Naked (11 page)

“Do you see that light, Sam?” Josh whispered.

Sam nodded. The light suddenly dropped down to his chest. It was a glowing red dot,
no bigger than a dime, very jumpy and shaky.
Sam stared at it as it settled in the area of his heart.

Josh's lips were at his ear. “Do you know what that is?” he breathed.

“Yes,” Sam said quietly. He swallowed. He'd seen enough movies to know a laser gun sight when he saw it. His muscles relaxed involuntarily. For a moment he was worried he might actually lose control of his bladder. The light disappeared, and Josh yanked him back from the window—hard.

“Now are you going to chill?” Josh's tone was sick-eningly sweet.

“Yes,” Sam conceded through clenched teeth.

Josh let go. Sam staggered away from him, rubbing his throbbing arm and neck. He tried vainly to ignore the dull ache in his back. His energy wouldn't return. He wanted to bolt from the room, but he couldn't seem to catch his breath. Josh sighed, then stepped over to the mirror. A red welt was beginning to spread from the gash on his jaw. He chuckled softly.

“That's a decent punch, Sammy. I'm impressed.”

Sam just looked at him. He had visions of bashing his head against the dresser. Unfortunately, that would get him shot. He shoved his rage into a corner of his mind. He had one option left: the direct approach.

“Josh,” he said. He tried to sound as neutral as possible.
He didn't want to sound pleading or whiny or desperate.
Just matter-of-fact. “I have to end this thing. Please. I'll do whatever they need me to do. Just let me do it now.”

There was a half minute of silence as Josh continued to stare at himself in the mirror. Finally he turned away and shrugged, almost apologetically.

“I told you we're almost there, Sammy.” He sat on his unmade bed. “So I don't know what you're throwing punches for. That's poor judgment. For a chess player, I would think—”

“Someone almost killed me!” Sam heard himself shout. His voice was hoarse. “What did I do? I've done every one of your goddamn deliveries, and someone fires a gun at me? He could have killed Gaia!”

“Shh-sh-sh.” Josh frowned at him and brought his finger to his lips. “Chill, remember?”

Sam looked down at the floor.

“But did he?” Josh asked lightly.

“Did he what?”

“Did he kill you?”

“No, but—”

“Well, there you go, Sammy.” Josh reached for a tissue on his nightstand and wiped the blood from his face. “Sounds to me like they were just making a point. You must have done something to piss them off. What were you doing at the time?”

“I . . .” Sam dropped down into the chair next to the bed, utterly deflated. He felt so beaten that he wasn't even bothered by Josh's “innocent curiosity” bullshit. Josh knew exactly what Sam had been doing at the time. Sam had been trying to see Gaia.
He'd been breaking the rules.
And now he was paying for it. What had made him think for a moment that he could take any control of his situation? They were everywhere. They were pointing guns with laser sights from buildings he couldn't even see.

“I was trying to talk to Gaia,” he confessed, as if it were even necessary.

“Yeah, I figured,” Josh murmured. His phony sympathetic voice was almost as offensive as his smile. “Listen, as your friend, I gotta tell you, Sam. . . I don't think you two are meant to be together. You know what I'm saying?”

Sam looked at him. That was the first time Josh hadn't called him “Sammy” in days. He was clever, Josh—more clever than Sam had even realized. Here he was, talking to Sam like a genuine friend. . . and for an instant Sam almost believed him. Sam was
that
much of a wreck. Either that or Josh was that skilled of a torturer. Or maybe both.

“Things just sound pretty rocky to me,” Josh continued in the silence. He stood and stepped toward Sam, giving him a hard pat on the back. “I've been there, dude, and I'm telling you. . . I think it's time for
you to move on. It might just be the ticket to ending this whole—”

“Go to hell.” Sam swatted Josh's arm off his back, knocked over his chair, and marched for the door. “We're through talking.”

“I'm just trying to help you, Sam. I've got a little more information than you, that's all. I mean, how well do you really
know
Gaia?”

