“Here we go, angel,” I hear a man’s voice from very far away, “Come on, let’s get you to bed.” I feel him pick me up and I’m totally unable to move anything. Help him or stop him – doesn’t matter.
“Jamie,” I whisper as strong hands wrap me up. I can’t focus. I can’t clear the fog from my head. And the real me is pissed. But I can’t cut through any of it.
“No, Claire,” the voice chuckles and shifts me in his arms, “You’ve been given a dose of demon-juice. Like a roofie for immortals. I don’t know who did it, but if I were you, I wouldn’t trust the bi’s you’re with anymore. Here we go,” he pauses and shifts me around a little, “Let’s get you to bed.”
He fumbles a bit opening the door and then swings me through, carrying me directly to the bedroom and laying me out on the bed.
“Not them,” I tell him, “Lil or her bi’s. Gotta’ get back to the plane,” I try to sit up, but I can’t move a damned thing.
“You’re not going anywhere for a while,” he tells me gently, brushing the hair out of my eyes.
I tell him, “Don’t feel too good.”
“I’m not surprised,” he chuckles softly, “Just go to sleep, angel. The only thing you can do is sleep it off.”
“Will you stay?” I ask as I feel him pulling my dress off and covering me with the other half of the comforter.
“For a while,” he tells me softly and kisses my forehead.
I wake up when my phone goes off. It’s not a normal time for my alarm to go off, so it must have been set for me. And now that I can think clearly, I know it must have been Drake who came to my rescue last night. My head spins when I sit up, but I don’t have time to wallow in a hangover. I shower and dress quickly and scrawl a note for Mona and Giselle before I head out. The concierge speaks English and hails a cab for me and very soon I’m back in the plane.
Alone.
It’s still half an hour to take-off, so I’m not terribly surprised. If Mona and Giselle are anything to go by, they’ll all pop in at the last possible minute. But I am still feeling like crap, so I settle into my chair and try to go back to sleep.
“Oh God,” I groan to myself, “I called Drake Jamie last night. God, I’m just pathetic. He comes all the way from Australia to help my drunk ass out and I don’t even have the decency to call him by name.”
The embarrassment from that memory drives any thought of sleep from my mind. I don’t have any idea what time it is in Sydney, so I pull out my phone and send him a text to apologize and thank him for coming to my rescue again.
He doesn’t answer, but he could be asleep or otherwise occupied.
Before everything happened, I would be commiserating with Jill and Jojo right now, letting them tease me and cheer me up. Now, though, I just have myself. I’ll text Mona and Gigi later, after they’ve slept off their night, but it’s just not the same.
They are my friends. Jojo and Jilly are my sisters.
And I miss them.
“Maybe it’s time to forgive them,” I tell sigh, “Or, more to the point, maybe it’s time to forgive myself.”
Spain is lovely, but actually a little depressing. There are protests in Madrid due to the high unemployment and austerity measures, so a lot of the usual tourist spots are closed. Lil keeps wanting to see me in action, so she repeatedly drags me out to nightclubs to put me in action.
But I’m just not interested. Thanks to my demon-punch incident, I’m not even drinking. She’s getting surlier and surlier day by day and by the time we leave Barcelona, she’s openly hostile toward me. The bi’s pretty-much ignore me, and when they do have to deal with me, they adopt the same condescending attitude that I was used to from the Miami crowd.
Whatever.
I have five more days with her. Then three more weeks. Then I’m free.
We landed in Tokyo late last night. So late that all we did was check into the hotel and go to bed. We’ll be here a couple of days – maybe longer. Lil has some meetings to oversee and some negotiations to take care of. The North Korean arch-demon has been acting up again and Luc has been unable to subdue him. “Isn’t that a surprise?” I snort in my head.
The jet lag is really getting to me. My internal clock is so messed up that I barely know what day it is anymore – much less lining up the time. I haven’t been on a run since Vegas. It actually hasn’t been that long, but it seems like it to me. I realize that I’m a girl who likes her routines. Even the Vatican wasn’t that bad – once I got used to it. I can do three weeks in one place.
Five days hopping all over the world is another matter.
