Chapter 14

Chapter

Fourteen

M y heart is in my throat, thick coil of black hair in one hand, scissors in the other. I blink and let out a breath, stare at myself in the hairdresser's mirror, at Logan's reflection. He's standing behind me, hands in his pockets, watching. His friend, Mei, the stylist—who actually owns the entire salon—has my head in her small, delicate hands. Holding me steady. Soothing. Stroking nimble fingers over my scalp.

She understands, I think, even though I've told her nothing of myself, nothing of my story. I told her only that I needed to change my appearance drastically, and she met my eyes, stared at me knowingly for a long moment, and just smiled at me. Sat me in her chair, stroked her fingers through my hair, fanning it out, billowing it, pulling it back severely to assess the shape of my face, folding it up and under to get an approximation of what I might look like with shorter hair.

And then hands me her scissors. "You make the first cut," Mei says.

Despite having been moments from shaving it to the scalp mere hours ago, now that I have my hair in hand and scissors ready to make the first cut, I'm having a moment of doubt. Of hesitation.

Logan says nothing. Just watches.

Mei takes the scissors from me. Moves to stand in front of me. She is short and slight, hair dyed lavender and clipped close on the sides, left longer on top, twisted and pulled back over her head. She speaks English fluently but with a pronounced Asian accent. "It's your choice. You do it, you don't do it, only one who matters is you. But I think you want to do it. We donate it to Locks of Love." Her fingers run almost compulsively through my hair again. "You make first cut, I make you beautiful. Make you more beautiful. You already beautiful."

She hands me the scissors again, lifts my hair bound between her fingers in a thick rope, a small gap between her two hands. "Cut between hands."

I breathe out. Snip the scissors open and closed— snicksnick-snicksnick —and then, before I can second-guess myself any further, I open the scissors wide and cut between Mei's hands. I feel weight float free from the column of my neck. My head feels lighter. Mei takes the scissors from me and moves around to stand in front of me, blocking my view of myself in the mirror. I shake my head, and the sensation is bizarre. No thick sheaf of hair waving at my back, no long strands tangling around my ears, draping over my shoulder. There is nothing. I want to cry, yet also laugh. I'm not sure which.

"Let me see," I say.

Mei just shakes her head. "Not until I'm done. Close eyes." I close my eyes. She spins me around, pats me on the shoulder. "Okay, open, but no peeking."

She buttons a black cape around my neck, and her fingers run through my hair several times. Oh god. It's short. So short. There's so little up there for her fingers to even move through

And then she starts cutting. Snick... snicksnicksnick... snicksnick. I feel bits of hair flutter down and land on the black cape, on my shoulders and sliding down to my lap. A bit here, a bit there, my hair going shorter and shorter and shorter. Her scissors are so fast, moving unerringly, never hesitating. As if she has a vision and knows exactly what to do to make it reality. Like a painter utterly sure of her brushstrokes. I'm staring at Logan, who is just standing in the middle of the deserted salon, legs spread wide, arms crossed over his broad chest, eyes on me, on Mei, watching intently. His expression is inscrutable, which makes me nervous. What does he think? Does he like it? Hate it?

What will I think?

I have no idea. I like the way it feels, though. Loose, light, free. Everything I want to be, everything I'm striving to be.

After what seems like an eternity of cutting, she steps away, gestures for me to stand up. "Come, come. Almost done. Wash, style, and then you see." She leads me to a sink with a U-shaped divot in the front, puts me in the reclining chair, and settles me backward, so my neck rests in the U. Warm water, strong hands. She doesn't just wash my hair, she massages my scalp, powerful fingers digging into my scalp and the back of my neck, loosening tension, relaxing me. Kneads shampoo into my now-short hair, rinsing it away. Towels me dry.

"Okay, back to chair." She sprays a little foam into her palm, rubs her hands together a few times, then works the mousse into my hair. "It will take time to remember, but you only need a very little product now. Shampoo, conditioner, mousse, only a little. Before, so much hair, you need a lot. First few showers, you will squirt too much. Just laugh, every girl who cuts all her hair away does it. I had long hair, like you, once. Cut it all off, dyed it purple like so." She gestures at her head. "To make my father angry. I use too much shampoo for weeks. Never remembered."

