Tangled (28 page)

Thirty
seconds ago Tess would’ve responded with a prim ‘gladly.’ However, Lydia had
been right. He was sick. Face flushed an unhealthy red, she watched as he
struggled overcome the coughing fit.

Tess
lost steam. He looked ready to crumple. “Maybe you should sit down.”

“I’m
fine,” he said hoarsely, using his knuckles to knead his sternum.

Bullshit
he was.

Apparently
deeming her unworthy of any further conversation, Adonis ditched her for the
balcony.

She
should’ve taken that as a hint to leave. He didn’t want her here and she didn’t
want to be here.

Cursing
her wretched conscience, she scooped up his care package.

The
first step onto the terrace was the hardest. A bout of vertigo side winded her.
With measured breaths, she trained her gaze skyward and eased out the door. By
the time she inched to Adonis’s post against the railing he was almost finished
with his cigarette.

At
some point during her stay, dark clouds had overtaken the sky. They squatted
low in disgruntled formation. Cold droplets of rain began to tap shyly against
glass and steel.

Mustering
courage, she coaxed her gaze downward. Anxiety did little to soften the blow of
the commanding cityscape. From this height, Manhattan was nothing more than a gilded
playground, the Hudson River an accidental spill of obsidian.

They
stood at the edge of heaven, untouchable, so close to the sky she could reach
out and spool a wisp of cloud around her finger.

As
beautiful as the scene was, she felt disconnected. Distance dampened the city’s
symphony, muted the pounding of quick time strides striking pavement and the
cascade of voices, sirens, and car horns.
 

She
couldn’t feel the city’s rhythm, its heart.
 

There
was something infinitely lonesome about the stratification. Tess offered him the
satchel. “Your sister made you soup. And bought you medicine.”

He
blew out a ring of smoke. “You never give up, do you?” His voice was raspy,
fatigued.

Saying
nothing, she nimbly plucked the cigarette from his hand. He didn’t attempt to
retaliate as she stubbed it out in the ashtray. “Here.” She planted the bag firmly
in his grip. “Eat the soup. Take the medicine. Take care of yourself.”

“You
still didn’t answer me. Why are you doing this?”

The
comment made her hackles rise. “Because I try to be a good person. I try to do
what’s right, even when people I trust—trusted treat me like shit for no
other reason than it was Tuesday. Or whatever day.”

He
scrubbed a hand over his face. “It’s not what you think.”

“You
know what, I don’t even care. I’m done caring. I’m here as a favor to your
sister. That’s all.”

Adonis
coughed. “Fine. But take her shit back. She acts like having something of hers
in my apartment means she can barge in here at any time.”
 

That
sounded about right.
 
He led her
into the kitchen, its setup paralleling his sister’s save for a few
inconsistencies. Like everything else in his apartment, the meticulous immaculacy
hinted that it was either rarely used or that their turndown service was second
to none.

She
was liable to believe both.

“You
want something to drink?” He mumbled, rummaging through the cabinets.

“I’m
good.” The mention of drinks reminded her of how long she’d went with Lydia’s
champagne swashing in her bladder. “Where’s your bathroom?”

“Down
the hall. Second door on the right.”

Not
knowing if she should thank him for the courtesy, Tess opted for not. She found
the bathroom with little difficulty. After relieving herself, she cut the
lights and closed the door behind her. Tess made to return, but the room
directly across the hall caught her attention.

Propped
half open, white sheets draped pieces of furniture.
How
utterly random.
What didn’t he want displayed?

Curiosity
chipping away at her moral sensibilities, Tess glanced down the corridor. The
banging and clattering of pans indicated he was still vested in his pursuit of
Tupperware.
 

One
peek wouldn’t hurt. She poked her head inside.

The
city’s nightly glow poured through the wide panes. It lent the white sheets
draped across not pieces of furniture, but decorative easels an eerie,
ghost-like radiance. Other than their presence, the room was barren. Despite
the noticeable absence of dust and vestiges of pine oil, it looked barely used.

A
chill twined through her.
 

What
was all this?

She
lifted back the sheet of the nearest canvas.

It
was a portrait of the Benoit family.

Adonis
was the most recognizable. Even at the tender age four or five she could tell
from his mischievous expression he was a little hellion.

Her
eyes swept to the stunning woman whose lap he sat atop. Adonis was the spitting
image of her. Whereas he emanated diabolical arrogance and general roguery, his
mother epitomized warmth, compassion. Framed by waves of dark, glossy hair, her
face was an open book, her whiskey colored eyes laughing.

A
vague memory skimmed her mind. There was something familiar about her.

Tess
moved on. The man had to be the father. Other than his nose, Adonis bore little
resemblance to him. His chestnut brown hair, shot with silver, was cropped at a
respectable length. Intelligent blue eyes offset the severity of his features.

The
older boy in the portrait had to be the brother, Nikolai. Unlike Adonis, his
features heavily favored his father. For someone who couldn’t be more than
eleven years of age, he looked as if the weight of the world had been placed on
his shoulders.