The bi’s walk out the door looking flawless while I’m still in my PJ’s sucking down coffee. Lil left an hour ago. My phone pings in my room and I shuffle back to it lazily. I really hope it’s not another emergency – I’m not up to it today.
It’s actually Marcie, who doesn’t usually text me. But it’s been two days since I’ve been able to log in thanks to this breakneck speed that Lil has us on.
“Hey – can you log in as soon as you can? The Campbell file didn’t respond to your NOI and it went over decline deadline yesterday.”
“Crap,” I breathe out, “I really should have caught that.”
And I should have. If I had any kind of freaking schedule set up. I know Marcie will forgive me – I’m the only underwriter she has who’s never had a file go beyond the decline timeline (before now) and I’m still her best. But I’m pretty mad at myself all the same.
“Sorry, Marc,” I text back, knowing this conversation is going to cost me like fifty bucks on my next bill, “Don’t bother saying don’t worry about it because you know I will anyway. This travelling thing has me all out of whack and I can’t wait until it’s over. I have a down day today – I’ll work my pipeline end to end.”
I head to the shower and when I come out, I send the decline out quickly before changing into my running clothes. Yes, it’s a boo-boo and it’s beneath me. I notate the file that the error was my oversight. That’s all I can do.
That, a couple of corporate mea culpa’s and hope like hell that the examiners don’t pick that file to sample when our next examination comes in.
What’s done is done.
I get the GPS of my hotel and the surrounding area and grab my key-card and a couple of Yen before heading out. It’s nearly evening – thanks to my completely out of control body-clock, but I head out anyway.
And it’s nearly impossible to run here. I cannot fathom the bodies all around me. Almost all of them are shorter than I am, but they are all jostling and bumping and flowing in a fast walk around the sidewalks in two lines and I can’t get past the surging crowd to find a clear space.
There just isn’t one.
Feeling defeated, I pull up against the side of a building and start slithering my way back to the hotel. I get a lot of dirty looks and bump-ups for doing so. I’m flowing against the crowd and that’s not cool. When I finally get back to the hotel, I head for their gym and do my miles on a treadmill staring at some very silly-looking game show.
The gym is much better than your typical hotel gym, so I get a chance to actually do a full routine – complete with arms and torso too. The only other person in here is the housekeeper who is emptying the used towel bin and wiping down all of the equipment.
I work myself until my muscles are twinging and head back up to look at my pipeline. I’m thinking about food, but I honestly don’t know if I can stand two or three days of sushi.
I’ve tried – I really, truly have. I mean, I live in Miami. Of course I like fish. And I’ve kept and open mind and have tried sushi more than once – four times, actually. But every time all I end up doing is picking the rolls apart and eating the rice.
“Buck up, Claire,” I tell myself, looking for the delivery places in the hotel’s guest book, “You survived Paris without having escargot – you can survive Tokyo without having sushi.”
I finally find a noodle house that has a meal that contains ingredients that I recognize and hit 8 on the hotel’s phone for the concierge’s desk.
“This is suite 1217,” I tell him. He answers in English with almost no trace of accent, “Can I have you place an order for me?”
“Of course,” he answers and I give it to him. When we’re done I set up my computer and – true to my word – work every single one of my files within an inch of their lives. I even do things the processors normally would – like ordering flood certifications and requesting appraisals – because I feel so guilty about my screw up.
Then I switch VPNs and check in with Father Jonas. He gave me a quick update on Eddie, saying that Jose is making a lot of progress with him and once again urging me to call Jojo. I reply back that I’m currently in Tokyo and – if I can figure out the time change – I will. But I know I won’t bother even looking it up. I may almost be ready to forgive Jill, because she didn’t have a choice. But it’s going to take more time to forgive Jojo – who really should have had my back.
And even more time for Jamie – who lied to me.
And I realize, with an eye-snapping to the mirror revelation, that that’s exactly what I’m most upset about. We never talked about him being faithful to me, and I honestly can’t blame him for not being so. Jill’s not a bi, but she’s a very, very attractive and very, very good imp. It’s her job to talk people into doing things they shouldn’t.
But he lied to me. He told me he was leaving for a rock-climbing trip when obviously he wasn’t.
