Madame X (Madame X #1) (24 page)

“Quadruple?”

He nods. “Hell, yeah. Easily. Danger pay, right? And I liked the danger. Didn’t have anyone back home waiting for me, and I honestly didn’t give a shit what happened to me.”

“And then you got shot,” I suggested, sensing the shape of what came next.

“And then I got shot,” he agreed. “Some asshole with an AK got lucky. I mean, there was no way he could have made that shot on purpose, you know? Way too far away, moving way too fast . . . but that didn’t stop him from trying. We wore bulletproof vests, of course, but there was an early-morning incident with an IED and an ambush, so we got scrambled and I forgot the vest in my rush to get on the helo. Took the two to my shoulder, no big deal, wouldn’t have been life-threatening. But then he shoots again, and a round hits me down low. You saw it.” He indicates his ribs, and I can see the puckered wound in my mind’s eye. “Good thing I was strapped in, let’s just say that. They hauled me back in, got me to a medic, shipped me stateside. That was it for me, as far as combat went. But I spent a long-ass time on my back, recuperating. Thinking. I’d narrowly avoided death twice. Cervantes should have killed me. Probably would have, eventually, if I’d stuck around. But he didn’t, and I ran off with the army. So then I took the bullet to my stomach, and it nearly killed me. Nicked my lung, permanently compromised my lung capacity. Narrowly missed hitting a bunch of other organs
and my spine. It was bad. Real bad. And you spend enough time horizontal, thinking about how close you came to dying, realizing you
should
be dead, you start to rethink your priorities.”

“What conclusions did you come to?”

“That I had to make something of myself. I’d survived when I shouldn’t have. I was alive, and I mean I guess it sounds like a cliché, but I felt like I’d been given a second chance. One thing led to another, and I ended up in Chicago, working for a flipper, a guy who buys foreclosed houses, fixes them up, and sells them at a profit. I had money, but I needed to stay busy. Learned enough to do it myself, flipping houses on my own. This was a big thing for a while, back when the real estate market was going gangbusters. I made a mint, and decided to go bigger. Bought a bar that’d gone under, owner ran out of money. Renovated it, hired some folks who knew shit about running a bar, sold it for a big profit. That earned me deeper pockets, let me take bigger risks for bigger rewards. Most of them paid off, some didn’t—and every time I got a big payout, I used it to fund the next deal. Learned other skills, learned to recognize when something will pay off and when it’s a bust. Got into technology development, bought some other companies . . .”

“And then you found yourself on the losing end of a bad deal.”

He nodded. “Yeah. But that’s a whole different story.”

“And one you don’t like to talk about.”

“Right.” He eyes me. “Back to you. How’d you end up with Caleb?”

Everything inside me freezes. I don’t know how to answer. I don’t know how to talk about Caleb. How to explain it.

“He was there when I had no one,” I end up saying. It’s true enough.

Logan nods, but it’s the kind of nod that implies he realizes I’m keeping back more than I’m saying. “How about I offer up some
really . . . personal information? So you see I’m for real. I just want to know. I’m not going to judge you or try to . . . I don’t know. I just want to know.”

“What kind of personal information?” I can’t help asking.

A pause, as Gino brings yet another dish, something else kind of like lasagna, wide rolls of pasta in sheets, stuffed with ricotta and ground sausage, doused in marinara.

“Did you see the painting?” Logan asks.

“
Starry Night
,” I say. “Yes, I saw it. I wondered about that.”