She uses a blow dryer on my hair, brushing stiffened fingers through it, working it forward, smoothing it down on the sides. I feel it tickling my forehead, my temple, brushing my eyebrow.

It took her perhaps fifteen minutes total to wash, dry, and style my hair. It feels miraculous. It took me fifteen minutes just to shampoo all my hair, another fifteen to rinse it. And it would still be sopping wet for at least twelve hours after washing it. Sometimes a full day, or more.

Now, it's washed, dried, and styled in fifteen minutes. No hours of brushing.

This alone makes me giddy.

"Yes, very good." Mei places her hands on my shoulders, squeezes, leans down close to my ear. "Ready?"

I have to let out a nervous breath. "I think so." I straighten my spine. "Yes, I'm ready." I close my eyes as Mei spins the chair around.

"Okay," Mei says, "now look."

I open my eyes, and my breath leaves me in a whoosh. Short, messy. Perfect. It's boy-short. Pulled forward into my eyes, long narrow V-shaped points draping down in front of my ears. The cut accentuates my exotic features, makes my already large, dark eyes appear dramatically larger, highlights my high, sharp cheekbones, heart-shaped face, my lush, kissable lips.

"Can I do makeup on you?" Mei asks.

"Sure?" I shrug. "I don't usually wear much."

"Not much. You don't need much." She opens a cabinet under her station and pulls out her purse, lays cases and tins and brushes and tubes out on the counter of her station.

Spins me away from the mirror yet again, brushes blush on my cheeks, runs eyeliner under my eye, smears eye shadow on my eyelids, lip stain on my lips. I don't wear much makeup, never have. I was always told that I don't need it, that natural beauty such as mine is best appreciated with little or no adornment.

When Mei is done, she turns me around, and yet again I am left breathless, speechless. My eyes are enormous, their natural almond shape and dark irises emphasized and highlighted. My eyes are... hypnotic, this way. My cheekbones look razor sharp now, my lips even fuller, darker red. The overall effect is subtle, but dramatic. Smoky, mysterious. Sultry. Sensual.

"My god, Mei." I am near tears. "I look like... I don't even know. Not even myself, anymore."

"Is it good? You are crying, but I don't know if it is a good cry or not."

"No, it's perfect. I love it. It's perfect. I can't believe this is me I'm looking at, right now."

I turn my head this way and that. Examine myself from different angles. I really, truly do not even recognize myself. I look edgy, modern, sexy, exotic. Nothing like the formal, Old World aristocratic beauty I used to look like. Used to be . I love the messiness of it. The wind could ruffle it and muss it, and it wouldn't ruin the look. I could run my hands through it, and it wouldn't look worse. I do so, feather my fingers through my hair, marveling at the lack of weight sliding through my fingers. I push all the hair to one side, draping it all over to the left, and my look changes slightly. To the right, the same, a subtle change in the way the look sits on me. Brush it forward again and mess it up.

"See? You get it." Mei smiles at me. "Mess it up. Play with it. You could slick it back, too. That would look badass, very dramatic, very different. It makes you look beautiful, a new you. Still woman, not butch at all, just short, and edgy. Different." She unbuttons the cape and pulls it off me so the loose hair falls to the floor at my feet.

I rise to my feet and lean into her, wrap her up in a hug. She stiffens at first, clearly not comfortable with such affection, then somewhat awkwardly hugs me back.

She pushes me away after a second. " Oh -kay, hug time over now."

"Sorry. I'm just... thank you, Mei. Thank you so much. I love it."

"I'm very glad." She glances at Logan. "Any friend of Logan is a friend of mine. You come back any time. We have girl talk, drink too much wine, and bitch about stupid boys."

"I'd like that."

"Good. You come here Friday night. I close at seven, we have a good time together." She gathers her makeup into her hands, glances at me. "You have your own makeup?"

I shake my head. "No, like I said, I've never worn much makeup. Some eyeliner, lipstick, that's about it. Nothing this dramatic." I don't mention that I don't own anything , much less something so frivolous as makeup.