And that hurts. That means that – even if Jill had no choice – this wasn’t a spontaneous thing. This wasn’t a drunken moment of weakness. This was planned.
And he knew about it.
I actually start laughing at that point. I am mad at him for lying to me when I’m the one with the huge, horrible secret I would be lying to him about as long as our relationship lasted. Whoever is behind all of this has one sick sense of irony. Soon, tears are leaking out of the corners of my eyes and my sides hurt from laughing so hard. Laughing at myself for thinking I could ever have had a normal relationship with him – or with any man. Laughing hysterically.
I never knew what that meant before, but now I do. It’s the only other thing you can do besides cry hysterically. And I’ve done enough of that.
It’s time to get the old Claire back. The one who doesn’t need a man. The one who’s fine without a relationship.
I log out of the VPN and shut my computer down. It’s still early evening and the bi’s and Lil aren’t back yet. There’s a knock at my door and I get my lonely old dinner in my lonely old hotel room like I have for the last couple of weeks.
“No more,” I tell myself, dropping noodles and prawns into my mouth with my so-so chopstick skills, “I’m acting more like an old maid than Jojo does. No more. I’m a strong, confident woman. Language barrier be damned. Isn’t that what Google translate is for?”
Finished with my dinner, I scan my clothes.
It’s ten o’clock and I’m in – of all things – a karaoke bar. Well, not exactly. I’m in the karaoke section of a huge bar that also has, among other things, a huge electronic dance floor and screen that shows the moves, a country bar complete with a mechanical bull (sooooo Urban Cowboy), a live hip hop-scene and an arcade.
Out of all of the choices, karaoke was the best one. And that’s not saying much.
Not that I don’t like to dance. I love to dance. It’s like vertical sex – well, it was until that whole twerking thing changed teasing into assault with a deadly butt. But I don’t like following pre-computed steps like a machine. All of us lined up to do the exact same thing. Ugh.
And I barely understand American hip hop half the time. Live, Japanese hip hop just makes my head spin at the thought.
Country? No thanks. As a Saint – and as a recently broken-hearted woman – “Stand by your man” is not my credo.
So I’m sipping my beer (I made sure to the bartender that I would take the top off myself, thank you) and watching tipsy locals and even tipsier visitors attempt to sing a variety of songs – a lot in English – very badly.
“It’s better than staying in the room,” I keep telling myself.
It isn’t, actually, but it’s about the same.
“You sing?” I hear a man ask me in lilting English. Ireland, maybe, but not quite.
I look up – then slightly down. And then way up again.
“Jesus,” I swallow and take another sip of my beer. He’s hot. Really, really hot. Nipple-puckering hot.
“Name’s David,” he sits down uninvited, “And you are?”
“Claire,” I manage, trying not to actually ogle him. Sandy blond hair. Eyes like two pieces of jade. Strong jaw. Confident. Swaggering. And an ass like –
“So, do you sing, Claire?” he asks, reaching for my slightly sweaty cocktail napkin. Good Lord, I nearly imagine him reaching for the hem of my dress across my knee.
“In the shower and car mostly,” I drain my beer – there wasn’t much left anyway – “You?”
“I’ve been known to take the stage a time or two,” he chuckles and I feel the heat curling up from my core all the way into my face, “But I hate all this fakery they do here. Don’t you, Redeemer?”
“Uh,” I back-pedal. I haven’t felt any immortal in the room and I’ve been locked down tight all night, “People like to escape. They like their time in the spotlight. Even if it’s just this – their friends won’t tell them that they sucked and no one else here will run into them again.”
“But we’re not people, are we – Claire?” he asks, tilting his head, “So can you sing or do I have coax those sweet sounds out of your throat some other way?”
He’s not a bi. He’s not even a hellion. I lift my shield ever so slightly – angel. Lesser angel. I never got around to figuring out all of their levels. As I said before, I’ve had more experience dealing with the other side than our own.
Oops – we’re not supposed to have sides anymore.
“Saraph, if you’re looking,” he smiles at me, “Praiser of God. Mostly in song,” he winks and slides his arm across the back of my chair.