In spite of every ounce of better judgment, Sam stopped at the doorway and turned. “What do you mean?”

Josh sat back in his bed and made himself comfortable. “Well, you probably don't need to hear this right now. But like I said, it's for your own—”

“What?”

“Well. . . what's the best way to put this?” Josh clasped his hands over his chest and gazed thoughtfully at the ceiling, looking for just the right words. “Let's just say that Gaia and her new friend were getting
pretty
cozy in the backseat of that cab.”

Sam shook his head, almost awestruck by Josh's capacity for the depraved. “You're a liar,” he murmured.

Josh smiled. But with the swelling under his mouth, the expression looked more like a sneer or grimace. At the very least, that brought Sam a fleeting moment of satisfaction. He'd done
some
damage. At least the smile was closer to what it truly represented.

“I'm just trying to warn you,” Josh said.

“You're a bastard,” Sam said shakily. He turned and strode back to his own room. But once he'd closed his door behind him, fear began to chip away at him. He'd never admit this to Josh's face, but in the privacy of his room he could at least admit it to himself. He'd called Josh a liar. But the sickening truth was that he had no idea whether Josh was lying or not.

Memo

To:
L

From:
J

Date:
February 27

File:
776250

Subject:
Messenger

Scare tactics effective. Messenger has been disciplined. Liberation of subject is imminent. Awaiting further instructions.

Memo

To:
J

From:
L

Date:
February 27

File:
776250

Subject:
Messenger

Monitor messenger closely. Contact QRs. Neutralization of the leak is our priority.

Chad
Carmel. All you have to do is hear the name and you know he's a blond-haired asshole on skis. Chad's the kind of guy who wears thick white turtleneck sweaters and mirrored sunglasses. Who runs his hands through his hair every twenty to thirty seconds to make sure the swoop is just right. Who will tell you where to get the best cigars even though he's sixteen years old. You know the kind.


But maybe he's changed. How the hell should I know? I've changed, after all. The last time I saw him was a few years ago. He must be in college now, one of those third-rate but somehow respectable schools where the admissions process is based entirely on your family's tax bracket.


It wasn't until Heather mentioned his name in her e-mail that I realized I've hardly thought about my accident in at least a year. I mean, I've thought about the effects of the accident every
day, but not the accident itself. I don't replay it over and over in my head anymore. I don't dream about it every night like I did for the first year.


I used to pinpoint the moment when I lost control. I'd dissect that split second so it stretched into a minute, an hour, a week. I'd make the adjustment in my imagination so that I'd avoid losing control altogether—just do a quick roll and then jump right back up off the ground, still on my feet with only a few minor cuts and bruises. I haven't done that in so long. I haven't really done it since around the time I met Gaia.


But I think that being back on my feet has made me think about it again. That and hearing Chad's name.


We were staying at Chad's house in the Hamptons when it happened. The accident, I mean. It was Heather and me, and Carrie Longman, and then a bunch of Heather's “East Hampton friends” as she called them. I would have just called them
her “spoiled stuck-up rich asshole friends.” I think that describes them more clearly than Heather's term. It was a little strange being in love with a girl who could have friends like that, but what can I say? They aren't much different than Tina and Megan and the other “FOHs,” as Gaia likes to call them. They were just a few more friends to ignore.


Looking back on it now, though, once I'd spent ten minutes with those people, I should have told Heather we were going right back home. But Heather really wanted them to like me, and I guess I didn't want to let her down. I mean, she was so freaked about me meeting her “East Hampton friends,” she actually forced me into the Gap and bought me some new clothes. Mostly I remember the
khakis.
I tried on so many goddamn pairs of
khakis
that day, I thought I'd turn that sickly shade of beige myself.


It was kind of comical, though, because usually she appreciated my
whole baggy-pants, skate-rat vibe. This time she just wanted to sweep it under the rug. She wanted me to be someone I wasn't. I should have known then that the weekend was a bad idea. I guess I was young. (Read: stupid.) And in love. (Read: clueless.)


