Naked (9 page)

She lurched toward the Plexiglas divider and smashed it with her fist.

“Be quiet!” she hollered in Arabic.

The driver fell silent, staring at her in the rearview mirror. Her eyes darted to Paul. He was staring at her, too.

“What language is that?” Paul asked.

“Arabic,” Gaia mumbled.

Paul swallowed. “What was he saying?”

“Nothing,” she replied. “He was being disgusting.”

The driver clicked the CB again and resumed talking,
this time in hushed tones. Paul didn't take his eyes off Gaia. She kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, but she could feel the tension building inside him; she could feel his fear and puzzlement and awe swelling like helium in a balloon. She should have just kept her mouth shut. She should have never gotten into a fight at CBGB's. She should have grabbed Paul's hand and run when Mick and that moron had started trouble.
She should have tried to be normal.


But then, she was never much of an actress. To be a good actress, a person had to be a good liar.

“Who
are
you?” Paul whispered.

Gaia turned toward the window. “You're asking the wrong person,” she said.

Paul didn't say a word.

Central Park appeared on their left, a dark wilderness under a canopy of lifeless trees. Once again Gaia found herself zeroing in on the driver's speech. Had her Arabic gotten a little rusty? He was talking about her again; at least she was pretty sure he was—only she didn't quite understand the word he kept using to refer to her. It didn't sound like any of the derogatory terms that Arabs used for women. She didn't know
what
it was. Probably some new slang that was even more foul than anything she'd heard before.

A smile crossed Gaia's face. Here she was, worrying about the proficiency of her Arabic. As far as she went,
that was about as close to “normal” as she could get. She should be thankful.

SAM WAS BUZZING. THE ENERGY
bordered on hyperactive. The night air was cold, but he hardly noticed. His left leg wouldn't stop shaking as he leaned against the awning post of the Mosses' ornate Central Park West building. The doorman had been staring at him for some time, but he didn't care. He was still savoring the moment. He kept hearing that satisfying
crack
—the sound of his shoulder as it struck Josh's chin, smacking that goddamn smile off his face.

Stock Emotion

Why had he waited so long? He should have been pummeling Josh's face weeks ago instead of just dreaming about it. But the time had finally come. It was as if he'd snapped out of an endless daze.
How long had he been sleepwalking?
How many days running these ridiculous errands? How many weeks traipsing aimlessly around town like a paranoid zombie?

He'd actually walked all the way from NYU up to Central Park West. And he hoped “they” had watched
him every step of the way. Because he didn't give a shit anymore. The time had come to strike back; the pieces were closing in, and if he didn't make a decisive move now, he was already checkmated.

The blow struck at Josh clinched it. He'd tell Gaia everything. They'd start from scratch. Tonight, not tomorrow. He'd just wait for her. As wired with emotion as he was, he'd wait as long as it took. All night would be fine. He certainly had no need to go back to the dorms....

A cab pulled up to the building's entrance. Sam ducked down, trying to peer through the darkened window for signs of Gaia.
Yes!
His heartbeat picked up a notch. She was staring out the window with that faraway expression,
the expression he'd never been able to interpret, no matter how hard he tried to dissect it
—the expression he'd fallen in love with. The door opened, and she stepped out. He straightened and took a deep breath. Time to—

He stopped breathing.

Gaia wasn't alone. A guy followed her out of the cab and slammed the door behind them.

A
young
guy.

Sam shivered involuntarily. His gaze froze on this. . . kid.

This could not be what it appeared to be. Given all the torturous circumstances—given the moment of strained intimacy they'd shared only earlier today,
there was simply no way. . . Sam couldn't even form the thought. His mind wouldn't allow it. Suddenly he wasn't cold anymore. He was very, very hot. His teeth ground together, and he sprang toward them on the sidewalk.

Gaia instantly jumped in front of the kid, as if to protect him.

Her eyes widened in baffled recognition.

