Club Alpha (4 page)

Greta

October 2

I don't know what I thought would happen.

Maybe a bomb would go off?

However, my first day of the Club Alpha run starts out with a whisper. My alarm goes off, Mr. Right doesn't make an appearance, and I'm left with the usual: work.

I fly through my condo, straightening the pillows on my perfectly made bed and putting my paltry amount of dishes into a dishwasher, which I run twice a week.

I scan the toiletries one more time as I roll my travel clothing into a tight bundles, which I set inside my suitcase like sardines.

White makes me look like a ghost. So I wear a red blouse that is such a deep scarlet, the fabric looks made of blood. The navy cloth pants never show a wrinkle, and the inseam skates the exact middle of the instep of my matching platform pumps. Today, I'm six feet, two with heels.

A cropped blazer skims the soft waistband of the matching pants. The single thin chain of white gold with a floating heart nestled at the hollow of my throat is my only jewelry.

I’m meeting Mr. Aros after an international flight that will leave me tired and drawn-looking.

I have the fix—the makeup I've paid hundreds for. It conspires to make me look like I'm not wearing any, though I slather it on.

Perfect.

I pack it away so I'll look good for the flight and in case I meet anyone important.

I pick up my smartphone and scroll through useless updates I keep in my head anyway.

No social life—
Gia's words hunt me down inside my skull. If I had a social life, I would
need
all the reminders for work stuff, because I'd be too busy
living
to remember them.

I curse under my breath, stuffing my cell into my handbag. My eyes flick toward the window for one last look before I take off. Between high-rises, I catch a peek-a-boo of Puget Sound. It's only a corridor view, but it'd sold me on the condo.

Someday I'll live where the water is all I see.

The statement feels like a promise.

*

“More wine, miss?”

I startle awake, my hand swinging out to catch the glass before it tumbles underneath the airplane seat.

I rein in the scowl, coming back to myself in errant chunks of disorientation. I didn’t have wine. “No, thank you. But I'd love some water.”

The flight attendant nods politely and retreats into the dim corner where they acrobatically prepare alcohol and bland airplane food.

I shouldn't bitch. Roffe will be picking up the tab. How many cold-weather countries do we have where I can hop on a flight, talk up the newest outerwear to discriminating buyers, and hope they sign for a Roffe clothing line? It's more than a salary to me; it's a commission, as well. The money makes me feel secure. I have six years before true financial security. My trust fund garnered my acceptance into Club Alpha, but Gia's sponsorship allowed it now.

My head lulls back against the headrest, and my gaze moves to the magnified portal windows as clouds float by like escaped cotton balls.

A lowball in faceted pressed glass is set in front of me. The deep impressions of the glass fractures the light from the window into diamonds on the tray table. I raise it to my lips. Ice clinks faintly as I sip. I fight back the time zone change, dehydration, and everything else.

Even with the quickest flight and an overnight stay in Amsterdam, it is still almost thirteen hours of seat time. And my rear is going numb.

And why do they ply me with booze?
God.

I'm so grumpy. I
should
be excited to arrive in Oslo. I'll practice my native language and haunt sites I haven't seen since before college.

Maybe I'll get a deal for Roffe,
I muse, holding the chilled glass against my hot cheek.

I kick off my heels and curl my toes, spinning the half empty glass on the smooth surface of my pop-out tray. My mind wanders to some of the things Zaire told me.

Anytime, anywhere… the fantasy will play out.
The fantasy is treacherous ground
, he said.

The fantasy will integrate so naturally into my life.

I shut my eyes, thinking of Gia and all she's done for me—and been for me.

Gia is wealthy and highly educated. She is the youngest woman in the state of Washington to receive her PhD in psychology. When she volunteered to mentor patients who were “unrecoverable,” Gia Township didn't know what she would begin when she was assigned my case.

My thumb restlessly strokes the fine scar at my wrist. Both wrists hold the proof of my past.

I can't stroke my brain. There is no balm for that scar.

Yet, Gia has brought me through the water's depths that were my mind. I was drowning, and she rescued me. She insists I rescued myself.

Club Alpha is her gift to me. It is meant to be a catharsis.

I shiver, sliding my coat's cuff to cover my wrist and blink, feeling tired. Exhausted by my memories. Overcome with the thread of hope.

Gia says I will trust again and that not all men are sadistic monsters.

*

Touchdown bounces me awake, and my eyes meet the flight attendant's. She is based in Norway, but like most Europeans, she assumes I'm American and don't have any foreign language set. Normally, that would be spot-on.

Americans aren't compelled to speak any language other than English.

Still, I'm always vaguely insulted when another person makes a three-second assessment of me and
knows all
from it.

I don't think so.

She whispers about me to another flight attendant, and neither bother to mask their obvious gossip. First class doesn't inherently mean there will
be
class.

“I don't bleach my hair, incidentally,” I comment as we taxi.
I'm Norwegian. Towheads rock.

She blanches, paling even lighter than her natural fairness.

“I didn't know you were Norwegian,” she says, a flush rising to her cheeks like cream through milk.

I frown. “I didn't know you were unkind.”

