray. I wanted to take the guy into that warehouse knowing that I was about to do a bad thing to a bad man. Thought that would make it easier, somehow, but I don’t know if it did.

I pulled up next to this guy’s restaurant, some place he was running gambling in the back rooms, and waited. His name was Mikey, and he’d been skimming Alex’s gambling business. I had a photo. I cornered him when he came out and when he saw me, standing there, next to that rented car, I could see he knew why I was there. He looked at me like I was the angel of death.

He was quiet the whole way over. I guess I respected that, looking back. It would have been easier if he could have made me hate him in those few minutes. If he’d said something, anything, if someone had told me he beat his wife or something, it wouldn’t have been so bad.

But Mikey was silent. Still. He didn’t start to cry until he saw Alex, waiting for him.

Just the sight of Alex, and the man started crying. And then Alex looked at me.

I did refuse to tie him to a chair. I at least did that. Could not bring myself to hit a restrained man, like some kind of coward. But I still beat the shit out of him, and I did it because Alex told me to, because the guy was causing Alex problems. I covered my hands in this man’s blood, chasing him around that damn warehouse until he begged, pleaded with me not to hit him anymore, while Alex Wolfe watched with cold, cold eyes. Seeing a grown man cry like that? It undoes something in you.

That was when I knew I was the bad guy. That I had turned into the bad guy.

I went home after that, to the nice place Alex had rented for me out in Santa Monica, and could feel the wrongness of it crawling over my skin until I wanted to rip it off, could feel myself turning into a damn monster until I knew the world would be better off without me in it. The scariest thing about that was that I finally understood how a man like me, someone who’d always been basically a decent guy, could turn into a something evil. I could see that path in front of me. It happened a little bit at a time, a response to every bad thing a man might have to do for himself or his family, like developing a callous. Every sin would make you worse, until after a while they stopped feeling like sins at all. Until maybe, after a very long while, you started to enjoy it.

Like Alex did.

The only way I was going to get through those years working for Alex and keep my soul was knowing I was doing it for Harlow.

The only thing that kept me even a little bit sane was Harlow.

The only thing that
ever
kept me sane was Harlow, but that night, it was crystal clear: I could only do this for her. I could become what I hate, I could commit every sin known to man, I could let myself turn into a monster, only if it was for her benefit, back in New York. Only if I knew it was buying her the life she needed. Only if I knew I was protecting her from Alex by doing it.

I could do damn near anything for her, I would give up anything for her, and that was the night I learned I would have to.

So that was also the night I called Matthias Winslow, a Private Investigator I found in the phone book, and told him I’d pay anything to keep tabs on a Harlow Chase living out in Brooklyn. So saying I spied on her to make sure she was ok is only half the story. I did it because I needed to know what I was fighting for. What was worth turning myself into this.

And every time, every damn time, the answer was the same: she was worth anything and everything I had to give. Including my soul.

That’s what I’m thinking about while I sit in my hotel room, thinking about whether I’d just hurt Harlow Chase.

No wonder I feel like shit.

I finally manage to sleep, and when I finally wake up I don’t remember. For a brief moment I think I’m still back at Harlow’s. I can smell her on me, and I think she’s next to me. So I get to experience that hell all over again.

That’s about the time I get my shit together and man up. I make some calls. I get some real food in me. I make a few more calls.

And then I connect with the guy who’s going to help me.

“Winslow,” I say.

“Is this a landline?” he asks.

“Doesn’t matter,” I bark. “Get your ass over to the Wythe Hotel by tomorrow night or I will find you. Am I clear?”

“Mr. Roma, I’m still on a job—”

“If you want to keep working, you will be here. I’m tired of this shit. You get me the stuff I need or you’re going to have problems, do you understand me?”

There’s a frightened pause. I don’t care. I am the bad guy. I’ve learned how to be the bad guy. And now I’m going to put it to a purpose.

“Yes, sir,” he eventually says.

And then I prepare. Because I’m not giving up. I am going to make good on all those promises. I make a list of all the things I’ve done, good and bad, and all the things I’ve done for Harlow, good and bad, and I go through them one by one. Some of those things I am not proud of. Some of those things, I honestly wonder if, once she hears about them, she’ll ever want to see me again. Some of those things I still can’t tell her about, because I want to keep her safe.

And the reason why I can’t tell her calls me again.

Alex Wolfe, blowing up my phone.

It annoys the hell out of me.

“What?” I say into the phone.

“You haven’t answered my calls, you don’t return my texts,” he says. “I worry.”

“Don’t,” I growl, and hang up.

But he should. The very next thing I do is make a list of things that need to happen for Harlow to be safe. She won’t like this either. But it’s time to stop pussyfooting around. She’s already hurt, and that’s the worst I can do to her. Now? My job is to protect her.

So the next evening I’m ready. I put on one of the suits I haven’t bothered to wear since I’ve been here, liking the feel of it, knowing it represents a part of my life Harlow isn’t familiar with. But it’s the part she’s going to need to get familiar with quickly. So I walk all the way from my hotel on the water back to her house, each step feeling better and better, like I’m closer to where I need to be.

Climbing the steps to her porch feels good.

Ringing that bell? Better.

