Ten minutes later, I’d gone through most of my cranberry juice, clutching the glass so tightly my fingers had gone numb from its chill. Where was he? I was starting to get mad at him, which at least pushed back my panic a little. I pulled out my phone and dialed him. Voicemail again. “Hi, me again. Everything okay? It’s eight fifteen.” And then, because I could see the blond guy coming back, I added, “You’re late!”
I hung up and concentrated intently on my phone, scrolling through old text messages and hoping that would keep him at bay. It didn’t.
“If I dated you, I wouldn’t keep you waiting.”
I turned to look at him. “You aren’t dating me.”
“Ooh. Ouch. But I could be. I’m Rick.”
I just looked at him.
“And you’re Natasha. Are you a model, Natasha?”
I’d had guys come onto me plenty of times before. It didn’t make me panic, as long as I could get up and leave. That was the problem—I was waiting for Darrell, so I couldn’t.
He moved in closer to me, but it wasn’t the closeness. It was the attention. He thought I was beautiful, or at least attractive, and that only made me more aware of the secret I was hiding—the ugliness of what I’d done. Why didn’t Darrell do this to me? Why did his gaze on me feel good, when everyone else’s felt bad? The feelings weren’t made any better by the knowledge that I was several social strata below everyone else in the bar.
“Really, it’s not a line,” he insisted. “Are you a model? You have fantastic legs.”
I thought of the scars, right there under the loose fabric, almost on show. “Thank you,” I replied, realizing too late that it would only encourage him. That he’d think my blushing was embarrassment at the compliment, a signal for him to proceed.
One of his friends called to him, and he gestured angrily to them, nodding at me. He thought he was going to get lucky. Thankfully, they managed to draw him away, but he made I’ll be right back gestures.
I checked my watch. Eight twenty-five. Where was he? I was too scared to be angry now, dangerously close to panic. What if something had happened to him? God, I’d been so selfish, worrying about sitting in a bar with some annoying jerk. What if his limo had crashed? What if he’d had some accident in the workshop? I pulled out my phone and got his voicemail again. “Darrell, I’m worried”—my voice caught and I had to force myself to relax. “Call me, okay? Call me now.”
As soon as I put the phone down, everything seemed to close in around me. Everyone was suddenly standing too close and it was far, far too hot. I could see the blond guy coming back. He’d seen me hang up the phone again and I could tell what he was thinking. I’d been stood up. I was easy pickings.
He’s right. You have been stood up. My stomach churned. What did you expect? Did you think it was real? Did you think it would last?
The floor started to slide and tilt. I had to grab hold of the bar top, dig my fingers into its hardness. My brain started to scream, over and over, the one thought that until now I’d been too terrified to even entertain....
He’s found out.
The blond guy was back and this time he actually sat down beside me, shifting his bar stool towards mine as he did so. His leg pressed against mine, and I was too focused on trying not to cry to pull away.
Of course, he took that as a sign of acceptance.
“So. Natasha. I don’t think your guy’s coming. He’s an a**hole. Come on, a drink. Nothing more.”
I didn’t respond. I was staring straight ahead, trying to fight my way up out of the memories, but it was like being sucked down into thick, dark treacle.
He took my silence as passivity. “Unless you want something more. Maybe you do.” His voice seemed to come from the other end of a long, dark tunnel, yet I could feel his mouth right up against my ear. “Maybe you’re one of those women who like to be told what to do.”
His hand was on my thigh.
I scrambled off my stool and ran, blundering through the crowd on legs that threatened to collapse under me at any second.
Of course he doesn’t want you. Nobody wants you. You were fooling them and they found out. They know what you are.
I saw the sign for the restrooms. Nothing felt real or substantial anymore, except the hard lines of the cigarette case as I pulled it from my handbag.
Chapter Sixteen
Darrell
Two hours earlier
The alarm went off, but I ignored it.
I was at the whiteboard and lost in theories and equations, trying to catch up after a full week wasted in Virginia. I knew I was close. I kept imagining Natasha, doing her fouettés and pirouettes, or doing the promenade in her bedroom, spinning slowly without any apparent effort....
My phone beeped. Not an alarm, this time. A text message from Carol: “Back at work, I hope. Not having private dances?” I sighed and ignored her. A few moments later, another message: “Seriously, are you on the job, or on the ballerina?” I slammed the phone down without replying.
The second alarm—the one I’d set because I knew I’d ignore the first one—went off. I silenced it and grinned as I thought about seeing Natasha. I really had to go and get ready, or I’d be late to meet her. I needed to shower, find a shirt, get my suit on....
Another text message arrived from Carol: “Are you ignoring me?”
I viciously stabbed the power button and held it down until the screen went black.
In blissful silence, I took one last look at the whiteboard. I had to make it move like Natasha moved...