Anyway, the weekend was a nightmare from the get-go. Her friends kept staring at me like I was part of a different, undiscovered species:
Homo skate-ien
versus
Homo trust funderous.
I'm also not sure if they'd ever seen a “poor” person before—poor meaning somebody with less than eight figures in the bank. Especially Chad Carmel, whose house looked like one of those compounds from
The Godfather.
I'd never really encountered anyone like Chad before. I'd been under the impression that guys so one-dimensional and nauseating really only existed on bad TV pilots—the teen shows that don't even make it to prime time past the first episode. I was very wrong.


But I digress.

So I can't even remember how it came to this (my doctor blames this memory loss on something called repression), but for some reason, toward the end of that first Friday, Heather became obsessed with this dare. She was daring me to skate this incredibly steep winding hill that Chad had pointed out—Cannon's Hill or Dannon's Hill or something. She wouldn't leave it alone.


Now, obviously the irony of this whole scenario was that at first, she'd wanted me to fit in. She'd wanted me to be like Chad. Just for the weekend, I assume. Or at least I pray. But when she saw how her friends were ignoring me or just treating me like the help—
“Oh, hey, Ed, would you mind getting us another round of diet sodas?”
(Chad actually asked me this, in his own freaking house)—she decided to take the opposite approach. She decided that she wanted me to be an ultrabadass.
She wanted me to be
über-
Shred. She wanted me to impress them because clearly I wasn't very impressive.


Anyway, she kept going on about how
Chad
didn't think I could skate this hill. She was turning it into a big public thing in front of her friends, playing up the dare for the crowd. She probably figured good old Shred would win them over with my I'll-try-anything-twice attitude and my skills on the board.


I didn't end up having much of a choice. It was humiliating enough wearing the khakis. I wasn't about to add to my public humiliation by backing off of a dare from my girlfriend. Especially if
Chad
didn't think I could do it. You may think that you could have said no in that situation, but you're lying to yourself. Believe me, with Chad standing right there and your own girlfriend daring you to your face, you'd do it. You'd know
that it was an extraordinarily moronic thing to do and that you'd probably get yourself killed. And you'd do it, anyway.


And that's what I did.


I didn't do it for Heather, even. Not really. I did it for myself. Because I bought into her whole stupid mind game. I wanted to show those assholes that I
was über-
Shred. I took that hill so fast that they had to follow me in Chad's car. It was exactly what you'd expect—the boys trying to mess with my head and the girls cheering me on as I ripped through the sharp turns. I crouched so low that I had to hold on to my board. The trees on the side of the road were whipping by me. If there was a protruding branch, I'd duck. If there was a pile of rocks, I'd jump it. And I must say, it was by far some of my finest work. I really had no way of knowing that one of the wheels on my board was faulty.


I would have made it fine with all four wheels, but when you
lose a wheel going forty to fifty miles an hour down a hill, surrounded by trees, one of two things will happen. Most likely you'll die. Or else you'll end up like I did. I was lucky. As lucky as a kid who gets catapulted directly into a tree at that speed could be. The skateboard company insists that you'll never lose a wheel. Hence the settlement. Hence the $26-million liability.


I can't say I remember much after that. Not until the hospital. That's the first time I saw that look on Heather's face. It's the same look she's had anytime the accident has come up, which we do our best to make sure doesn't happen. It's an emotion that I think goes beyond guilt. I don't think it has a name.


So when she brought it up on the street last night, I was shocked. But I suppose it makes sense. With all this talk about my recovery and my settlement, I guess we've both
had the accident on our minds more. And I still can't figure out why she tortured herself so much over it. I know she did, not that she would ever admit it. I guess she realized that she'd been pushy. She would not take no for an answer even when I, the most insane person I knew at the time—even Shred Fargo—thought it was too dangerous. I don't think I've ever seen her be that insistent about something since.