And even when she answers and she’s hesitant, and I can see how conflicted she is—I can see that she misses me, that she wants to know about this suit, that this is eating her up at least as much as it’s eating me—I still know I’m on the right path.

“You ready to talk yet?” I ask her.

Lo leans her head against the doorframe and looks at me like she wants to let me in. Like she wants it badly. But she shakes her head.

“No,” she says.

“I’ll be back,” I say.

And that’s that. I leave her be. For now.

Next day, Winslow’s at my suite, laying out a bunch of files. Old fashioned, like he’s J. Edgar Hoover, all the stuff I’ve had him collect over the years. It’s more than I thought, because it’s not just stuff on Harlow. It’s on me, too. In fact, it’s mostly on me.

“You’re thorough,” I say.

Winslow smiles, his comb-over falling into his face. “These are just copies,” he says. “Mind if I ask what you’re going to do with all this?”

“I’m going to show it to her,” I say.

Winslow, the guy who thinks the CIA has a satellite dedicated just to him, looks at me like I’m crazy. And I probably am, to show her any of this without giving her full context. Letting her know I had reasons to worry about her, that I had cause to want to make sure she was getting the things she deserved in life. But screw it, I never crossed a line. There aren’t any photos, I didn’t ever ask about who she was screwing. She’ll see it for what it is.

“You want me to start a surveillance on her?” he says. “I could, maybe, for a few days, before I get back to that other job.”

I think about Alex and his plans, and how Harlow is messing them up, and I think about it.

“No,” I say. “But give me a heads-up if you happen to see anything funny, you know?”

Winslow nods. He knows what I’m talking about. I don’t think Alex would go that far, but I’m looking out. This is my girl, after all. This is Harlow.

So when I go out that evening, I’ve got my briefcase with me for my walk back to Harlow’s place. I’m starting to really enjoy it, even with all the ways the area’s changed, just because I know where it ends. And when I finally get there and ring that bell and it’s Shantha that answers, I’m not even upset.

“She home?” I ask.

Shantha eyes me narrowly. This is a good test: the best friend.

And the best friend still doesn’t hate me. Just stands there, her hand on her hip, looking at me like I’m an idiot. I smile; I’ll take that.

“Don’t look so smug,” Shantha warns me, like I’m not out of the woods yet. “I’ll get her.”

When Lo comes to the door she doesn’t look as tired as she did, and she doesn’t look as lost. She looks wary. But when she looks at me, I feel it. We both do.

That current. That thing between us.

“You can’t keep doing this, Marcus,” she says, leaning against that doorframe again. I want to kiss her against that door.

“Yes, I can,” I say. “I keep my promises, Lo. Sometimes it just takes me a while.”

Lo looks like she wants to believe. She still doesn’t tell me no.

This time it’s harder to walk away. Harder to leave her there, when I know the only place I should be is beside her. And behind her, and on top of her. I admit, I get carried away thinking about her by the time I’m back at the hotel. Thinking about all the things I’m going to do her, and all the things I’m going to do for her. Stuff I’m going to buy her. Things I’ll surprise her with. It’s random, but I remember that she always wanted to go to the opera, and I bet she never did. Like get real dressed up for no reason and go. That’s something do for her easy. Hell, I’ll take her to the opera in Vienna.

See? I let it get out of hand, like I’m little kid, giddy and in love for the first time, with no sense of proportion or timing.

So, I have to get a handle on it. Not so much because I think I should rein myself in, but because I can’t let it be about me. This has got to be about her. About what she needs, what she deserves.

I do a shit ton of push-ups. Then sit-ups. I start in on the push-ups again, but it doesn’t work. No matter what I do, I’m ready for her. I’m more alive, just thinking about her.

The next day it’s raining. I wait until evening again, knowing she’s still not working yet; Shantha won’t let her until she’s fully healed. My walk is later than it has been, and it’s dark out, dark and wet, and no one’s out on the street. I don’t mind. Gives me time to think. Gives me time to start wondering about what my life is going to be like after all of this.

I pause. I haven’t really thought about that, not once. What happens after. How I’m going to make all these pieces come together. Because the thing is, I can’t go back to life without Harlow.

I’m stopped, just standing on the sidewalk underneath a tree, across the street from Harlow’s house, letting the rain fall on me and thinking about this, when I see something.

Don’t ask me how. These past five years have taught me a lot of things that normal people shouldn’t know.

Maybe it’s just a flicker. A shadow that doesn’t fit. Maybe the thin, high sound of metal scraping against metal, standing out in all that soft rain. Maybe just instinct. But I walk to the side, deeper into the shadow of that tree, and then jog across the street, just behind a passing car so it will cover the noise.

I crouch.

The streetlight on my side is out. Down the block, the yellow-orange light pours over the glittering grass of her neighbor’s yard, washes over the rain itself. It’s bad visibility. Kind of a perfect night for what I think is happening.

I make my way silently down her driveway, to the path that leads to the kitchen door, and I see him. A man, crouched in front of that kitchen door, picking the lock.

Then I see red.

It’s only because this isn’t my first time that I don’t go berserker on him. I stand perfectly still, holding myself to attention, my heart slamming into my chest while my blood rages for his blood. But this isn’t some stupid neighborhood tough, this isn’t some gang leader’s asshole lackeys, this isn’t some union shmuck—this is some guy breaking into Harlow’s house.