Natasha. The irony was, the more I thought about her, the more I was inspired by her, the less comfortable I was with the project. I ran my hand over the casing. It was the best—or the worst—I’d ever built. And once I cracked the problem, its most deadly ability would come directly from her, from her dancing. She was going to be the inspiration for something that destroyed cities...countries.
Neil would say to walk away from the whole thing, but then he didn’t understand why I did it in the first place. He didn’t know what was driving me, deep down—no one did, except Carol. And I knew I wasn’t going to open myself up enough to explain it to Natasha, either. Without even realizing it, I was tracing my scars through my vest, and just the thought of that day roused the memories from their slumber. I remembered then why I didn’t let myself question my work, but it was too late.
I quickly turned on some music and cranked the volume up loud. I could feel a cold sweat breaking out across my back as the screams filled my ears, the music failing to block them out. The anger rose up inside me like a physical force, every muscle going tense. I picked up the whiteboard marker, but my hand was shaking so hard I could barely write. I wanted to scream and yell and hurl stuff around the room, but smashing up my workshop would be letting them win.
Work, that was the answer. Solve the problem. Build the weapon. Use my rage. I took a deep breath and started to work through equations on the whiteboard, knuckles white on the pen, hoping, praying that if I focused hard enough the memories would sink back down.
Slowly—very slowly—it worked.
....
When I reached for my Dr. Pepper, I noticed it was warm. Weird...I’d only taken it from the cooler a few....
Oh God! It was eight thirty! I was supposed to have met Natasha a half hour ago, and I wasn’t even in the city yet!
I ran for the elevator.
***
Five minutes later, after the shortest shower in history, I exploded out of the front door of the mansion in just my jockey shorts. The driver was waiting patiently in the car—he would have waited all night, if he’d had to. I wrenched open the rear door and threw the armful of clothes I was carrying inside and then dived in after it.
I gave the driver the address of the bar and told him there was an extra hundred in it for him if he got us there before nine. As we sped down the highway, I tried to pull my pants on with one hand while I scrambled for my phone to call Natasha. Why hadn’t she called me? She must have been livid....
My heart sank as I saw the black screen of my phone and remembered turning it off. When I fired it up, I had three missed calls, all from Natasha.
Chapter Seventeen
Natasha
I staggered into the restroom, glimpsing slate tiles and soft, subdued lighting before I crashed into a stall and slammed the door. I pulled the dress up around my h*ps and sat down, my breath coming in quick, high gasps. The scars were so old, so well-healed, and that only made it worse. I hadn’t cut in six days, the longest I’d managed in a year or more, and I was about to destroy it all.
My hands were shaking so much I dropped the first blade. I pulled out the second and held it against my thigh. For a second, I caught a glimpse of my own reflection in its shining surface, saw my red eyes and mascara tears. I hadn’t even realized I’d started to cry.
The edge of the blade caught my thigh. A slight friction and the soft compression of my pale skin—
My phone rang.
I grabbed it with my free hand. The screen told me it was Darrell calling, but I didn’t answer, just sat there frozen, blade in one hand and phone in the other. Two rings. Three. Hot tears dripped onto my bare legs. The blade changed from cold to warm as it nestled against my skin.
I looked between my hands. I needed something to cling onto. Something real.
I pressed the button.
“Natasha! I am so, so sorry! Natasha?”
I swallowed, tasting saltwater. “Yes,” I whispered.
His voice changed immediately. “Are you okay?”
I sniffed loudly and I could hear the pain in his voice when he spoke again. “Natasha I am so sorry. I’m coming, I’ll be there in no time at all!”
I took a shuddering breath. I didn’t trust myself to speak.
He stayed on the line, offering reassurance and apologies, and I wanted to be okay for him, to dry my tears and laugh and joke, but I just couldn’t. And he knew I couldn’t—I could hear the fear in his voice.
And then suddenly I could hear his voice through the door, and I gasped and sniffed and stuffed the blades into the cigarette case and then I was opening the door and he was clasping me close to his chest as I sobbed into his shoulder.
“It’s okay,” he told me, and he repeated it over and over until it was.
I thought of the people outside, the crowd who’d seen me stagger into the restroom. “I don’t want to stay here,” I told him.
He nodded immediately and, slipping an arm around my waist, led me out of the restroom and towards the door. I kept my head down, my cheeks still shining with tears.
A man in a suit loomed ahead of us. Blond hair. Rick.
“Good luck, man,” he said as we passed. “She’s a fuckin’ psycho.”
Darrell whirled and slugged the guy, drawing a scream from a woman nearby. The man careened backwards, knocking over two of his friends. He didn’t get up.
Darrell gently escorted me outside. There was a Mercedes there, with the engine running and the door already open.
“Will you let me take you somewhere else?” he asked.
I stared at him for a long moment, and then nodded.
***