She sniffs, turning away.

Bitches abound apparently.

I remember what Gia tells me in our sessions.
As long as a comment is kind and honest, your feelings are always appropriate to verbalize.

Just restating the facts, Jack.

It's important to put people on notice. It validates me. Setting limits with those who would devalue me through pettiness and their own uncertainties is critical. I can't abide it. I'm too fragile to absorb hurts slung my way.

I’ll survive.

The young woman who criticizes me now continues to do so forever if I don't address it in the present, for myself.

Gia taught me that. I hadn't thought it would work until I put it into practice. It does work. Block by block, I've built myself back up.

After graduating from the University of Washington with a degree in marketing and surviving the unthinkable, I have two long years behind me.

Gia says I'm ready.

People see a tall, slim young woman with blond hair, who appears to have every single thing someone could want. Except hope.

And love.

I have my work.
It's been a safe haven that's allowed me to hide.
And now I have a ninety day leave of absence from my normal reality.

I smile at the flight attendant as I leave. I can afford to be gracious.

Because I have the unique insight of being grateful for my life.

*

Seattle is in the throes of an epic Indian summer while Oslo is swimming in the low fifties. I huddle inside my fisherman's knit sweater and stuff my wool-encased feet into Dansko clogs. I have exactly one day to acclimate before meeting with my client. I dress in the typical wardrobe of the area. Blending's good. There is safety in anonymity.

I rub my tired eyes, giving a longing look at the hotel bed, and sigh. I know the trick of travel. I'll go to bed at the same time as I usually do, nose in a book.

Tomorrow, I should wake up refreshed. Right now, I'm still riding on the adrenaline of arriving.

Oslofjord Bay looks like
a wet finger of a channel between other hotels. Roffe has spared no expense for my room. I drop the heavy drape to cover the window, closing out the view of the harbor beyond.

I feel quiet inside my mind. Though Oslo is a bustling city of a million and a half people, it is home to me.
Where things were happy once. Normal.

I allow myself to relax in increments. I use breathing exercises until I am regulated and calm.

Smoothing my hands down my dark skinny jeans, I leave my room and slide the keycard into my back pocket. I have the company's American Express card in my front pocket. I leave my handbag behind in the safe in my room. 

I walk to the elevator and press the
down
button. I snatch my smartphone out of my other pocket then scroll through the updates. It flashes, saying it’s
syncing
to the international cell cooperative.

Great.

The elevator doors swish open, and I move inside. I hit the button
for the lobby. The elevator shifts gently then moves downward. Leaning against the back of the elevator, I close my eyes, listening to the dings as I descend. The elevator rocks slightly as it slows. A final ding announces a stop.

My eyes pop open. Floor thirteen.

I frown.
It's bad luck to have a thirteenth floor.

Nobody steps inside.

Weird.

I wait a few seconds then shrug, hitting the button again. The doors remain open like a wide, unblinking eye. I hit the
Lukk døren
button in red.
Close door
.

Nothing happens.

My brows cinch. I shove my cell into my pocket. A flutter of anxiety swoops inside me like a freed butterfly.
Don't panic, Greta.

My heart rate begins to speed.

I panic
and hit the button about a hundred and one times. Nothing. 

My heart begins to hammer harder.
The hell with this.
I peek my head outside the open elevator doors. A normal hallway greets me. It could be a corridor in any hotel. Plush carpet in deep plum rolls out to several doors with numbers hanging on each.

I whip out my cell.

No service.

Because I'm in a damn elevator.
Shit.
I slide my phone back into my pocket and exit the elevator.

The doors close in a whisper behind me.

I whirl, slapping my hands against my chest then quickly checking that my phone is inside my pocket. The outline of it's there. My hand drops. I cautiously look around. I should hear a maid, people—something. It's so quiet, I hear only the thundering of my heart and the whoosh of blood.

My palms slick.

I need to get the hell out of here.
My eyes flick in the direction of the keypad full of buttons by the closed elevator.

There isn't one.

*

Of course it hurts like hell when my hand hits the smooth brushed stainless of the elevator doors.

Like all inanimate objects, they're not hurt or moved by my bludgeoning. The steel is uncaring of my bruised palm. I back away, looking left, then right. I move to each door.

They all have the same number.

1

I hiccup back a sob and cover my mouth with one hand as I jerk the handle on the first door. Locked.

I feel as though I've been dumped in a funhouse. I try every door, and each one is locked.

I stand in the middle of the hallway in a strange hotel with an elevator without buttons and fight tears of rage, panic and fear.

Then it hits me:
The fantasy.

This has
got
to be a Club Alpha thing.

I frown, my pulse beginning to slow as I puzzle it through.

But to what end?

I walk the length of the dim corridor. At the opposite end, in small, brightly lit letters, a sign proclaims in Norwegian:
Emergency stairs.

Duh.
A shaky laugh escapes me as I think how completely stupid I've been. I allowed myself to get wound up immediately instead of just being logical and going through the steps one at a time.

I tear open the door with such force, it slams into the wall, notching deeply and sticking in the drywall like a skewer.

“Pfft!” I mutter, leaving the thing.