Spotless (10 page)

The second detail that left me a little uncertain was the hair. Since Joy’s conquests always seem to be unrepentant chest-shavers, and 98 percent of all males I saw on TV flaunted these baby-smooth chests as well, I had come to perceive this as the norm—something especially true since the remaining 2 percent formed a heterogeneous group that included Alec Baldwin and the Ewoks. In this particular case, March’s chest didn’t really disgust me. I just found it . . . weird. As crazy as that may sound, the soft-looking chestnut hair covering his pecs and running in a diffuse line down his stomach seemed unnatural to me. Real men didn’t have hair, in my opinion.

Taking in every detail, from the scary washboard abs to the way his biceps rippled under his skin when he moved to finish a spot on his chin, I discovered that he sported more than a few scars on his body. While some were little more than a thin line made somewhat paler by sun exposure, others looked like deeper dents in his flesh. One of them particularly stood out, because it wasn’t a scar . . . but rather a scarification. I hadn’t noticed it at first because it was on the back of his left shoulder. However, as he moved to finish his left cheek, I caught a glimpse of a frightening series of marks that formed an emblem forever engraved in his flesh.

It looked like a large disc with an intricate ethnic pattern—African, maybe?—and a fierce lion head in its center, taking most of the surface. Apart from the fact that merely looking at these ridged white lines hurt, I found it at odds with the rest of his persona. With his impeccable shirts and grandpa quirks, he hardly seemed like the type to go for tattoos or body modifications.

At any rate, March was a bit battered but overall a fine male specimen, and, as much I hated to admit it, his half-naked figure wasn’t entirely without effect on me. I averted my eyes, feeling a full blush bloom on my cheeks when I realized that my fingertips were itching to cop a feel of that damn chest hair.

Now, that was . . .
Wrong
. Yes, with a capital W. True enough, since the age of sixteen or so, I had failed each stage of my sexual development, but this . . . This was a new and spectacular low.

—Braces and zits until the age of nineteen? Check.

—Silently stalking a gorgeous law student until you catch him kissing his girlfriend? Check.

—Spend an entire night crying and eating ice cream? Check.

—Trying online dating? Check.

—Giving up altogether and reading romance books instead? . . . Check.

—Daydreaming of fondling the chest of a sociopath who kidnapped you? God . . .
Check
.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you . . . Rock Bottom!

Now that I’m thinking about it, I realize that those ten years searching for love—please stop laughing—hadn’t been entirely lost. My Yaycupid dates did provide me with fascinating behavioral data, which I later compiled into a chart
(as follows)
.

We can observe that, up to a certain point, the more you wait to confess you’re still a virgin, the higher the chance that the candidate will agree to pursue the courtship process anyway (as evidenced by the fact that 90 percent of the men who were informed I was a virgin upon calling me to schedule a date chose to interrupt said process immediately). Results, however, show that while only 50 percent of the participants who received this critical bit of information after a hug decided to call it quits, 100 percent of those who got told after a first kiss with no tongue ran to the hills. Data could be inconclusive because it was only this one guy, and I jerked back in surprise when he tried to lick my lips, so maybe that’s the reason he left, rather than the virginity thing.

Please don’t thank me. I serve science.

Back to March and that sexy chest hair, because, yes, it
was
a little sexy, and it’s not a crime to admit it, dammit. He was rinsing his face, a clear indication that he would free my arm soon—or so I hoped.

After he was done massaging some aftershave into his skin and methodically wiping the sink and counter dry like my grandma did, he turned his back on me to tuck away his razor and picked a flat, white plastic bag printed with a blaring ad claiming that Madam Wragg gave you a refund if you could find a single crease on your shirt. I cringed: I could see him being Madam Wragg’s number one source of financial loss. He pulled out a pressed white shirt that looked similar to the one he had been previously wearing, put it on, tucked it in his waistline with meticulous gestures, and, at last, gave me his undivided attention.

“Good morning. How are you today, Island?”

I groaned. I was in as deep a shit as could be, my arm was sore, I was still a little numb from sleep, and, minutes ago, he had given a whole new meaning to the term “disdain.” I was great, splendid even. “Get this thing off of my wrist!”

Kneeling down he took out the key from his pocket, unlocked the cuff, and I was free to move again. He did help me back to my feet. I have to concede this.

“Can I use the bathroom?” He had made me envious of his clean state, and I wanted to refresh myself too. A little soap and some warm water sounded like the best way to fully wake up and face the upcoming day.

“I’m afraid the answer is no. We’ll be landing in less than five minutes,” he said, checking the nice black chronograph on his left wrist.

I jumped back, beyond shocked. “What? How could you do this to me?”

“I’m sorry, do what?”

“Take all the bathroom time!” I choked out.

“Well, it seems to me you’re the one who overslept. And you could have asked much earlier—”

I cut him short, in part because I was getting tired of being treated like a package with no rights, not even a right to wash, and mostly because I was starting to feel a familiar throbbing in my forehead.