“As in Saraphim?” I whisper, “David the Saraph?”
“Indeed, Claire the Redeemer,” he chuckles in a low baritone growl that sends shivers through me, “Not much work for the last couple of millennia, though. Branched out to record promoter.”
“Christian rock?” I manage to get my brain back online and throw out a quip.
“Very little money in that, all in all,” he laughs and leans in closer to me, “Do you know who Peter Grant is?”
I give him a look that says, “Duh.” Dad loved classic rock. Made us listen to everything from Stevie Ray Vaughn to The Eagles. Stones. Who. Janis. Jimmi. But especially Zeppelin – who he swore was the ultimate synergy of blues, rock and sex.
So, yes, of course I know who Zeppelin’s manager was.
“Ever wonder who modeled for the Swan Song logo?” he asks even lower and I swallow, my throat suddenly very dry.
“You’re kidding, right?” I want it to sound skeptical, but it comes out in a throaty moan. My God, this guy has my skin tingling and he hasn’t even touched me yet, “You don’t look anything like him.”
And he doesn’t. Peter Grant was a short, pudgy man with thinning brown hair and bad teeth. And that was back in the early seventies.
“Bi’s aren’t the only ones who can shape-shift, Claire,” he purrs at me, “Certain angels can too,” he grins at me, “It’s quite useful when singing different parts.”
I’m trying very hard not to think about his different parts, but my body is refusing to listen. I absolutely did not set out this evening to pick up someone in a bar. Sex was the furthest thing from my mind. I need to get a serious grip on my hormones right now before I have him on stage reenacting Lust’s “Hard Sex” to a crowd of Japanese business people blowing off steam after work.
“Will you excuse me, David?” I ask him and grab my purse, “I need to get another drink.”
“Already taken care of,” he grins again and I look down at the table to see another unopened beer and something that looks like absinth.
“Uh, thanks,” I slide back down in my seat and wish they would turn up the A/C in this place. “Is it hot in here or is it just you?” rings out in my mind, “So, um, what are you doing in Tokyo?”
“You know that anime musical pop-star that everyone over here is so crazy for?” he opens my beer for me.
Now, I wouldn’t have a clue what he is talking about without NPR. They did a story on it right before I left the States. Supposedly, all of it is completely CGI and advanced graphics so she looks 3D and when she performs “live,” she sounds 3D also as she walks back and forth along the stage. It all sounds way too bizarre for me – of course, I lost interest in anime after Saylor Moon took a nosedive when I was still in grade-school.
“Heard of it, yeah,” I reach for my beer and his hand grazes mine before letting go. The tingle isn’t nearly as severe as the shock I got on the plane, but that stayed in my arm. This one goes straight to my pelvis.
“You don’t really believe that technology has come all that far, do you?” he winks and lets one of his curly, blond locks turn turquoise before changing back, “If I can change into that to have millions of Japanese falling to their knees, just imagine what I can turn into to have you do the same.”
I’m completely aware that he’s coming onto me. And arguing in my head about stopping him or letting him go on.
“It could be really good,” one side tells me.
“You don’t know who to trust,” the other does, “Remember, the angels have a stake in taking you down too.”
“It’s been a while,” my body – for good measure – chimes in, “And he’s hot-t-t-t.”
“I’m going to use the restroom,” I stand again, more confidently than I did a second ago, “I’ll be right back.” I take my purse and my beer into the restroom and step into a stall.
My beer because I really don’t want another demon-juice episode and my purse because I’m a girl.
And because I have Clark’s special phone still tucked inside.
“Clark?” I ask when he answers, “Do you know a seraph named David?”
“Why?” he asks me back. But he seems to be in a good mood, “There are several with that name.”
“Because he’s trying to pick me up and I don’t know if I can trust him or not,” I tell him.
“What does he sound like?” Clark asks me. Not what does he look like – what does he sound like.
“He has an accent. Kind of Celtic, but not Irish exactly. And not as thick as Scottish,” I respond.
“Welsh?” he asks.
“I have no idea,” I snort, “The only thing Welsh I’ve ever heard of is a Corgi.”
