Icy Pretty Love (13 page)

Eventually we get sorted into a tour group. The tour leader, a young woman with braces and an enthusiastic grin more suited to summer camp orientation week than let's-all-walk-down-into-a-mass-grave, guides us. It gets darker and darker, our way lit with lamps, as summer-camp girl crows first in French and then in accented English about the terrible history of the place.

"Do you think there are ghosts here?" I whisper to Cohen, standing perhaps a bit closer to him than is necessary.

"Are you an idiot? Of course there are ghosts down here." He raises an eyebrow at me.

"Will you stop that thing from rising at inappropriate times?" I snap.

The woman in front of us gives Cohen's crotch a shocked glance. He looks down at it himself.

"No, not that!” I roll my eyes. “Dudes getting boners is inevitable. I meant your eyebrow."

The woman behind us only looks more scandalized. Cohen's eyebrow shoots higher.

"Oh, come on, you know what line of work I'm in.” I cross my arms. “You can't expect me to go all blushy-blushy over a little innuendo."

"True," he says. "Though I can't help but wonder what I could do to make you blush."

And then he finds out, because I blush.

Like a freaking schoolgirl.

What the hell?

And what was that? Is he coming on to me? Do I want him to come on to me? Yes, screams every part of me below the waist. No, screams my head. I finally have a client who's not demanding that part of me. Who's interested, God knows why, in my brain instead. I should be jumping for joy. I definitely, definitely should not be turned on in a literal tunnel made of skulls.

"As you'll see, monsieurs, madams, and mademoiselles, we are getting to the part where nearly every wall is composed of embedded skulls..."

Ten bajillion skulls, and they're all judging me. I inch closer to Cohen again and bump into his thigh. Surprisingly enough, he doesn't say "watch it" or "personal space is important, for your information."

He just lets me lean into him.

"Getting a little scared?" he whispers.

"No!" I fire back. "Me? Scared of...what? Skeletons? There's a skeleton inside me right now and I'm not scared of that. I mean, what I really am is fascinated. Look at that, that's just a fabulous skull right there, that is....the nice, er, crack above its—"

Cohen tilts his head, puzzled. "It just turned to look at you."

"It did not."      

"Did too. I don't know why you think I'd lie about something like that."

Rationally, I know the skull did not just turn to look at me. I know that. And yet it looks exactly like the type of skull that would pull that shit. A snarky slant to its eye-holes, a crooked jaw. Dude was probably an evil clown when he was alive. Or an evil court jester. Historical accuracy is important.

"Oh, would you look at that?" Cohen points at a random skull. "I'd swear that one just grinned at you."

"Skulls can't grin!" I wail. "They don't have lips!"

The old lady shushes me, but I'm well and truly freaking out now. There's a reason the only horror movie I've sat through to the end was Casper the Friendly Ghost, and if you ask me, nothing's friendly when it's undead and looks like a floating bedsheet with two creepy eyes. Even as a kid, I hated trick-or-treating because of all the spiderwebs strung from bush to bush and the witch dolls dangling from my neighbor's front porch.

I close my eyes.

"You're going to trip if you do that," Cohen informs me.

"That's fine. It's better than having a staring contest with one million dead people. Agh!"

I trip and stumble. A warm hand grips mine and rights me.

"Tell me that's your hand and not a zombie's," I say.

"No promises."

I peek to check. It is, indeed, his hand.

"You could be a really fast zombie who's really good at disguises, who swapped Cohen out for a zombie dressed as Cohen while I had my eyes closed," I say.

"Wow. Brilliant deduction. The zombie overlords have nothing on you."

"Let go of my hand and go back to The Walking Dead—ow!"

"If you're going to walk with your eyes closed, you're going to hold my hand. Unless you want to walk face-first into a skull. Which you almost did."

"Urgh," I groan. "Fine, zombie minion. You may guide me this once. But if you decide to eat my brains, you will be fired immediately."

His grip tightens on mine. "How will you pay me?"

It's impossible to tell by his tone if he's flirting. I want to open my eyes and check, but I know that smooth mask wouldn't help me much. Although I am beginning to learn slight quirks in his expression, besides the eyebrow. The way the corner of his mouth turns up with he's smug. The way the skin gathers between his brows when he's upset. "I'll pay you by continuing to grace you with my amazing presence."

"Which I am paying for with cold, hard cash."

"Correct."

We keep walking, our hands laced together. It's an interesting experience, holding hands with Cohen, even if it's for a purely practical purpose. It's sort of like his hand is an electric fence and every so often, a charge zips through me. When his thumb brushes the back of my hand. When his pointer finger nestles into my knuckle.

"Why do you keep jumping like that?" he asks me. "This isn't making you less scared?"

"I'm holding hands with the scariest thing in here."

"Ha ha. You're downright hilarious."

"Thank you," I say, my eyes still closed, tuning out the tour guide and focusing in on the molten metal tones of Cohen's voice. "No. It's just weird, this. I've never done it before."

"Holding hands?" he asks.

"Yeah. I know, it probably seems weird. But there's not much call for it in my profession. Hands are generally not what my clients want me to be touching."

He shudders.

"Have I grossed you out yet?" I say lightly.

"You keep saying things like that," he says. "Like you expect me to find you disgusting."

"Well, that's what I am, aren't I? A used girl. A nasty whore. Believe me, I've heard it all before." My voice stays light.

He doesn't let go of my hand. "I want you to know right now, and I want you to believe, that I've never thought that way once about you."

