For Fallon (16 page)

That familiar
voice in my thoughts telling me that his secretiveness is fueled by something far greater than I can fathom has finally been accepted.

Fallon

The next morning and afternoon is hectic. We’re set up at the Silver Dahlia. Our guests arrive at six. The event is simple. We start with a seven-course dinner
that we sold per plate, then an independent filmmaker will present a short documentary he filmed about the increasing numbers of orphans worldwide, and several vacations will be auctioned. The chef and the artists all volunteered, and we paid half the price for the venue and the vacations. Apart from the proceeds we’ll make from the tickets and vacations, our guests can donate money the entire night.

I return home to shower and change at four and wear my silk, blood red floor-length
dress with an open back and a thigh-high split. My hair is up in a tight bun secured high on top of my head, and I’m putting my lipstick – the infamous red lipstick – in my golden clutch when I hear my front door unlock. I check the time: five fifteen.

Luca strolls into my bedroom and halts to gawk appreciatively at me. Standing behind me, he strokes the back of his forefinger down my spine.
“Sei bellissima, dolcezza.”
You’re stunning.

“Are you still coming with me?” I thought - with all the struggles of the last few weeks - he wasn’t joining me at the event. My plan to be apart more is backfiring on me. The moment
I
try to create a distance, he stops it and suddenly has time for me again. Maybe he’s onto me?

He steps out of his shoes and unbuttons his shirt.
“Of course. I want to be there with you,” he clarifies pragmatically.

I don’t have time to think about this now.
“Hurry. Shower.”

He takes off his pants in the bedroom and jumps into the shower.
“Going.”

I check my dress in the mirror, and my eyes wander to his pants lying in a heap on the floor.

Should I check it?

This is my opportunity. The bathroom door is half ajar, fragrant steam rising from the small opening.

I hurriedly kneel and feel in his pockets. First comes out his smartphone and then another phone.

I knew it!

Throwing his pants back on the floor, I take the other phone and run through the hall, past the kitchen,
and into the living room. It’s the phone I saw him slipping into his pocket the night he couldn’t reach me. It seems to be a disposable one. This is definitely an old model; it doesn’t even have a color screen. It’s a simplistic black cellphone with press buttons and a tiny display. He doesn’t have any contacts stored in it. I walk past the couch to the windows and glance warily back at the hall. The shower is still running. My hands are perspiring as I hurriedly search the cell for any useful information. I click different buttons but can’t find any messages. After entering another menu, I find them. There are messages from unknown numbers - no names - because none are stored in the phone. One message reads: ‘button.’ I wrinkle my nose in confusion while checking the next one. I can only read part of the message – ‘make a marriage’ – when a poised voice interrupts.

“What are you doing?”

I spin around, shocked.

Luca stands at the opposite end of the sofa with a towel wrapped low around his hips. With his taut ribcage perfecting his tanned, sculpted body and his damp hair attractively disheveled from towel drying, I hate that I have to fight to avoid being lured by his charm. The phone in my hand catches his attention, and his eyes snap back up to mine while he takes a defensive stance,
bracing himself for my reaction.

An array of feelings including hurt, sorrow, betrayal, and curiosity sting me. Hurriedly, I try to decide what reaction I want him to see. My curiosity and determination to find out what exactly has been happening the last couple of weeks
wins.

I need him to open up to me. How do I handle this?

I throw the phone at his chest, and he catches it clumsily when it hits him. “You are married? Married?” I comment in a rising tone.

Luca looks stunned. “Fallon, what did you read?” He sounds shaken, but it’s well-hidden. He glimpses at the phone and places it on the kitchen counter behind him.

“Does it matter? I knew… I knew you were lying to me. I’ve been suspicious for weeks.” I peek at him. My behind is leaning against the couch to keep me standing.

His impatient voice rings out, “Fallon, what are you talking about?”

My lips thin into a straight line. “Don’t you dare deny it. I read a message about marriage.” I bring my clamped left fist to my mouth. Grazing my teeth over my knuckles, I replay the last few weeks in fast forward through my mind.

Luca cautiously approaches me. “Fallon, it’s not what you think,” he denies. “There’s nobody else.”

My eyes turn into slits. “Why do you have another phone? Why do you go on so many business trips?” I take a step back, not wanting to be near him.

He tries to reach for me again, but the hurt stemming from my shaking body halts him in his tracks. My back is slightly pressed against the window.

Luca stands in my previous place at the sofa. He drags his hand through his hair. Sighing heavily, he pleads, “You’re wrong. I’m not married
—
”

The buzzer rings, signaling the cab is waiting downstairs to take me to the venue. I carefully avoid Luca and walk past the coffee table to tell the cab driver I’ll be down in a minute. All I want is to stay home, yet that’s the last thing I want. I head toward the bedroom to fix my makeup. With a cotton stick, I remove the smudges of mascara from under my eyes.

Luca follows me. “Should I wait here for you?” he asks tiredly, seating himself on the edge of the bed.

I put my makeup and phone in my clutch
, and I leave. “No.”

My casual
response jolts him and Luca runs up to me, still in his towel. “Fallon, we need to talk.” His left arm shoots out against the wall, blocking my way to the front door.

“Not now,” I hiss.

“I’ll wait for you here then,” he says resolutely.

“No,” I repeat. “
You
leave my house.”

Exasperation gleams in his dark eyes. It’s those darkening eyes that warned me I should guard my heart from this man. “Fallon, you have to give me a c
hance to explain. Tomorrow? I’ll come tomorrow so
—
”

“You’
ll answer all my questions?” I interrupt fiercely. “Nothing will be left unresolved. That time is over. I want to know everything.”