“Sam?” she whispered. “What—”

“What the hell is going on here?” Sam demanded. He was aware of how silly and melodramatic that sounded, but the stock phrase came nonetheless: the stock phrase of the jilted.

Gaia frowned. “What do you mean?”

Sam's fiery stare shifted to the kid. “Who are you?” he spat.

“Paul,” the kid answered shakily. He stepped out from behind Gaia.

“Paul,” Sam repeated, stepping closer. He vaguely remembered that Brendan had a brother named Paul. But why was
he
out with Gaia? Gaia was friends with Mary, not—

“Paul, go ahead up, okay?” Gaia stepped between them again and ushered the kid toward the doorway. “I'll be up in a second.”

Sam stood silently as Paul hurried under the awning, through the glass doors. He paused in the lobby beside the doorman. Both of them stared at
Sam,
but he was oblivious.
His heart was pounding, fragmenting.

“What's going on?” he heard himself ask. “Why—”

A car horn blared. Sam whirled around.

The cab hadn't moved.

“Ignore him,” Gaia mumbled. “He's an asshole.”

Sam signaled for the cab to drive on. But there was no response. Suddenly the horn blared again. Sam flinched. The grating blast only fueled his rage. “Damn it!” he shouted. “Did you pay him or not?”

“Yes, we paid him.” Gaia groaned. “Will you forget about it, please? If you have something to say to me, say it. I want to go upstairs. I'm tired.”

“Tired?” Sam shouted, still glaring at the unmoving cab. “Well, what about me? I'm fighting for my goddamn life, and you're out with—”

Honk!

At that moment something inside Sam snapped. He marched over to the darkened window and pounded on it. Slowly the glass began to lower.

“Why the hell—”

Sam froze. There was a glint of metal in the shadows:
the barrel of a gun,
capped with a massive silencer.

It was pointed directly at Sam's chest.

“Ah salaam aleichem,”
a cold voice whispered.

A gloved finger squeezed the trigger three times. The shots were inaudible over the purring engine.
Sam couldn't move. His legs went numb as he slapped his hands over his chest and watched the cab screech and take off down the street. Time had slowed down, almost as if it were doing Sam one last favor—allowing him to witness the moment before his death. Strangely, though, he felt no pain. He looked down to see the black holes . . .

But there was no blood.

There were no wounds.

No shots.

My God.
The gun had been empty.

Sam's mouth fell open. Every part of his body shook. He scanned the street dizzily from left to right, tiny rivulets of sweat leaking down his temples.
Central Park was suddenly a jungle war zone just across the street,
with a potential gunman lurking behind every ominous rock, every misshapen tree, every crooked shadow.

“Sam?” Gaia asked.

Gaia.
He had to get her inside. Now. He spun around and shoved her toward the door.

“Stop it!” she shouted, ducking away from his attempted push. “What's the matter with you? What did he say to you?”

“I . . .” He backed away from her. Then he realized what had happened: she hadn't seen the gun. Of course. He'd been standing right in front of the window. She wasn't supposed to see it.
The blanks
were just for him.
And that was when he was struck by the full implications of what had really happened. “That driver—he picked you up?” Sam croaked.

Gaia shook her head as if he were a stranger—or a lunatic. Her eyes were slits, her brow tightly furrowed. “You saw me get out of the cab, didn't you?”

Sam's eyes flashed back to the doorway, back to the doorman and the kid standing there, staring at him. They hadn't seen the gun, either.

“Get upstairs,” he commanded.

“Sam, tell me what's going on—”

“Now!”

Gaia blinked. “You know, you should have warned me, Sam,” she said.

“Warned you?” He jerked slightly. A wave of panic swept over him, blotting out even the terror. Did she know? Had she somehow figured out that he had put her life in jeopardy—

“You should have warned me you were such an asshole,” she finished. She turned and marched through the doors.