“You know, Van Gogh only ever sold a couple paintings in his lifetime, and that was one of them. But that particular version of
Starry Night
was actually only one of dozens he did that were similar. He painted them from an asylum in France. What we’d call a psychiatric home now. It was a lunatic asylum for the wealthy. He was chronically depressed, suffered a mental break. Cut his ear off, I guess, or part of it. Admitted himself there, to Saint-Paul de Mausole. He had a whole wing to himself, and he’d sit in this room he’d made into his studio, and he’d paint the view, over and over and over. Different perspectives, trying different techniques. Day, night, close up, far off, everything. There’s another one, called
Starry Night over the Rhone
. Anyway, he’d just paint the view from that room over and over again. But that one, the one we both have copies of, it’s something special. He was a deeply troubled man, Van Gogh, and that painting, I guess to me it just . . . echoes things I sympathize with. That deal that went wrong . . . I ended up in prison. I don’t want to go into the details, but they’d let us out into the yard during the day, so we could lift weights and all that cliché bullshit. The view from the yard, there was this hill in the distance with some trees on it, and birds would fly in from all directions. I can see it now, the grass heading off into the distance, with yellow dandelions in patches here and there. Then the hill, and the trees. I don’t
know what kind, oak, maybe? Thick, huge, with these massive spreading branches. And I’d be there in the yard, in the crazy fucking heat, staring at that stand of trees and the shadows they cast, daydreaming of being up there on the hill, in the shade. It was a scene I could paint from memory, even now, if I were able to draw for shit. And
Starry Night
, it’s . . . there’s this sense of distance, peace—I don’t know, it’s hard for me to put it into words. But it just reminds me of how I felt, staring out at that hill every day.”

“For me, it’s the view of the city from my window, at my condo. It’s hard for me to go outside. You saw that. Walking here, it was the first time I can remember that I didn’t feel any panic at all. But looking out, watching the people and the cars, everyone just going about their lives so easily, it just . . . sometimes I’d long for something that simple, that easy. But then—I get outside, and the noise, and the people, and everything is so big, and there’s so much of everything . . .” I close my eyes, try to make sense of my own thoughts. “
Starry Night
, to me, is about how none of that matters. The stars will shine, and they’ll light up the world, no matter who you are, or, in my case, who you are
not
. I mean, I woke up, and I was no one. But the city goes on. That’s both comforting and scary, depending on my mood. But the stars will shine, for Van Gogh, and there will be cathedrals and cypress trees, and there will be
something
out there that’s beautiful, no matter what’s inside me. I don’t know how to make any more sense of it. Like you said, it’s hard to put into words.”

“No, I get it.” His hand reaches for mine, and there’s a moment, then, that passes between us. An understanding. It’s nebulous, but real.

But then time reasserts itself, and I can’t fall back into that moment, no matter how much I wish to.

Something has shifted.

Being here, with Logan, like this . . . it’s too easy. Too simple. Too
real
. I want to enjoy it, the wine and the food and the impossibly handsome man who seems to want to know me, but I can’t. He wants to know about Caleb, and how do I explain that?

How do I explain that even now, Caleb is a part of me? Even now, to talk about Caleb feels like . . . sacrilege. Like betrayal. Like to put into words the wealth of what has occurred between Caleb and me would be to make less of them, to bare to the light things that should not be revealed. Not secrets, just . . . private things.

One cannot be more bare, more naked, more vulnerable than to be without identity, to be denuded of all personality, to be utterly without an identity, without a soul.

To be
no one
.

Caleb made me
someone
. And that someone is all tangled up and woven around the person that is Caleb.

“X?” Logan’s voice. Quiet, but sharp.

“Yes, sorry.” I try to smile at him.

“I lost you there, didn’t I?”

I can only stare at him, stare into his eyes. “Can we . . . can we go, Logan? This is . . . wonderful. And maybe you can’t understand this, but . . . it’s
too
wonderful. Too much.”

He sighs, a sad sound. “Yeah . . . no—I get it. I really do.” He stands up, digs into his pocket, and tosses some money on the table.

Gino is there, dishes in hand. “No, no, you cannot go, not yet. The best is yet to come!”

Logan claps him on the shoulder. “Sorry, man. My friend isn’t feeling good.”

“Ah. Well, if you must go, you must go.” He shrugs, as if to say
what will be, will be
.

Outside, then, Logan’s hand in mine. Evening has fallen. Golden light has faded to dusk, gold melting into shadows. The magic hour
has gone, and the spell seems to have snapped. I don’t know why or how. But I walk, and feel ill at ease.

Instead of beauty, now I see the underbelly. The trash on the streets, the smell of Dumpsters, diesel fumes, a man’s angry shouts from an open window. A curse. Glass crunching underfoot. Graffiti on the walls, ugliness marring crumbling brick.

I feel a bit dizzy from the wine, thick-headed. A headache prods at the interior of my skull.

The walk back feels like it will be endless, and my feet hurt.

When was it I woke from the bath?

