Sliver of Truth (31 page)

“I know you like to eat ice cream after you make love to Jake. I know you cry yourself to sleep sometimes. That you cry when you’re stressed out or mad or just really tired. I know you’re angrier with your parents than you’d ever admit. I know that you have an investigative mind, a terrible itch to know the truth about things and people, and that you’re stubborn as hell.”

I felt a powerful wash of anger then. “Shut up,” I said.

He turned around to look at me, then walked over to stand near me. “I know that you miss the way your life used to be, that maybe you’d even turn the clock back if you could.”

“Shut up,” I said again, rising from my seat on the bed. Anger was constricting my airways. He put his hands on my forearms. I struggled against him but he held on hard.

“I know you hate everything about this. But most of all you hate what you know about Maxwell Smiley now. You hate that he’s a part of you.”

A sob escaped me and I fought his grip, but it only grew tighter. I wanted to put my hands to my ears and run away from him.

“But I also know that it doesn’t matter, Ridley. That within you is a true, deep well of goodness. You’re one of the few truly honest, kind, and loving people I have ever known. It doesn’t matter who you came from. Nothing can ever change that.” His voice had lowered almost to a whisper. He let go of my arms and used his thumbs to carefully wipe the tears from my face. Then he placed his hand at the base of my neck and pulled me to him. He pressed his whole body against mine as he kissed me. I found myself clinging to him, feeling the strength and power of his arms and chest, his thighs. Even if I’d wanted to, I wouldn’t have been able to pull away from him. And I know he wouldn’t have let me go easily, even if I’d asked, even if I’d struggled. I told you before that he held me as if he knew me. I guess maybe he did.

I felt how badly he wanted me, and it surprised me. He was a man who held a lot back, who’d always seemed so distant even as he trampled all over my boundaries. What surprised me more was how badly I wanted him. Even with the specter of Jake over my shoulder—or maybe because of it—I wanted Dylan Grace. I still belonged to Jake in so many ways that the act of making love to Dylan was a betrayal to us all. In a weird way, I found that appealing. I was all about burning down the house these days.

He started working on my clothes; he held my eyes with his as one by one our garments fell to the floor. On the bed, his skin felt hot against mine, and for a while it was enough to just feel him, my legs wrapped around his, my arms around his shoulders, my lips on his neck. It was enough to mingle the lines of our bodies. I felt him sigh and hold me tighter.

“Ridley,” he whispered. “God.”

There was so much emotion in those two words that it kind of startled me and ratcheted up my desire. He was feeling something in that moment that I wasn’t. But it didn’t matter. I wanted to give him what he needed. He felt so good, so strong and solid, so safe, I wanted to live there for a minute, in the shelter of his knowledge of me.

When he took me, he said, “Look at me, Ridley.”

We locked eyes. Even as he kissed me, he held my gaze. I suppose some people would find this bizarre. But I knew he needed to see my eyes and that he wanted me to see his. Because he had secretly watched me for so long, maybe he needed me to know that he was truly seeing me for the first time. I felt recognized. And I gave myself over to that, as my hands explored the tender landscape of his body, as I took in the scent of his skin, as I tasted the delicate flesh of his lips, his neck, the dip between his collarbone and throat.

He was careful to keep his weight off my wound, but being with him still caused as much pain as it did pleasure.

In the dark, we lay folded into each other, his arms wrapped around me. I held both of his hands in both of mine. I could hear in the silence that there was a lot he wanted to say, but he didn’t say any of it. I listened to him breathing and thought I liked the sound of it, liked the feel of him beside me.

“I shouldn’t have said those things to you,” he said. “I shouldn’t know those things about you yet. It’s not fair.”

He was right, of course. He should have earned that knowledge of me. I should have had the chance to give it to him. But that was our reality. The cards had already been laid out before us. We either played or folded.

I told him as much. I felt him nod his understanding. We lay like that for a moment, both of us knowing that we didn’t have much time. After a little while longer, we took turns in the small shower, got dressed in silence, and headed out the door. Before we crossed the threshold, he turned and kissed me gently. I held on to him tightly for a second.

