"Point taken." I run a fingertip down her hot cheek. "Thing about edges though...eventually, they wear away."
Leo ignores this. There's an air of finality, of surrender; she knows she can't win.
"It's starting to sting," she says eventually, her eyes low.
"Then lie down, baby." I press a kiss to her throat. Her shoulder. "I'll take care of you."
Later, when she's patched up and sleeping, I lie awake fiddling with my cell. I go through Facebook, squinting at the blazing screen in the dark, Liking all the fundraiser photos. There are comments on the amount of money I donated—considerable—and I avoid these in order to seem humble.
Leo breathes softly beside me, her warmth spreading under the covers to balm my cool skin. It pleases me that she's become curious; it's a sign of acceptance. I told her straight—I am what I am—and she still hasn't walked away. Of course that low, grating suspicion never quite leaves my belly; I know she could play me false. But this girl, if she's still playing...she's one hell of an actress.
The way she moaned and cried while I fucked her; that wasn't drama. You can't perform real fear.
My eyelids are heavy when my phone vibrates with a message from Harvey.
We got M, it reads.
My pulse leaps.
"Fuck, yes," I hiss, so loud that Leo stirs briefly.
That'll teach the bastard. God, if there's anything I love almost as much as an orgasm, it's admissible evidence. Adrenaline roars to life now, flooding my veins with sour possibilities. What will I do with it? I don't have to do anything, and it will just sit there all pretty on my hard drive, waiting for the moment when he pisses me off enough to—
A noise. A tinny, 8-bit ringtone comes from my bag in the corner of the room.
I shouldn't. Oh, I know I shouldn't.
I slip out of bed and creep swiftly to the bag, fishing the old cell phone out. The usual unrecognised number flashes on the screen.
I really shouldn't. I've already provoked a wound tonight; my appetite should be sated, and yet every nerve cell in my body urges me onward to the bleak pit of the past.
My finger falls lightly on the Accept button.
I lift the cell to my ear.
A low, breathy voice gusts down the receiver, softened by static. "Lee?"
I swallow. Cast my eyes over to Leontine, who lies splayed on the bed in peaceful, gorgeous sleep. She's still wearing her makeup, her hair is tangled; there's a faint spatter of blood across the sheet. A sly smile crawls across my face. "Lee's busy. Can I take a message?"
The girl on the end of the phone makes a choking sound.
"Rachel," I murmur.
There's a click of disconnection before the familiar tone chimes.
I find myself wondering if I scarred Rachel. If my pretty patterns are still there. Not that it matters so much; not when I glance back at Leo.
Love is just a scar you can't see.
SIX YEARS AGO
Undisclosed location
Aged 26
Dial tone. Phone rings out.
"Harvey?"
"...Sir?"
Breathing hard. "Where are you?"
"At home, sir."
"Good. Good." Calm down. This is the simplest of things. "I need you to do something for me."
"Of course."
"I have to call the Police now. In a couple hours, they're going to start asking where I've been tonight."
A pause. He knows. I'm on the emergency cell, the one with a temporary sim.
"I've been with you tonight, Harvey. Haven't I? I visited you at home."
Another pause. "When did you arrive? And when did you leave?"
"I came to see you at around eight. Left just half an hour ago. We had burritos for dinner and watched the Mets game. I only left your den to use the bathroom—once, during commercials."
"Understood." He clears his throat. "Where did you park?"
"I don't know." Speaking through gritted teeth. "Where did I park?"
"Beside my black BMW, on the right side of the driveway."
"Is there a resident who can attest to seeing my car?"
A gulp. "I'm sure there is." Long, slow exhale. "What clothes were you wearing?"
"Grey track pants and a white tee. You?"
"The same, more or less, sir. Is there anything else?"
"No. I don't think so." Close my eyes. Search for light in the blotted black. "I'm glad we understand each other, Harvey."
"All part of the service."
"Yeah." Lean back against the wall, cold through my damp shirt. "Carson isn't a criminal attorney, is he?"
"No."
Fuck. Shit. Fuck.
Cold voice. Eerie calm. "I doubt I'll be at the office for a few days."
"Sir?"
"Yes, Harvey?"
"Be careful."
Dial tone.
Fade to black.
#13
Optimism (noun): the blind man's outlook.
Looking on the bright side will only hurt your eyes.
There are days when I don't give a shit about the news, and this would be one of them—namely because these fucktards are trying to make news out of me.