Sam could only gape at her. On the other side of the glass the stares of the kid and the doorman were no longer frightened. They were threatening. The doorman was probably going to call the cops:
“Disheveled teenager lurking outside my building
—
send help.”

Time to go. Sam shook off the subconscious wish that the cabdriver's gun had been loaded and sprinted down the sidewalk. It was strange: he'd experienced about a dozen of the worst possible emotions a human being could experience in less than sixty seconds. But in the wake of that onslaught, all he felt was clarity. He knew exactly what he had to do. He had to have another meeting with Josh. He had to go on the offensive.
He had to eliminate the enemy.
He would no longer be terrorized into submission. The chess game was just getting started.

She felt a pressing need to cast out the excess bullshit and remember what actually mattered to her and, more important,
who
actually mattered to her.

“
SO. . . UM, WHO
WAS
THAT GUY?”
Paul asked, standing in his usual spot just on the other side of Mary's open doorway.

Deep Abyss

Gaia shook her head and flopped back against the pillows. “Good question,” she mumbled. Yes, in fact, that was a
profound
question. Who was Sam Moon? Clearly he was
many different personalities trapped in one body.
There was Sam the liar. Sam the med student, who had once lived with Paul's brother. Sam the chess player. And now, it seemed, there was Sam the jealous ex-boyfriend.

This last identity was the one she couldn't quite figure out. But maybe that was the lesson to be learned from all this absurd drama and inexplicable behavior. Maybe even after all this time, she still didn't know Sam Moon at all.

No, no. Wrong thought. Pummel that thought until it bleeds. In fact, she didn't care much for any of the thoughts she was having. Every one of them needed to be knocked on its ass. The problem then became, however, that she was sitting in this room, and it was so quiet, and she was surrounded on all sides by Mary but without Mary—

“So?” Paul prompted.

“He's just. . . a guy I know,” Gaia answered. It was a good thing Paul had never met him before; she didn't
want to get into the whole Brendan-Sam connection right now. “Or don't know, depending on how you look at it.”

Paul laughed. “Yeah. I think I understand.”

Gaia sat up in bed and mustered a smile.

But Paul wasn't looking at her. He was staring down at his feet, his shaggy hair hanging in his eyes. He looked very young at that moment and very lost. Gaia had a flash of some feeling that she'd never felt before: she wanted to jump up and hug him—or to transform him magically into an egg and herself into a bird and keep him warm and safe in a nest hidden deep in a forest, far away from this room.

Suddenly he glanced up at her. “Where did you learn to fight like that?” he asked.

She bit her lip. “My father taught me,” she said.

He nodded. “Oh. Well.” His voice was distant and strained. He turned abruptly. “I. . . uh, think I better go to bed. Good night.” He shuffled across the hall, then closed his door behind him.

Gaia chewed her lip. He probably thought she was a freak. He would be right, of course. She had to go to sleep. That was all she could do. She had to lie back again and think of absolutely nothing at all. Yes. It was an existential exercise, and she was good at that.
She could simply wish herself into a deep abyss of nothingness.
So she closed her eyes and sat there for a minute, letting the thoughts flow
from her mind like dirty bathwater down a drain.

But in the silence her ears perked up.

She frowned. There was a muffled, sniffling sound coming from the hall—

Paul is crying.

Gaia held her breath.

Mary's brother was in his room alone, not ten feet away from her, in tears. Mary's brother was in pain. It occurred to her that on all those nights when Mrs. Moss had heard that sound behind that door, she might never have actually
opened
the door. She might have been afraid to intrude on his private moment. She might have been afraid that she wouldn't know what to say to him.
Thankfully, being afraid was not one of Gaia's problems.
She could march in there right now. They'd made a pact, after all. But would
she
know what to say to him?

It didn't matter. She'd figure something out. It had been quite some time since being fearless had served a nonviolent purpose. She jumped off the bed and marched into the hall, then knocked on Paul's door.

The crying ceased.