Clark then proceeds to say something in a language that makes goosebumps crawl all over me. In a good way. But it’s kind of creepy too – that Clark would have that effect on me.
Maybe it’s just the language – like Wanda in that cheesy movie A Fish Called Wanda – who had a thing about foreign accents and different languages. But I’ve heard Spanish all my life and recently been exposed to plenty of French, Italian, Latin and now Japanese. And none of them have me thinking about blotting my panties before I walk back into the bar.
“Does he sound like that?” Clark asks me and I seriously have to lower myself on the rim of the toilet seat to keep from quaking.
“Yes,” I manage, taking a sip of my beer. I really need to get a grip. This is Clark, for pity sakes.
“Ah,” he chuckles and I can hear feathers fluttering, “He’s a charmer, but he’s harmless. Don’t fall for him because he won’t return it, but if you’re up to a very pleasurable evening and working every one of your pipes,” he pauses and I swear I can hear every one of the innuendos running around in his head, “Than by all means – indulge yourself.”
“Ok,” I take a breath and attempt to pull myself together, “Is he using some kind of – uh – trick on me? Making me,” I pause for a second, “Want him more than I should? Because I do.”
Clark chuckles, “No, Claire – even if he had all of the same abilities as a bi, you would be immune to them. Just like you are with bi’s. I think,” he pauses, gathering his thoughts, “That this may be just what you need right now.”
“Well,” I grab some toilet paper and mop against the back of my neck, “Thanks for the information. I’m glad I’m not being manipulated into anything, at least.”
“Claire?” he adds, “I’m glad you’ve decided to move on. I was worried about you for a while.”
“So was I,” I tell him, “But I’m finally ready to get past it. Thanks, Clark. I’ll talk to you soon.”
I end the call and step out to check my makeup and hair. David – and Clark both – have me feeling like it should be dripping off my face and like I need some serious Aqua-Net time, but luckily, I don’t look like the puddle of hormones and lust that I feel like.
I wipe a stray lash from my face and fluff a bit, but I’m good.
I walk back to my table and David is still there.
“Did you lose your drink?” he asks me, noticing my empty hand.
“I’m not much of a drinker,” I tell him, sitting down again.
“Did you enjoy your conversation in the restroom?” he asks, laughing, “Who were you checking in with?”
“Someone I trust,” I shrug.
“About what, exactly?” he asks and lays his hand on my knee.
“Whether I should trust you or not,” I smile and pull his hand up to the table, but don’t let go.
“And the verdict is?” he leans in, staring me in the eyes.
“If you want to explore my range, I’m ready to get out of here,” I tell him, standing up.
We’re back at his place, which is a tiny but very efficient Tokyo space in a high rise that is worth more than a Manhattan penthouse overlooking Central Park. All of the internal walls move to create or separate space and I’m actually impressed for all of the five minutes he explains it to me before taking me into the bedroom.
Now, I’m down to my bra and panties – minus shoes, and I’ve just pulled his shirt and pants off of him. I’m already ready for the next phase, but he’s not there yet.
One look at his rumpled wings tells me why.
I pull myself out from under him and push him gently down onto the bed, straddling his mighty-fine ass.
“Let me straighten these out for you,” I tell him, already sliding my hands along the cartilage and skin of his main ribs.
“That feels so good, Claire,” he groans and sinks deeper into the bed.
His wings are different from Clark’s. Clark’s are shiny – silver and white and look sharp. Like weapons as much as locomotion. But David’s are softer. Certainly not the fluffy-soft versions of angels that we have in common culture – but blunted at least.
And his are very, very crooked. It looks painful.
“How did you get these so twisted up?” I ask him, stroking down his feathers and gently working the kinks out.
“Hmmm,” he moans, “I slept in my office last night. In my suit. I haven’t had a chance to stretch them out in over twenty-four hours.”
“Long night?” I ask him, moving to the next row.
“All work – promise,” he groans again, “God that feels so good.”
I know I’m a pretty good back massager, and I have to wonder if straightening his wings is similar to working out a tense muscle. He keeps making little groans and growls of pleasure and soon I have one wing perfectly straight again.
“Do you mind if I sit up?” he asks me, “I’m afraid I have something else kinked now.”