I laugh. "That's a nice sentiment, isn't it? Except you can't open your head up and prove it to me. I'm not trying to be obnoxious, really I'm not. It's just that I'm used to it. How people like you look at people like me. What they think of me. Nobody's ever been able to hide it. To them, I'm a lesser person."

"You are not a lesser person."

His voice is a harsh growl, his hand gripping mine so powerfully that the electric fence turns into a full-on lightning bolt. We've fallen a ways behind the group now, or I'm sure that people would be freaked out by his tone. I'm a little freaked out by his tone. I've never heard anyone try so hard to mean something.

"Thanks," I say in a small voice.

"It doesn't matter what you do for a living," he continues fiercely. "Some people would think I have more value than you because I have money, and look at us. You versus me. You're a...good person, and you try to be, and I'm..."

He slows to a stop.

"You're not a lesser person either," I say, my voice still small. I want to open my eyes, but this is a fragile conversation, and I don't want to shatter it.

"I'm not a lesser person," he says. "I'm just less of a person."

I have no idea what that means, and I'm about to ask, but he changes the subject before I can.

"I've never done it either," he says. "Holding hands, I mean."

"Yeah?" I ask. And for the first time, I wonder what else he has or hasn't done. There's no way anyone as attractive as him is a virgin.

And yet, his father had to hire a call girl to pretend to be his fiancé...I clear my throat. "How do you like it?"

"It's...nice." He hesitates. "Even if I know you're only doing it because otherwise you'll walk into a wall full of skulls."

"Speaking of that. What's the status on the skulls? Still turning to look at me?"

"Oh, yeah. Except now they're dancing the mamba and juggling themselves. Too bad you're missing it."

"I'm going to keep my eyes closed, thanks." I wait a minute. "I hope that someday you find someone to hold your hand, Cohen."

"That's alarmingly sappy, coming from you."

"I have an alarmingly sappy side, as a matter of fact. I've seen The Notebook."

"What notebook?"

I gasp. "You haven't seen The Notebook. We're watching The Notebook."

He sighs "That doesn't tell me what it is."

"Only a movie about the purest expression of love in the whole world."

"A fictional movie, then."

"Yeah..."

"There are no pure expressions of love," he says. "People only fake it when they want something."

"Wow. Looks like I'm not the only alarmingly sappy one. Do you write the little sentiments for Valentines Day cards as a side career?"

I earn myself a Cohen laugh. With my eyes closed, the sound is even richer and sweeter. I resolve to close my eyes the next time he laughs.

"That's bullshit, by the way," I say. "Everyone's capable of pure love. And I'm going to find it someday."

"That so?" His voice is deeply ironic.

"Yes. When your dad pays me, at the end of this month. I'm going to start my life over and find it all—happiness, love. No one's going to stop me."

"Send me a postcard from Happiness Island, then, when you get there." His voice is carefully empty.

"Why is happiness an island?"

"Because suffering is a continent."

"You're impossible, you know that?" I say.

"I know," he says. "Believe me."

~9~

RG: Guess what.

Sam: You just got the International Award for Being the Most Annoying Person Ever.

RG: I'd like to thank the Academy.

RG: But no. I told Cohen I believe him.

RG: And it felt like the right thing to do.

RG: So thank you for the advice. I'm glad I followed it.

Sam: I'm glad it worked out.

Sam: Even though I don't actually care.

RG: I'm going to make sure, though. I'm confronting that woman I told you about tonight.

Sam: ...Confronting?

RG: I'm just going to talk to her. She strikes me as a bad liar.

RG: I'll tell her straight out what I think and give her a chance to explain herself. An adult conversation.

RG: And who knows. Maybe I'm wrong.

Sam: Be careful.

Rae: I thought you didn't care.

Sam: I don't. I just don't want the police to see that I was the last one you texted before you were murdered.

RG: How do you know you'll be the last one I texted? Maybe I have a bajillion friends I text all the time.

Sam: You have no friends. Otherwise why would you spend so much time texting someone you've never met?

Rae: "No friends" is a bit of an overstatement.

Sam: Don't count me.

RG: I'm not! You're maybe half a friend. A pocket friend.

Sam: Wow, thanks. I'm sure I'll become a popular keychain in Japan.

RG: But I think I'm starting to make a friend. MAYBE.

Sam: Who?

RG: The jerk guy.

Sam: You consider him a friend?

RG: A maybe-friend.

RG: I just...feel like I can talk to him about things.

RG: It's weird.

Sam: Seems to be.

RG: Anyway, I have to go talk to this lady now. Deep breath.

RG: And I didn't mean it when I said you were a half-friend. You're a whole friend.

RG: That's all. Bye.

I put my phone in my pocket, take an actual deep breath instead of just typing one, and knock.

I got Annabelle's phone number from the phone book. Called her and asked if I could come over. I feel sneaky—she probably thinks I'm coming to ask her advice about breaking off the engagement—but there was no other way. I need to speak to her face-to-face. Just to make sure. If I refused to believe a woman who'd been hit and I turned out to be wrong, I could never live with myself.      

Her doorman was just as snooty, the lobby just as fancy, as Cohen's had been. Are all these crazy rich-people penthouses modeled after the same one? Maybe they're organic and they reproduce like amoebas, sucking the life force out of their inhabitants, and that's why rich people are so boring. You never know.

Annabelle answers and sweeps me inside. "Darling! Come, come. I've made tea."