“Look, drop it. Do you have any aspirin?”

I caught a fleeting look of concern in his eyes, but it was quickly traded for his usual efficiency. He left me for a few seconds to look for something in a black suitcase and returned with a box of Tramadol. “Will that do?”

“I guess.”

At least I still had the right to minimum medical care. I didn’t understand, though: Cuffing me, pretending he was going to break my arms, it all seemed okay in March’s book of how you treat the ladies. The migraines, however, clearly bothered him, as if everything was acceptable short of nasty pain.

After a few minutes, Nick’s voice resounded in the cabin. “I need you guys to fasten your belts. We’re landing.”

We both sat back, buckled up, and I thought I saw March close his eyes for a brief second when the plane’s wheels screeched against the ground. Had the recent events somehow taken their toll on him as well?

NINE

The Facilitator

“Money plays a significant part in landing a willing sexual partner. If you happen to be extremely rich, skip directly to page 93. None of the chapters regarding how to attract a man apply to you since you can just buy one.”

—Aurelia Nichols & Jillie Bean,
101 Tips to Lose Your Virginity after 25

To say that my walk was stiff when we reached the small customs office would be a significant understatement. I had turned into a fricking Lego. Ten minutes earlier, a young ground attendant had come to meet us on the tarmac, discreetly handing me a brand-new passport, as fake as the smile plastered on my face to greet the customs officers. The offending document was scorching my fingertips, and every step that got us closer to the desk seemed to make it worse. I’ll be honest: Paulie’s special skills and connections didn’t seem so awesome anymore, and I was starting to regret having ever thought that forgery was cool. I’m almost positive my cheeks burst into flames when one of the officers, a black-haired woman, extended her hand to me. “Votre passeport, s’il vous plaît.”

Attempting to mimic March’s confident gesture, I handed her the
document and noticed that she looked as flushed as I did, if not more. What I didn’t notice, however, was March’s arm wrapping around me, and my breath caught in my throat when he pulled me in a tight embrace. What the hell was he doing? Why was it so hot in this little room?

The woman eyed us warily before clearing us for exit and handing our passports back. Beads of sweats had pearled on her temples, and her voice seemed a little hesitant. “Welcome to France, Monsieur and Madame May.”

I jerked at her words. I hadn’t read my name on the passport. March and I were a married couple now. A married couple with a shitty last name and an immediate need for domestic abuse intervention.

He took a step forward and dragged me along, still holding me close. “Don’t look back. She’s here to let you in.”

I did look back, and in her black eyes I saw fear and shame that probably mirrored mine. Was she being paid by Paulie? Or by the friend he had mentioned maybe? Was she even being paid at all? An image of a fierce-looking mobster holding her cat hostage in a dark basement flashed before my eyes, and I prayed that I hadn’t made myself an accomplice to some horrendous pet blackmail scheme.

As we made our way through a long hallway and into the airport lobby, our surroundings came to life. Le Havre-Octeville was a small airport, but it did attract quite a few French travelers, even Parisians willing to drive more than a hundred miles to get a better bargain on charter flights to Spain or Italy—anything for a little sunlight.

March led us toward the parking elevator, and my heart was still beating fast, since he remained way too close for comfort. Maybe he worried that I would try to bolt through the crowd and to the airport police office at the other end of the hall. I tried to push him away, but his grip tightened almost painfully.

“Please don’t let people around us assume that you are unhappy to be Mrs. May. As a devoted husband, it would hurt my feelings,” he whispered in a warning tone.

My temper flared at his remark, and I tried to free myself again. “Let me go!”

Our exchange caught some unwanted attention from a group of teens who were waiting nearby with large sports bags. Among them, a sinewy black boy with braces decided now was the best time to become a hero; he approached us. “Hé . . . Ça va, madame? Il te prend la tête?”
Hey . . . Are you okay, lady? Is he messing with you?

March closed his eyes, inhaling sharply, and his hand squeezed my arm even harder.

Glaring at him, I issued a warning of my own. “I could scream for help and make your day a nightmare. Let me walk on my own. I will
not
try to escape.”

I felt his grip loosen and cheered inside. Not wanting to push my luck any further, I offered the brave teen a cheeky grin and reassured him that women were perfectly safe and comfortable in the loving arms of the dear Mr. May. “Ça va . . . merci.”
I’m okay . . . thank you.

I took a few confident steps with March walking silently behind me, and the moment the boy and his friends resumed their discussion, I felt March’s hand on my neck. My scalp prickled, a shiver ran down my back, and I believe I learned the true meaning of the word “goose bump” that day.

I stopped dead in my tracks as his body pressed against my back and warm lips brushed the shell of my ear, his breath tickling me. He smelled of aftershave, coffee, and mints—a delicacy I was starting to suspect he consumed abundantly. When he spoke in a husky whisper, my toes curled inside my ballet flats of their own volition. “I won’t say this again, Island: behave, or
I’ll
make you behave.”