“He really shouldn’t tease me like that,” I think as I climb off of him.
I cover with a chuckle instead of the panting I really want to do.
“Are you going to straighten that out for me too, Claire?” he asks huskily. My nipples harden so much in response that I think my bra might spontaneously pop off of me.
“In time,” I tell him instead and move behind his now seated back, letting my chest graze against the hard muscles there as I lean in close and start on his other wing.
“Duw, gwraig, y pethau yr ydych yn ei wneuld i mi,” he growls out and I have to clamp down a whimper as heat floods my core. I can’t help but to start laying a trail of kisses over his wing-rib as my fingers smooth and straighten lower.
“If you don’t stop that it’s going to be either a very short or a very long night,” he warns. Reluctantly, I pull my mouth away, but scoot on my knees further along his wing and let my still-clad breasts brush his feathers accidentally.
He sits up further and shudders.
“Our wings are like another erogenous zone,” he growls, “Especially the backs. The fronts are a little less sensitive,” he moans again, “Really, Claire, you need to stop.”
“But half of it is still crooked,” I tease him.
He stands up and turns to see me kneeling on the bed, “It’s good enough for now,” he bends down and kisses me, moving me along the bed until I pull my legs out and lie down, “I may let you finish after I’ve had some time to calm down. But now,” his mouth plunges into my cleavage as his hands start sliding my straps down, “It’s time to make you sing.”
My voice, among other things, is thoroughly worked-out as I get dressed the next morning. David’s in the shower. He offered to let me take one also, but it’s so early I’m sure the bi’s and Lil aren’t up yet. I’ll have plenty of time to get cleaned up back at the hotel.
Despite not sleeping all that much, I feel surprisingly good. I use the entryway mirror to brush my hair with the mini-brush in my purse and tie it up with a hair-tie into a pony tail. I’ve swished and rinsed with a glass of water in the guest bath and David gave me a cup of coffee before heading to the shower.
“There you are, cariad,” he comes out with just a towel wrapped around him, “I was worried that you would leave before I could give you a goodbye kiss.” He grins.
“Nearly did,” I smile, “But I really do have to go soon.”
“Let me get dressed and I’ll take you back to your hotel,” he reaches in for a peck, “Won’t be a minute.”
Very soon, he has me in front of the hotel’s entrance, “How long are you here for?” he asks, “Do you have time again tonight?”
“I don’t think so, David,” I smile, “It was really good. Really, really good. But we’re likely leaving this evening or tomorrow morning at the latest. Thank you,” I kiss his cheek, “Keep rocking,” I tell him as I close the door behind me.
When I enter the suite, Lil is sitting at the breakfast bar with a couple of files spread out in front of her and a laptop. And a large cup of coffee.
“Finally,” she says, looking up, “I was beginning to think you took that vow of chastity seriously.”
“I didn’t take any vows,” I tell her, closing the door, “And I think it’s a little late for that anyway. What are you doing up so early?”
“So late, actually,” she frowns, “We’ve finally gotten the situation with North Korea back under control. I’m just finishing up the paperwork and headed to bed. So?” she pulls out another stool, “Who were you with?”
“Really?” I ask myself, “You want the deets on my walk of shame like we’re BFF’s or something? This is not Sex in the City.”
“Coffee first,” I tell her, plopping my purse on the counter and grabbing a mug.
When I sit back down, her nostrils flare slightly and she gives a small cough, “A seraph – really?” her brows arch, “Interesting. How was it?”
“Uh,” I sip to cover, “Fine. Good. All good.”
She mouses to another page on her laptop, “So, compared to Josh, how was it?” she asks, fingers hovering.
“Jamie,” I correct her, “And that’s apples and oranges. Jamie was a mark.”
“A mark that you kept seeing,” she peers over her laptop at me, “Breaking your pattern.”
“A one-off,” I shrug, but it still hurts. Not falling to my knees and sobbing hurts. Not anymore. But it hurts all the same, “I don’t intend to repeat it.”
“Interesting,” she clacks some keys but I can’t see what she’s doing from this angle, “And the seraph? Are you going to see him again? Or is it a her?” she chuckles.