“Thank you,” he said into my ear. It would have sounded weird coming from anyone else, as though I had given him something and deserved his gratitude. But I knew what he meant and it touched me. I didn’t know what to say, so I kissed him again. I felt the heat ignite between us, but there was no time. We pulled away from each other and headed out, hand in hand.

17

It occurred to me as we exited the fat black taxi that I had no idea what we were looking for exactly at this club. I’d found a name scrawled in a matchbook and here we were. That should tell you how lost and desperate we were. The industrial street in London’s West End was nearly deserted. I paid the driver and shut the door, felt something like despair as the car pulled away and was gone.

“What is it?” asked Dylan, sensing my hesitation.

“Nothing. I’m good.”

As we walked together I had the odd feeling that we were making some kind of mistake, as if it was just stubbornness and a lack of good alternatives that had led us here. I felt Dylan’s energy go quiet and watchful as we moved up the street scanning numbers. There were no other clubgoers on the street; I didn’t hear the pulse of music.

A glowing blue light over brushed metal doors was the only indication that we’d found the place. Two men—one black, one white, both big as refrigerators and clad in long black nero jackets and black sunglasses—stood sentry at the door.

“Name,” asked the black guy curtly as we approached. He reached for a clipboard that hung beside him.

I handed him the matchbook in my pocket. “Am I in the right place?”

He pulled what looked to be a pen from his pocket, but it turned out to be a small black light. He shined the beam on the matchbook and another symbol appeared. I craned my neck to see what it was, but he flicked off the light before I could identify it. I was a little surprised when he handed it back to me, stood aside, and opened the door.

“Welcome to the Kiss. The elevator to your left will take you to the VIP room. Just swipe this card in the slot,” he said, handing me a black key card. I took it from him and nodded my thanks. The doors closed behind us and we walked down a long dark corridor lit by more blue lights.

“You’re a pretty cool customer, Ridley Jones,” Dylan whispered as we reached the end of the corridor and swiped the card.

I gave him a weak smile. “We’ll see.”

The elevator took us down instead of up as I expected. When the doors opened, we entered a cavernous space where techno music pulsed and bodies heaved on a gigantic dance floor. There seemed to be no end to it, this sea of scantily clad bodies. I was overwhelmed with the same feeling I had at New York City clubs. My observer’s mind almost couldn’t handle all the input. The tattoos, the body piercing, one woman’s purple contact lenses, another’s raspberry-colored spiked hair. I felt instantly assaulted by the level of detail, started to get this weird zoned-out feeling I get under these circumstances. Dylan took my arm and pulled me close and we moved toward the bar.

“I don’t want to get separated in here,” he yelled in my ear, and even then I could barely make out what he was saying. I wondered if, under different conditions, he’d dance with me, if he’d move that body on the dance floor with as much grace and rhythm as he had in bed. I had a feeling he might. He looked pretty cool with his tousled black hair and dark glasses, the shadow on his jaw. He wore a leather jacket and an FCUK T-shirt I’d bought him in Knightsbridge, a pair of old Levi’s. When we’d first met, I never would have pegged him as being particularly hip, but I guess he was.

“What?” he yelled.

I must have been staring at him. I shook my head.

The bartender’s bottom lip was completely hidden beneath a row of silver hoop piercings. It was absolutely ghastly. I distrust people who pierce themselves in tender places. Isn’t life painful enough? Doesn’t it leave enough scars? He had a shaved head and the tattoo of a black four-leaf clover under his eye.

Dylan leaned over the bar and started yelling something at the bartender. I lost myself watching the crowd. The music was heavy; I could feel it beneath my skin. I remembered back in college when we’d take Ecstasy and go dancing, how the music seemed to pulse through my veins, take me over on some spiritual level. I didn’t do too much experimenting with drugs after that. I found I never liked the feeling of being disconnected from reality. But dancing with Ecstasy altering the pathways in your brain was pretty intense, a memory that club music can always bring back for me. I felt the itch to get out there and mingle with all those bodies in the flashing strobes, to lose myself in the music.