"It's a good look for you. Makes you look mysterious. A little intimidating, I think." She yanks a plastic grocery bag out of a cabinet in her station, dumps the makeup into it. "For you. I have more. You practice. Come Friday, I teach you, if you want."

"Thanks, Mei. I—"

She ushers us to the door, waving her hands as if herding chickens, cutting off my thanks. "Now, go. Go. I have another client soon, and I have to clean up."

We're outside in the late-morning sun, walking to Logan's SUV. When we're in his truck and waiting at a stoplight, I turn to him. "So. What do you think, Logan?"

He looks at me long and hard. "It's an incredible transformation, Isabel. You are absolutely gorgeous. There's nothing you could do to ever make yourself look anything other than stunning. But this look? It's perfect for you. Like Mei said, it makes you look even more mysterious than you already are."

"How do you know Mei?" I ask.

"Oh. Um. Well, I hired her to do some programming for me. She's actually an insanely talented computer programmer too, like seriously one of the best I've ever met. So she worked for me programming our website and debugging some of our systems as a freelance contractor. But then when that was done, we stayed friends."

"Just friends?"

He eyes me. "Jealous?"

I blush. "Maybe a little. It's an unusual emotion, for me. I don't know how to process it."

He just laughs. "We went out once. I went to kiss her at the end of the date and we were both just like... nah, it's not there. We've been friends since." A glance at me. "Jealousy is totally natural and normal, by the way. Just be honest about it with yourself and with me."

"It's just new for me. I never... it never occurred to me to be jealous until I saw Caleb with someone else. He did it on purpose. He was mad at me about... well, that's a long story. But he was mad at me, so he arranged for me to see him kissing another girl on the street below my apartment. My old apartment, I mean." I try not to remember. I don't want those memories crowding out my new sense of self. "As far as tactics go, it was effective. But that was the first time that I can remember feeling jealous. I thought he was... I don't know. Not mine, because it didn't work that way between Caleb and me. But it just... it never occurred to me that he'd have other women in his life. It wasn't a good feeling."

"I don't suppose so." It's all Logan says on that subject. Smart of him, I think. Nothing good could come from his opinion of Caleb. I know how he feels and why, and there's no sense discussing it.

Miles pass under the tires, past the windows. The radio is off, silence is thick. I don't know where we're going.

"What do you want to do, Isabel?" Logan asks, abruptly breaking the silence.

"I was wondering where you were going."

He shakes his head. "No, that's not what I mean. Right now I'm taking us to lunch, this great Mediterranean place I know in Brooklyn. I meant with your life. With yourself. What do you want? How will you live?"

Optimism leaves me in a rush. "I don't know, Logan."

"I only ask because I know you well enough by now to know you'll only be content if you're making your own way." He reaches out and takes my hand, glances at me briefly. "You can stay with me. I'll support you. Everything I have is yours. If that's what you want, you'll never have to work another day in your life. I'm not as wildly rich as Caleb, but I'm doing pretty fucking well for myself. You'll never want for anything. My point wasn't that you're not welcome, or that there's some kind of expiration date on you staying with me. But I feel like you need your own space. Your own thing. So that's what I'm asking. What do you want for yourself?"

He's right. I would feel owned all over again if I relied on him. Even if that was not his intention, even if he went out of his way to make sure I didn't feel that way, it would seep in.

So what do I want?

I have absolutely no idea. What am I capable of? What am I good at?

I spend a long, long time thinking. And I can only come to one sad conclusion. "I've only ever done one thing. I only know how to be Madame X, and I cannot be her anymore. But what else can I do?" I am near tears, but I keep them down. Force them away.

"What if you don't have to be Madame X anymore, but still perform that same basic service, just... on your own? For yourself. Not as Madame X, but as Isabel de la Vega."

I breathe deeply and slowly, carefully. "I... I don't know. Could I? I don't know. Why would I do that? What was it I really did?" I trace the stitching in the leather at the edge of my seat. "Looking back, I find only dubious value in the service I performed."