“It was great,” I dump the rest of my coffee out, “But it was just sex, Lil. I had an itch to scratch and it has now been thoroughly scratched. End of story.”
“I could compel you, you know,” she tells me, sitting back on the stool and crossing her arms.
“You could,” I agree, “But since I was off the clock at the time, that would be a violation of your service plan and I would be free to go home immediately.”
“You’re really not giving me any useful data to work with, Claire,” she pouts, “How am I supposed to learn about your powers if you won’t share?”
“He was an angel, Lil,” I snort at her, “Even if I couldn’t control my powers still, I don’t think they would have worked on him.”
She gives me one of her looks, but says nothing.
“I’m going to the gym,” I tell her over my shoulder and go to my room to change. When I come out, she’s humming to herself and typing furiously into her laptop. Her files are closed and her coffee cup is next to the sink. She doesn’t look up when I walk past her.
When I come back, the suite is silent and all doors except mine are closed. Lil’s stuff is gone from the counter, but a note is lying there instead. “We leave at six.” I leave it there for the bi’s to read.
I shower all of the sweat and post-sex off of me and pull up my laptop, expecting very little on Father Jonas’ VPN and minimal on my work’s. I made sure everything was fine there and all I expect is confirmations from the processors to carry out my instructions.
And that is what I do find. Then I check my personal account, expecting bill-pay confirmations and other boring stuff. That is there too. And one more:
From: James Morton (JMorton@gmail.com)
Re: We need to talk
“Oh God,” I groan, “I don’t know if I’m ready for this yet.”
But I know I need to get it over with. I know I have to face him at some point.
Cringing, I open the email.
“If any of us knew where you were at any point, and if we weren’t sure you’d hang up on us the moment you saw it was us on the phone, we’d call you,” it starts out.
“It seems the only one you’re talking to is Father Jonas. At least you’re talking to someone, I guess. But we’re going to have to clear the air at some point, Claire. So I decided to be the sacrificial lamb rather than letting either of the girls get the full brunt of your wrath.
“First of all, let me give you an update on Jill. She’s making remarkable progress and was discharged yesterday. Jojo is staying with her and helping her out. Your condo-manager also makes frequent checks on her and has finally reigned-in your subletter. Jill won’t be back to work for another week, but even that is far-faster than someone that banged-up should be.
“And she’s not having flashbacks or nightmares or any PTSD symptoms. I can’t explain it, but she’s completely normal. She remembers everything, but just shrugs it off. There was an anonymous tip called into the police the afternoon after her attack and it turned out to be the guy.
“There was a signed confession in Spanish, and enough evidence to make an airtight case. A list of the other women the police hadn’t found yet in his hand. But there won’t be a trial. It looks like he committed suicide – which isn’t typical for that profile at all. Maybe that’s what has her so relieved…
“What does have her – and the rest of us up at night over – is you.
“I am so, so unbelievably sorry, Claire. I never, ever meant for this to happen. I still don’t know how it happened. I like Jill but I was never attracted to her. She was a friend and the only reason why we stopped by before our trip was so Brent could get Jojo’s number. We took George and Gracie to the shelter that morning. George was in renal failure and Gracie’s liver wouldn’t have lasted much longer, so it really was their time. But Brent was interested in Jojo so I agreed we’d stop by to give her a quick update and then be on our way.
“I swear, the last time I looked at the clock it was 5:30 and I told Brent we needed to leave soon to drop his car off and be on the road on time. He told me to give him another couple of minutes and we would go.
“And that’s the last I remember. I’ve tried like hell to fill in the blanks but I just can’t. I woke up the next morning in Jill’s bed. She was naked. I was naked. And there was a used condom in the trashcan in her bathroom.
“I’ve been driving myself nuts trying to remember what happened. I even went to a hypnotist, but it’s just blank. And then the girls told me that you were outside of her condo and saw the whole thing.
“I’ve talked to Father Jonas several times, but it doesn’t help. I can’t imagine what you think of me, but it can’t be worse than what I think of myself. I understand if you don’t respond to this. I wouldn’t blame you for not wanting to ever hear from me again. But I would willingly endure your anger and hurt because I deserve it. I deserve every single horrible thing you’re thinking of now. Have been thinking of.