I watched a black woman with razor-straight platinum-blond hair in a patent-leather dress and matching boots rub her fantastic body against an equally gorgeous blonde in a white tunic covered in some gauzy material that got picked up by the fans. The material swept around her like smoke. I watched a badly dressed man with thinning hair and insecurity in his eyes try to pick up a redheaded women who looked profoundly bored and slightly unstable on her feet. I watched a young girl in jeans and a tank top dancing alone, whirling around to no particular beat other than the one she was hearing in her own head. I could see in her glazed-over stare that she was as high as could be.

Dylan handed me a beer and pointed to a narrow staircase that led to a velvet curtain.

“Angel!” he yelled.

I nodded and we headed that way.

Life is like this weird puzzle, you know? You have some of the pieces before you even know where they belong. I thought about that as we ascended the staircase, how I’d found this matchbook in Max’s apartment with a stranger’s name scrawled inside, never imagining that it would lead me to a London club with a rogue FBI agent, both of us searching for the same but totally different things, both of our lives a tangled mess we kept tripping over. If I’d really been watching the signs, I’d have known that there was no good way out of this scenario, that only bad things could happen from here on out. But I was still naive enough to believe that somehow everything was going to be okay.

Behind the thick velvet curtain, it was quieter.

“This is the VIP room,” said Dylan. “The bartender told me we’ll find Angel here.”

Beside another large brushed-chrome doorway waited a slot just like the one by the elevator. A red light turned green as I swiped the card, and a heavy click told us the door was open. We pushed inside.

It was as peaceful here as it had been loud downstairs. A light strain of jazz floated on the smoky air. A wide-open space, topped by a cavernous ceiling, was lined with long low tables and cushions on the floor. There were several tiny gathering areas, cozy booths with cocktail tables at their center. Some of them had sheer curtains drawn; forms moved and whispered behind them. The room was lit only by candles on the tables, on the walls, and in gigantic wrought-iron candelabras and chandeliers chained from the ceiling. It was at once Gothic and utterly modern. Behind one of the curtains, a woman laughed and it sounded like ice cubes in a glass. It would have been a cool place to hang out if my life didn’t suck so much.

We slid into one of the curtained areas and sat close together on the plush velvet seat.

“Someone will come to us,” he whispered. As I moved in closer to him, he dropped his arm easily around my shoulders. I tried to imagine us on a date. I tried to imagine us without all the awful things that had happened between us and around us. But I couldn’t. I know, I was being pathetic, a total girl. I needed to focus, so I did.

After a time, a thin young man clad entirely in black, wearing black eyeliner and black lipstick, moved into our booth.

“We’re here to see Angel,” I told him when he asked for our drink order.

He raised his eyebrows at me. “Angel?” he said.

I nodded and he gave me a strange smile, looked back and forth between me and Dylan.

“As you like,” he said, speaking with a slight lisp. “Can I tell her who’s asking for her?”

I hesitated, looked at Dylan.

“Tell her it’s Max,” he interjected quickly.

The man nodded and walked off. I stared at Dylan and he shrugged.

“You have a better idea?” he wanted to know.

I didn’t answer him, just sipped on the Guinness he’d handed me downstairs. It was dark and savory, a little on the strong side. I wasn’t much of a beer drinker in general, but it wasn’t bad, actually, and the slight buzz it was already giving me felt good, helped me to relax.

After a while another man, this one more along the lines of the bouncers outside, came and escorted us down a corridor. He was stocky and stern looking, and his long black coat swept the ground as we walked past a row of doors, almost to the end of the hallway. I felt my mouth grow dry and adrenaline start to surge. I thought about the long hallways, the keycard doors, the elevator we’d have to pass through in order to get out of this place. I started to feel trapped. I wondered if we were making a terrible mistake. But it felt too late to say anything. This was our last lead. After this, I didn’t know what would happen.

He opened the last door for us and we walked inside. Then he closed it behind us. It was pretty obvious what Angel did for a living. We stood in a dimly lit room dominated by a huge bed on the right. To the left there was a small sitting area. There was something cheap and seedy about the space. I guess I would have expected lots of velvet and candles, plush pillows and music, but that was just my writer’s brain adding details, looking for atmosphere. Or the naive Ridley imaging assignations and adding romance where there was only a business transaction. This space was utilitarian. People who came here wanted one thing and they wanted it raw.