Naked (3 page)

For years Ed had dreamed of once again being just another invisible citizen on the streets of New York. No more gawking at the poor wheelchair boy. But as he lurched back down the street, he wasn't so sure how he felt about his dreams coming true. That be-careful-what-you-wish-for thing kept floating around in his head.

Here you go,
he told himself.
You wanted invisible. . . you've got invisible
.

He'd been in the chair so long that he'd actually forgotten
how far most New Yorkers took the notion of every man for himself.
It could be a lonely feeling. Ed had been dragging himself out for “walks” on these crutches every damn day, hoping to bask in the glory of finally being out of the chair. But every time he was outside, he got the same nagging uneasy feeling: he didn't exist. People had always moved out of his way. Either on his board or in his chair, people had made way for him—just like people had made way for the bike messenger who had almost mowed him down. Now Ed was the one who had to get out of the way. He just couldn't remember any other time in his life when he'd felt so. . . insignificant. Nobody noticed him anymore.

But that wasn't even the worst of the trade-off.

No, the worst of it was that there was one person in this city who would notice Ed more than ever before. One whom he'd managed to avoid for the past week (his parents had allowed him to stay home from school, what with the trauma of the attack in the park). One who would never forgive him....

Heather.

He winced. The Village School loomed down the block. In a matter of minutes he would confront Heather face-to-face. He felt sick. He'd broken his promise. He'd revealed to the world the truth about his surgery. It didn't matter that he'd been justified—that if he hadn't jumped from his wheelchair, both he and Gaia would be dead. No, as far as Heather was concerned, in that one moment he'd screwed the Gannis family out of $26 million. And even though Ed had forced Gaia to keep his secret, he'd neglected to consider just how many kids at the Village School hung out in Washington Square Park. Apparently two had seen the attack. They had seen Ed Fargo on his own two feet.
News traveled fast in the West Village.
The principal had already called to offer his congratulations, to wish Ed a speedy recovery.

Heather knows.

Ed shook his head, staring down at the gray concrete. Of course she knew. She hadn't called in a week, hadn't dropped by to visit, hadn't e-mailed. She was
his girlfriend, and they hadn't communicated once since the incident. Not once—

“Jesus, come on, guy!” a harsh voice spat in Ed's ear. “Keep moving!”

Ed smiled grimly.
Keep moving,
he thought.
Yeah, right.
At this particular moment Ed wasn't really sure he wanted to keep moving. He'd rather just stand still. For a long, long time.

GEORGE,
GAIA THOUGHT ANGRILY
, staring at the phone on the kitchen counter, sitting there amidst the discarded hot-dog wrappers and doughnut boxes. Of course it was George. Who else would call so early in the morning? She knew she shouldn't be angry, but she couldn't help it. The guy clearly thought she was a basket case.

Empty

And she was, of course. But that was her own goddamn business.

The irritating ring echoed off the bare kitchen walls—ring number four. George was probably checking up to make sure she was going to school. Well, fine. She would reassure him. Yes, she was going to school.
And with any luck she would pick a fight, kick some ass, and get expelled.
She marched across the sticky kitchen floor and snatched up the phone.

“Hello?” she spat.

“Gaia?”

Not George. A woman's voice. One she didn't recognize.

“Who is this?” Gaia demanded.

“I'm sorry. . . is this Gaia Moore's residence?”

Sorry. What is she sorry about? Who is this woman? Does she know something about my father? Has something happened to him?

“Who is this?” Gaia asked again.

“It's Patricia Moss. Mary Moss's mother.”

Time seemed to freeze. A series of images tore through Gaia's head, as rapidly and painfully piercing as machine-gun fire: images of Mary—sitting on her bed, running down the street, laughing with that devilish spark in her eye, tossing her red hair over her shoulder. . .
lying dead in a pool of blood.


Mary, her one true friend.

“Gaia?”

“Yes?” Gaia croaked. Her voice was shaking, unrecognizable to herself.