Tess
read the gold plated inscription on the bottom of the frame.
Lionel,
Nikolai, Adonis, and Selene...Selene.
She stared harder at the woman.

“Can’t
you go ten fucking seconds without sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong!”

Tess
started as he snatched the sheet off the floor. “Sorry. I thought I saw something
moving in here,” she finished lamely.

The
flimsy excuse didn’t register. His gaze was fixated on the painting. For an
instant, pain and longing rippled across his expression. But it disappeared as
swiftly as it appeared. “Get your shit. You’re leaving. Now.”

He
spun around and instead of storming off in surly pomposity, he swayed to the
right. Tess caught him before he staggered into the easel. Ignoring his
objections, she flattened her hand to his forehead. Just as she suspected, his
skin was on fire.
 
“You’re burning
up. You need to lay down.”

“I’m
fi-”

“Bullshit
you are. Show me where your room is.”

The
muscles of his jaw flexed, as if overcoming a physical urge to tell her off.
Eventually he caved and directed her to the master bedroom. A fire blazed in
the hearth adjacent to his California king size bed.

He
crashed facedown like a pallet of bricks. Fine her ass. “Do you want me to call
a doctor?”

Adonis
flipped himself over and coughed. “No. No doctors.”

“I’ll
be right back.” Tess backtracked and retrieved Lydia’s medicine. When she
returned, she unscrewed the cap and poured the viscous syrup into the plastic dispenser.
“Here. Drink some of this.”

He
lethargically brought it to his lips. After draining its contents, Adonis
shoved the cup back at her and fell against the mountain of throw pillows.

Tess
studied him. Breathing had become an exertion. Panting slightly, he fought a
losing battle against the sickness claiming its foothold. The fire-play danced
over him, throwing the shadowed angles of his features into sharp relief.

A
memory suddenly clicked.

“Selene
Argyros
, she was your mother, wasn’t she?” The
stiffening of his shoulders confirmed her suspicions.

“There’s
no keeping anything from you, is there?” he replied, his mouth twisting into
something faintly sardonic.

“I’m
sure you’ll agree that it comes in handy every now and then.” There was no need
to elaborate.

Adonis
glared at her. “Yeah, she was my mother.” His features hardened. “And I hate
her.”

Tess
wanted to accredit his despise to some petty, juvenile grievance. But the cool,
cerebral certainty of his tone staked her spine with shards of ice. She rested
her weight against his nightstand, jouncing the pills in several orange
prescription bottles. “You’re just saying that because she left you,” she said,
tearing her gaze from the medicine.

His
gaze was penetrating, inescapable. Tess would’ve fidgeted had it not been for
her death hold on the door handle. “Don’t tell me how to feel,” he said in that
same, unnerving tone.

There
was really only one question she could ask. “Why?”

His
eyes closed. “My mother didn’t know how to balance the things or people she
loved.”

“What
do you mean?”

“She
spent most of my childhood in a continuous state of flux,” he said coldly without
inflection. “If she wasn’t locked up in her studio painting, she was throwing
parties or flying around the world on tour. My brother and I grew up on scraps
of her attention. Eventually my father got her see a shrink. She was diagnosed
with bipolar disorder.”

“What
happened after?” she asked gently.

“For
a while she balanced out. And then one day she just stopped taking her meds. Said
they interfered with her creative process.” A bout of coughs disrupted the
narrative. “The night it happened,” he began again hoarsely, “my father had
just left on a business trip. She flipped out. Claimed he was having an affair
and wanted to catch him in the act. She ran out of the house and got into her
car.” He swallowed thickly.

“My
brother, Nikolai, ran after her to see if he could talk sense into her. I tried
to follow, but one of the maids held me back,” he croaked, voice ebbing. “She
hit a curve too sharp, lost control of
thecar
, and
they veered into a gully. My brother went through the windshield. He was killed
on impact. She sustained severe trauma to the head. Somehow in her delusional
state, she managed to remember to put on a seatbelt.” He closed his eyes. “My
brother didn’t.”

Tess
remembered his obstinacy about the seatbelt issue a few weeks ago and felt like
an asshole. “Oh, Adonis,” she whispered, aching to console him. “I’m so sorry.”

He
coughed into his arm. “Whatever. I’m over it.”

It
was painfully obvious that he was far from over it. Tess couldn’t bring herself
to contradict him. “Speaking of art, I loved your model ships,” she said
delicately negotiating clear of the subject matter.

He
relaxed minutely. “My grandfather got me into it. He was in the shipping
business, like any good Greek. Built an empire from the ground up.”

“That’s
not a bad legacy to inherit.”

“It’s
not mine yet.” He broke off into another spasm of sharp, lung-convulsing coughs.
“Everything is hers.”

She
frowned. “But since she passed…”

He
cracked an eye. “Whoever said she was dead?”