Kalypso Queen
By the end of the day, I'm down in the car and asking Nathan to drop me off at Prince's apartment. Nathan only raises an eyebrow, but he doesn't say a word. I know he will probably give me an earful somewhere next morning. He likes to do the morning talk and the judging at the same time.
"Will I need to stay for the entire night?" he asks.
"Nathan, you can go home," I say, noting the Fiat on the side of the road. I step out, and I'm suddenly aware of how much I stand out here. I watch Nathan turn the corner, the brake lights disappearing until I can't see it anymore.
I'm wearing an expensive suit that probably costs most people an entire year's work. This neighborhood, which is decent, is for the middle class, not those people like me. One of the other things that stick out between Prince and me.
Carrying a black briefcase, I walk into the building, look for Prince's apartment number, find his door, and finally knock.
With his usual messy hair and gray t-shirt, he opens the door. His eyes widen in surprise, and he quickly says, "Kalypso. I didn't expect you to be here. I mean, it is nice to see you, but..."
He blushes, which is a nice color on him.
"Can I come in?"
By this time, he manages to regain his brain. "Like that will stop you from coming right in. Come on in, though. I was almost going to fall asleep until I heard you knock."
"Sorry if I interrupted you and your sheep," I say, remembering how I used to fall asleep back when I was younger. Nowadays, I always fall asleep right when my head hits the pillow. Of course, a tiring day always makes that possible.
"No. My sheep are perfect." He closes the door behind me, and I can feel his gaze on my back. "So what is with the briefcase?"
"Just business. Work. Papers, the boring stuff. The usual," I say, dismissing it as unimportant. For now, I want to... live. I want to be with Prince, despite who he is, despite how much he has been lying straight to my face, despite how different we are.
"Why are you here?" he asks.
I glance around the living room, setting the briefcase down on the floor. "Oh, I don't want to go back home to my house in San Francisco. Who knows if a crazy, self-declared serial killer decides to show his face in my bedroom?"
"Good point."
I sit down at the couch and analyze every single inch of his apartment. There is a TV next to the balcony, and unlike my house, his place is of a slob's home. Newspapers are everywhere, and old reports he had written months ago are all over the floors. It looks like he even naps in them, judging from the way they are all wrinkled.
"Why are you here?" he inquires, his voice soft. "You know we shouldn't be together. You're... someone who hails from Wall Street and rich families while I'm... more of someone from the middle class. We are different, and this will never last long."
"Well, then you better enjoy it."
"So be it." His face closes off, and he takes a quick glance at the briefcase I drop by the pile of shoes. He hasn't gotten a rack for them yet. Then he sits right by my side, his hand on my knee and his touch welcoming to the core.
I close my eyes, and my hands move instinctively. I find the back of his neck, and his lips press against mine. For right now, I can pretend—just pretend—that everything is perfect and nothing can bother me here.
Even if the place is messy, even if everything might be dirty and slightly smelling of moths, even if I'm being held by the worst person possible (a law enforcement), I don't care. Because right now, I'm home and there is not a single place I rather be.
Damn my father.
His tongue darts out and lightly glides against my bottom lip. He travels down. Down my jawline. Down to the neck. He brushes lightly against my Band-Aid, and I can hardly feel any pain from the cut. Pleasure erupts where he touches, and my breath catches.
My heart beats more by the minute.
His hand goes to my hipbone, and he massages it. His right hand goes up, and the buttons on my black slacks are quickly unopened.
He pauses, meeting my eyes. A question.
"You can keep going," I tell him gently.
"Okay."
***
When I wake up in the morning, I half-expect someone to be standing over the bed with a knife in his/her hand. But instead, I find warmth next to me and I yawn. I stand up—naked as the day I was born—and move to pick up my clothes. I quickly put on my underwear, then my bra, then my pants. I can't find my shirt, so I steal a plain shirt from Prince's closets.
It smells like paper.
I move quickly through the apartment, finding my way through the kitchen by sheer luck. I have to look through doorways until I find what I'm looking for.
This time, I don't look for tea. There is something... ridiculously superstitious about looking for some oolong tea. Even on good days, nothing seems to be going right.