“But please, please, don’t be mad at Jojo or Jill. They’re nearly as torn up over this as I am, but they are your sisters. Your compadres. They miss you so much. I do too, but I screwed up my chance with you and have to accept that. Please don’t throw away your family over me.
“I’m not worth it, Claire. I’m so terribly sorry – more than you will ever know. Please, please call Jojo and reach out to Jill. They love you so much – you have so much history with them. Don’t let them go.
“Brent is actually very into Jojo, by the way. They’ve been out nearly every night since that one. And surprisingly, he hasn’t put the moves on her yet – which tells me that he’s taking this more seriously than his usual M.O. She hasn’t gotten any more cats either.
“Maybe some good will come out of all of this.
“I’m so sorry Claire. I never meant to hurt you.”
“Fuck,” I wipe my tears away and have to read it again, as most of it blurred after “I’m so unbelievably sorry.” I get up to blow my dripping nose and ponder responding. All kinds of scenarios run around in my head – everything from the curt but to-the-point, “Fuck you,” to not replying at all to everything in between. I take Bishop’s advice and close my computer. I will think about it before replying.
We have hours before our flight leaves, so I scan the brochures in the hotel room and decide I need to be a tourist for a while.
I’ve done the typical Tokyo romp – bypassing the shopping. I have way too much stuff already. I’m now sitting in mid-afternoon sunlight staring into a koi pond at a Shinto temple.
I’m still running Jamie’s email and the last couple of weeks around in my head. Watching the fish flash and float and sway the water lilies. It would be nice if my life were that simple.
I need to leave soon. I need to respond to him. I need closure on this. It breaks my heart, but I knew he wasn’t the one for me. It would be nice if I didn’t ever have to see him again, but with Brent and Jojo hooking up (“And how long will that last?” I snort in my head) the chances of me seeing him again are pretty high.
But I realize, as I trail my hand slowly in the water and feel the fish nibble against my fingers, he and Jill are actually perfect for each other. Both first-responders. They understand job-pressures and the demands and stresses that come with that. Used to unpredictable schedules and being woken up at three in the morning to come back to work with an emergency.
And Jill is fine with a little role-play.
I actually give a little smile at the thought. Jilly’s more likely to turn the tables on him and tie him up.
“Good for her,” I chuckle to myself.
And I realize I’ve released it all. I’ve let it all go. Everything that has been weighing my heart down for all these weeks. It just doesn’t matter. I would rather see Jill and Jojo happy than hold onto my anger any longer.
“Jamie,” I reply. I don’t have a lot of time, but I’m calm and feel peaceful.
“I’m so glad that Jill is doing so well and so happy that Jojo has found a man who doesn’t want to use her. Warn Brent, however, if he hurts my sister – I will hunt him down and turn him into a eunuch. In fact – why don’t you invite Father Jonas to have breakfast with him at Manny’s too ;)
“I never asked you to be faithful to me, Jamie. As I remember, our agreement was five days only. I so wanted it to be for more, but it would have been incredibly selfish of me to expect that from you when I didn’t know how long I would be gone. And – yes – it hurt to watch what happened between Jill and you. But, deep down, I always knew I was a rebound fling. I wish it wasn’t thrust in my face the way it was, but maybe – in the long run – that’s for the best.
“I want you to take another look at Jill. She’s actually perfect for you. She understands your schedule and demands because she has the same. She’s smart, strong and beautiful. Just that she survived this attack and sounds like she’s bouncing back shows how resilient she is. If your mother would like me, she would adore Jill.
“I can’t believe I just typed that, but I do truly mean it. It will be a little awkward at first, but I will deal with it. I’ve dealt with much worse and as long as my sisters are happy, I’ll be fine.
“I’m in Tokyo for another couple of hours and then off to who-knows-where. It’s exhausting. But I have a little over three weeks left and then I’m done.”
I don’t end with a send-off, because I can’t. The list runs through my head and I reject them all – instead I just type my name and shut my computer down. I pack it up and finish the rest of the final-minute stuff and go out to wait for Lil and the bi’s.