How long has passed? An eternity, it feels.

Was that really all just today?

The length of the day is crashing down on me, the pressure of all I’ve experienced weighing heavily. Heavy food, heavy wine. Logan’s mouth on mine, his body against me, his kiss. Wanting him, yet feeling as if . . . as if I shouldn’t have him. As if to be with him would be . . . wrong, somehow. I can’t make sense of it. To try is dizzying.

I want my own bed, my library. I want to read
Mansfield Park
and sip Earl Grey. I want to watch night fall from my window.

But I can’t. I left that behind. I walked away from it.

Was that a mistake? It felt right at the time. But now? I’m not so sure. Who is Logan? A warrior. A man who has been to prison. A man who has been to war.

A man who risked much to do what he felt was freeing me.

But can he understand me, understand my situation?

“X?” Logan’s voice again, concerned. “Are you okay?”

I try to nod. “It’s been a long day. I’m very tired.” So much left unsaid.

“Let’s get you home, huh?” His arm around my waist.

Home? Where is home? What is home?

“I can’t walk anymore, Logan. I just can’t.”

I feel him look at me. “Shit. I’m an idiot. I’m sorry. You’ve been through a lot today, haven’t you? What was I thinking?” He lifts a hand, and like magic, a yellow taxi appears and swerves over to us.

Logan helps me in, slides after me, gives his address. The ride is short.

He pays the taxi driver. We are stopped, rows of brownstones on either side. Darkness like a blanket, pierced by lamplight. Logan’s arm around my waist, helping me walk the few feet from where the taxi let us out to Logan’s front door.

Will I sleep with Logan? In his bed? On a couch? A spare room?

So much of me wants to go home. This feels like an adventure, like something from a story, and I just want to return to real life. But it’s not life, it’s not a story, it’s not a fairy tale.

What is it?

I’m very tired.

I want to go back to when I was naked in the hallway, Logan’s hands on me, back to when things felt simple and possible. In that moment, everything was simple and easy. I just
wanted
him.

I still want him.

I feel safe, his arm around me like this.

But I don’t know what tomorrow will be like. For that matter, I do not know what
now
will be like. I am lost and confused and homesick. This is the longest I’ve ever been away from my condo, away from all that is familiar.

I feel Logan tense, come to an abrupt halt. “Stay here,” he whispers to me, and helps me lean against the tree.

The light shines from below, bright. I blink, and see Logan standing with his hands in fists at his sides. He is taut, coiled.

I peer into the shadows and see another shape, sitting on the steps to Logan’s brownstone. A familiar shape. Familiar broad
shoulders, familiar curve of jawline seen in profile, those cheekbones, that forehead, those lips.

I step forward. “Caleb?”

“Stay there, X.” Logan’s voice is hard as iron. “And you stay right where you are, Caleb. Keep away from her.”

“X. Let’s go.” That voice, deep and dark as a chasm.

I blink, sway on my feet. Logan, in front of me, acting as a human shield between Caleb and me.

Caleb, standing now, hands in pockets.

Two men; one dark, one light.

I want to run, want to climb into this tree and huddle in the nook of the branches.

Caleb takes another step closer to me, Logan blocking the way with his body.

Tension crackles.

Violence is thick in the air.

I cannot breathe, panic welling up within me, as familiar as the wrinkles on the palms of my hands.

I see eyes like midnight shadows, staring at me. Expectant. Knowing.

Seeing
me, seeing
me
.

“It’s time to go home, X.” That voice, implacable, like darkness made flesh, like shadows that curl as sleep stakes its claim, shadows not to fear but rather shadows that lull, shadows that witness dreams and wait through the night until the sunrise.

“You don’t have to go with him, X.” Logan.

“You know where you belong. It’s time to go.” Caleb.

Where I belong? Do I know where I belong?

Caleb strides away. Toward a sleek, low, black car, Len waiting, holding the rear passenger door. Logan swivels to face me. He is not standing in my way, not preventing me. Nor is he touching me.

Caleb to my left. The condo, what I know. My library. My window.

Logan in front of me. The brownstone, Cocoa. The fantasy of normalcy.

“You are Madame X.” The voice to my left, confident, calm, strong. “And you belong to me. You belong
with
me.”