I rob the fridge of its orange juice and drink it. There is barely any left, so I do mouth to mouth. I'm sure Prince won't mind if I simply take it. If he does, I'll compensate him. With a whole bunch of orange juice cartons.
I pick up my vibrating iPhone from where I left it. Helen is calling me persistently, and I'm surprised by how relieving it is not answer calls. I pick her up immediately. "Hello? Helen, what is going on?"
"I already scheduled a plane flight to Italy, as you had requested. I also made sure of the second arrangement," she says. "It is all done. You only need to go to SFO, and they will be ready for you. Anything else for me to do, Miss Queen?"
"Just answer any phone calls. But other than that, you and Tanya can take the entire day off," I order, standing around and pacing back and forth. I drop the carton on coffee table covered with newspapers and old books. Then I look at the briefcase I brought over.
A heavy feeling sinks over me.
"Thank you, Miss Queen."
"No problem. You sent over the financial records of both wineries in Mexico?"
"Yep. Already in the Cloud."
"Excellent. Thanks, Helen." Then I end the call, throw the phone onto the couch, and open up the briefcase. Sinking to the carpet, I rub my forehead. So many numbers, but there is something weird about this. The corporation overall is making money—mostly from Riche-Capello. The little numbers are from the sinking Capello Beer Company and the slowly rising Capello Wine Company. Still, there is something off about the numbers. From a far view, everything looks super clean at the corporation. But in a much closer view, it appears that the numbers—especially in the Mexican winery—are a little too low than projected. It could be nothing, but it could be a lot of things too.
Only way to tell for sure is if I actually go to the wineries and take a personal look. A detailed inspection. Georgia is going to meet me at SFO as soon as I'm done taking care of personal business.
By personal business, I mean Brandon Prince.
"What are you doing?" His eyes open wide at the briefcase I'm holding in my lap. "Why are you on the floor?"
"I have something I want to give you."
"Jewelry?" he jokes.
"No." I shake my head. I take out of the cold glass apple out of the briefcase and give it to Prince. "I want to give you this."
"It is an apple. Made out of glass. And a gift from Pamela Dancy," he says, surprised by what he holds in his hands. He pokes at the stem. "And the stem isn't broken."
"I gave it to Helen, who fixed it. Someone kept on playing around with it and probably dropped it on the floor," I explain. "But yes, it is a gift from Pamela Dancy. The corporation thinks I'm on a trip to Italy, but I'm actually going to Baja California."
He furrows his eyebrow. "Why do you need to lie to them?"
"I don't like the corporation knowing everything I do. Besides that crazy serial killer doesn't need to know where I'm going to be." I shrug it away, dismissing most of his concerns. Maybe it might be nothing. Maybe it might be everything. Baja California provides the real answers. "Don't worry. The weird serial killer isn't going to be able to stand against Georgia Zetherman."
"Why not?"
"I think a former CIA agent would be able to successfully handle a serial killer. She dealt with them before back in her old days," I answer. Then I keep to subject—the subject and topic I truly want to talk about. "Okay, but this glass apple, I want you to keep it safe. It is very important. It is more than a gift. It is a weapon."
He raises his eyebrow, and I can tell that he is considering whether or not I'm insane. "A weapon? How in the world is a glass apple a weapon?"
"You'll be surprised," I say. "I got to go. Baja California is calling for me."
"You won't need me?"
"You forget. I'm skilled in winemaking. It is in my blood," I reply. Also, I don't exactly want Prince in Mexico. I don't want him anything to happen to him. Besides, he is a federal agent. He might raise an eyebrow by how I'm going to get into Mexico.
Then I'm going to jail forever.
"Are you going to be okay?"
"I think I might get to the bottom of everything," I admit. I stand up and reach for the back of his neck. I press my lips against his, and I let myself be swept away in that kiss. I pull back, and I pant.
"Come back safely." He holds up the glass apple I entrusted in his care. "I'll keep this apple safe. You won't be able to use it against me as a weapon. Have fun in Baja California. Don't get sunburned."
"Bye, mio principe," I whisper, sure that he might not be able to hear my words. I pick up the briefcase from the ground, put on my black pumps, and smile at him as I leave his apartment.