“It is you,” Mrs. Moss breathed. “I got this number from George Niven, but the way you answered the phone, I thought. . . well, I thought had the wrong number.”

“No, it's me,” Gaia whispered.

“Well, good. Mr. Niven told me that you're living with your father now. How's that going?”

Gaia squeezed her eyes shut.
Oh, it's going great. Peachy. Perfect.

“Gaia?” Mrs. Moss asked.

“Fine,” Gaia said, swallowing. A lone tear fell from her cheek.

There was an odd beat of silence on the line. “Are you sure? Mr. Niven mentioned that your father was out of town on business.”

“Yeah, well. . . um, he isn't around much, I guess,” Gaia stammered.

“Is he there now?”

Gaia sniffed, desperately fighting to maintain control. “No,” she whispered, clenching her teeth.

“When is he—”

“I'm living alone,” she interrupted, not knowing exactly why she was confessing. She hated unloading her problems on
anyone,
particularly this poor woman. “I mean, I'm living in his apartment, but he's gone. I don't know where.”

“Don't you have anyone?” Mrs. Moss pressed.

Gaia drew in a deep, trembling breath.
I thought I had Sam, but he's gone, too.
She shook her head. “Well, not really. I mean, no. I just. . . I'm sorry, Mrs. Moss, I'm sort of out of it.” Everything poured from her mouth in a jumble; it was as if her mind was a prison wall that had been blown to smithereens, and her
words were escaping prisoners, clambering for freedom. “I'm sure he'll be—”

“Gaia?” Mrs. Moss interrupted gently.

Gaia squeezed her eyes shut. “Yes?”

“Why don't you come and stay with us?”

She blinked, not quite sure if she had heard the question correctly. “Excuse me?”

“Well, I was calling to see if you wanted to come to dinner, but why don't you just stay with us for a while? You know, until your father gets back?”

“You want . . .” Gaia left the sentence hanging. A very strange feeling was welling up deep inside her—a dizzy, vertiginous sensation. . . one that was not entirely unpleasant. But there was no way she could take Mrs. Moss up on her offer. There was no way she would allow herself to impose on another household like that. She would take care of herself. She'd
vowed
to take care of herself.

“We could use the company,” Mrs. Moss said, very simply. Her voice seemed to catch. “You know Brendan's at school, but he visits as much as he can. And Paul moved back home from the dorms to be closer to the family. I'm worried about him. He puts on a brave face every day, but when I walk past his room late at night, I can hear him crying. I know he's hurting. We're all spending as much time together as we can, but the apartment still feels so empty, Gaia.”

Gaia couldn't speak. The lump in her throat was
too large. She could only nod, glancing around at her own apartment.
She knew all about feelings of emptiness.


“Please, Gaia,” Mrs. Moss pleaded in the silence. “Please come stay with us. Just for a while. You'd bring such a light to our house, and it would mean so much to me right now. Let us take care of you while your father's out of town.”

It was so completely out of left field—so utterly random: a chance for Gaia to be somewhere that had nothing to do with her life. Just pack a bag and escape. It was time to do something new. It was time to be someplace else—a place where she could make others happy. So Gaia didn't even allow herself time to think. She merely acted.

“Okay,” she heard herself say, and she immediately felt much better.

My
father used to force me to take walks. This was from the age of about seven to ten, before my parents had split up. He'd pull me out of bed at six in the morning, tug a shirt over my head, and drag me outside, telling me some lame fiction about how we were going to search for “little details” along the way, things we hadn't noticed before. In fact, he was just a stickler for regimented exercise.


I hated those walks. I couldn't stand walking if there wasn't a clear destination. What was our goal, our mission? Where were we headed?


But in the last few months long, aimless walks have become my only solace. I suppose it makes sense. With everything I've been through recently, my childhood seems to have fallen much farther away. My whole life has fallen away, really. Well, more like it was ripped away—by Ella Niven, by Josh Kendall, and
whoever.