“Yes.” His eyes narrow in doubt. “I’ll be here early, and I’ll call you later to ensure
that you’re home safe.”

I sigh in defeat. “I probably won’t answer.” My brows rise in enragement when his impatience grows.

But he’s not intimidated by me in the least. “Answer your phone,” Luca demands, refusing to budge. In a kinder tone, he adds, “I would do it for your peace of mind if the roles were reversed.”

I sidestep him.

Luca’s fingers encircle my upper arm as I open the door.

I barely glance at him over my shoulder.

“Good luck tonight. I’m proud of you,” he expresses in a soft tone. “I will give you all your answers tomorrow.”

Amber collides with equally sad green before I close the door.

***

I arrive at the Silver Dahlia only fifteen minutes before dinner is served. Most
of the guests are already seated. The restaurant has sixty round tables decorated with silver tablecloths and centerpieces of painted blue roses. I’m placed with my colleagues at a table for six next to Jason, who is looking dashing in his tux.

“Everything okay?”
Jason notices my distressed state.

I nod as I sit down. “Yes, small disagreement. He’s not coming.” I glance at the empty seat next to me that is reserved for Luca.

Jason frowns. “He’s not coming because of a disagreement?” he asks, not suppressing his judgmental tone. Jason’s date, our co-worker Alexandra, overhears him and shows me a supportive smile.

I wave him off. “I don’t want to talk about it. Let’s enjoy our night.” I’m unable to talk about Luca without bursting into tears, so I try to stay in the present when the first course is served, but negativity engulfs me. Doubt is a treacherous feeling.

Will he ever give me straight answers?
Have I naively fallen for a man who has woven an intricate web of lies to be with me? What has been true the last few weeks?

Incapable of eating, I excuse myself from the table to visit the restroom.

Jason follows me. “Fallon, go home if you’re not feeling well. I’ll cover for you if anyone asks, which I highly doubt. Our work is done. We should be enjoying ourselves, and you obviously can’t. Go talk to Luca.”

Eyeing the restaurant, I only hesitate for a second. I regret leaving Luca and should talk to him now, before he has an entire night to come up with new lies. Jason hugs me, sensing my misery.

“Thanks, Jason. I’m going now. Go back to your date.” I watch him return to his seat.

At the front entrance of the hotel, Alex is mingling with guests. I want to avoid him and search for another exit in this huge hotel. I go t
hrough the foyer, into the hall and to the kitchen in the rear. I know - from spending the morning here - that only the main kitchen is being used. The fire exit opens into the backstreet behind the hotel. I enter another hall that’s actually prohibited to guests. There are two doors - I check the first and it’s unlocked. I sigh in relief when I find myself looking into the empty rear kitchen. There’s only a small light on, and I scan the room and spot an exit at the far end. For a supposedly small kitchen, the room is remarkably spacious. I press the handlebar down to open the door. Unlocked again.

The door indeed opens in
to the alley which is barely illuminated by a flickering light. I can’t see the street, so I have to walk through the alley and round the corner to access it. I open the door further to step outside, but a second before the door slams shut, I hear a faint
thud
and - in reflex - my head follows said noise to the back of the dim alley.

Everything happens in fast forward from that point on. Two silhouettes are standing ominously over a body that slouches to the ground next to the dumpster. One of the men has a gun in hand, angled at the person falling to the ground. The door behind me slams shut, and both of their heads spin
around to me. My eyes enlarge as waves of panic grip me, so I quickly search the door - no handlebar on the outside. It only opens from the inside. The men are maybe ten steps away from me at the back of the alley. I pivot and will my legs to sprint toward the street. My heels are clicking urgently against the asphalt, and I don’t dare to look back. I lose my footing and misstep halfway to the street, falling with my palms flat in front of me, scraping my knees open and pushing myself back up as quickly as possible.

Not one step further, I’m raised off my heels with an arm around my waist and a hand sealing my mouth. I scream futilely. The guy jerks my face to the side, and I struggle in his hold, kicking out into the night air. He drags me toward
the back of the alley, past the fire exit door, and stops at the dumpster, joining the other perpetrator. There’s blood seeping from the victim’s torso onto the ground. To my astonishment, I recognize this dead man. He has stopped by at work often to visit Alex. My stomach heaves from the pungent smell of blood and trash.

The man restraining me says against my ear, “Stop.
Struggling.” With the silencer pointed to my temple, I hear the click of a gun. The disgusting smell of liquor on his breath enhances my nausea.

I signal that I will stay quiet, nodding my head to the guy in front of me and the one at my back.

He moves his hand an inch away from my mouth, and the other man arches one brow, waiting for me to panic and start screaming again. The one behind me kicks the back of my knees so I fall forward, the impact with the concrete burning my already-bloodied knees.              

Both men stand before me now. Tears induced by my physical pain trail down my cheeks. I can’t see the men clearly in the darkness of the alley, but the one that kicked me has
blond hair and is fairly short; the other one has copper or brown hair. Both are dressed in suits. I don’t look away as they both glare at me and then at each other.

The blond guy palms his mouth in frustration while keeping his gun aimed at my forehead. His eyes are trained on me when he addresses his partner. “What do we do?”

“Take her. We have to leave now.” The other guy, also holding a gun, stashes it under his jacket.

Blond guy clutches his hair with one hand and then backhands me in my face.
The force of the blow resounding through my head.

Then I’m propelled into unconsciousness when the back of his gun knocks me out cold.