I used to think I had problems: my parents got divorced; I was diagnosed with diabetes. But I had no idea what I was talking about. I no longer consider those problems. In fact, I practically view them as blessings at this point—the trials and challenges of a
normal
life. Those were the kinds of problems I had before I met Gaia Moore.


My life history should really be split into two portions: BG and AG—before Gaia and after Gaia. And year one AG has been a disaster the likes of which I've never experienced. It's just been one long runaway train ride.


That's what it feels like. Like before Gaia, I could at least understand the twists and turns in the track. I knew where the brakes were, and I knew how to navigate. But then, with absolutely no warning, Gaia pops into my life, and then Ella Niven pulls that big steel peg between the cars and cuts me loose from the rest of the train.


Gaia's psycho stepmother started all of this. She got me drunk that one goddamn night, we ended up in bed together, and then she killed one of my best friends. If she hadn't killed Mike, I never would have been a suspect, and I never would have needed an alibi. And if I hadn't needed an alibi, I never would have ended up taking a fake alibi from Josh in exchange for all these nefarious little errands he's been pushing on me. And so it goes, on and on, one little tragedy after the next, rolling by me as I look on, totally powerless.


Now I'm careening down the track, with no brakes, no controls, and no idea where the train is going. When I look behind me, I see the rest of the train shrinking rapidly into the distance. When I look ahead, everything is racing by in such a blur, I can't make out any details.


I wish I had some idea where the hell I was going. I wish I knew how this was all going to end.


She wanted to make him squirm. She wanted to make him feel like shit. Basically, she wanted to hurt him the way he'd hurt her.

SHE HAS TO COME,
SAM PRAYED
silently.
She can't live without her morning coffee.

Two Repelling Magnets

Sam fixed his gaze on the glass door of Starbucks, waiting for any visual hints of Gaia Moore—the mass of blond hair still wet from a shower, the oversized army jacket with the massive black smudge on the right pocket, the filthy Nike sneakers. Or even just those aggressive “out-of-my-way” strides she called walking.

He'd run out of options. If she wouldn't return his phone calls or e-mails, he'd have to track her down. It was the only way, although attempting to corner Gaia was about as effective as cornering a deeply agitated grizzly.

But Sam was willing to risk injury at this point. It didn't matter that the last time he'd seen her, she'd pushed him aside and run out of her father's apartment, leaving him stranded—quite possibly for good. Nor did it matter that he'd decimated her trust in him with all his little white lies, idiotic tales to cover for those criminal errands Josh was forcing on him. It didn't even matter that the simple act of
seeing
Gaia had been strictly forbidden by the
gutless ass-holes who threatened him daily by
phone, too cowardly to even show their faces.


None of it mattered now.

Because of the letter.

Christ, how many weeks had passed from the time Gaia had sent her e-mail from Paris and the time Sam had received it? How much damage had been done? First, those dim-witted cops, Riley and Bernard, had confiscated his computer. Then, when Sam had finally been cleared of suspicion and his computer was returned, he'd gotten so many vicious e-mails from the faceless blackmailers that he'd simply stopped checking his mail. And he'd certainly stopped picking up the phone. How many more threats did he really need to hear?

But for some reason today, Sam had awoken feeling particularly brave (or was it just hopeless?)—and thank God for it, or he never would have checked his mail.
He never would have known that he was the recipient of the one and only love letter ever written by Gaia Moore.
A reluctant love letter, perhaps, but still, a sorely needed reminder of everything that was meant to be.

Gaia had almost convinced Sam in their last meeting that their relationship was an absolute impossibility; there were too many complications, too much emotional baggage, inevitable doom—not to mention violence, kidnappings, and brushes with death. But
there, on his computer screen this morning, were Gaia's own words, written only a matter of weeks before. And reading them, seeing her struggle beautifully to be naked and intimate with him in ways she usually avoided like bubonic plague, and of course the words
I love you. . .
all of it was a desperately needed shot of adrenaline. It brought Sam back to the simple reality that both he and Gaia had endured far too much not to end up together. Anything less would be unacceptably dark and tragic. Even for them—