"See, I disagree. I think you performed a very valuable service. When you're dealing with people as rich as your former clientele, parenting often gets left at the wayside. Pursuit of wealth is the only thing that matters to many of them. So... you end up with spoiled rich kids who have no conception of reality, who don't value hard work or money, who have no sense of self or decency or morals or anything. And I think your real value was in taking them down a few notches. Making them realize that the world wasn't always going to revolve around them. That it didn't, doesn't, and never will." He pulls to a stop on a street, I have no idea which one or where we are, and parallel parks in front of a restaurant. Doesn't get out, pivots in his seat and looks into my eyes. "I think you could open your own business doing the same basic thing, but maybe take it few steps further. You'd probably make a fucking fortune, and you'd be doing the world a favor by taking the douche out of some the spoiled assholes out there."

I consider it. "You really think so?"

He nods. "I really do. But the thing here is that you'd be doing it on your own terms. No persona. Just you being you. You'd do what you did before, meet and assess each client, and come up with a treatment plan or whatever you want to call it. Teach them manners. Like, basic manners. Make them wait tables. Make them do charity work, like at a soup kitchen or something. Whatever you think necessary to enact the change in them."

"Where would I find clients? I—I don't even know where to start."

He smiles at me and squeezes my hand. "I can help. It's sort of what I do, you know. I can even float you a startup loan."

"I need to consider."

He nods. "Of course. It's a big step."

I put it out of my mind as we exit the SUV and sit down to eat. The food is delicious, of course. I let him order for me, and thus do not know the names of any of the dishes. I just know that everything is heavy in garlic, features rice and olives and lamb and chicken and thick crispy pita bread. It is flavorful and filling, but not heavy. As we eat, Logan brings the conversation back around to the idea of me starting my own business.

"One thing I'd say for sure is that you wouldn't work out of your home. You need a separation of work and home. Unless you're, like, a computer programmer or something, you need your own space that's just for you. Especially in the line of business you're considering. You can't have clients coming and going from your living room. That just invites familiarity, and you need to remain aloof. Untouchable. Imposing. The atmosphere would still have to seem informal, comfortable, but separate from your personal space." He shovels a few forkfuls of rice into his mouth and then stabs a green olive, gesturing with the fork and the olive. "I think—I think..." He eats the olive, and I'm noticing that the more he discusses this, the more effusive he becomes. It's endearing and adorable and inspiring, seeing his excitement over this idea. It's contagious. "I think if you bought a town house kind of like mine, we could renovate it to suit your needs. Make a front room, a deep comfortable leather couch, a little kitchenette and bar, a bay window overlooking the street. And then make a separate entrance leading to your space, which would take up the rest of the house, use both upper and lower levels. Maybe make the bedroom a loft over the rest. Keep it open, you know? The door to your space would need to be really secure, though, maybe use biometrics. Thumbprints and whatever, right?"

I interrupt his flow. "Logan. This all sounds wonderful, but..." I cannot help a sigh of defeat. "I don't have a single dime to my name. I don't own a single article of clothing of my own. Nothing. Where am I going to get the money to buy a town house in Manhattan, much less capital to open a business?"

He waves my objection away with his fork. "Told you, I'll help you out. Run you a business loan."

"I'm not taking your money, Logan. That would only—"

He sets his fork down, his gaze serious. "I didn't say ‘give,' Isabel, I said ‘loan.' I'll have my banker work up the paperwork for you. I know you wouldn't take money from me, and that's not what I'm offering. I'd have no stake in your business itself, other than the hope that you're profitable so I see a return on my investment. I'm not looking to make a profit myself off this, so the terms would be pretty forgiving, low interest, make it easy for you to pay it off. This is to help you. Get you started."

"Why, Logan?"

He makes a funny face. Sad, tender, loving, and confused all at once. "Because everyone needs help sometimes. And because I love you. I want to help you. I'd just give you the damn money if I thought you'd take it. I have more than I'll ever be able to spend, even with giving a shitload away to charity. I want to see you succeed. I want to..." He sighs and leans back in his chair. "There's selfish motivation at work here, too. If you're successful, if you're working for yourself, then you're more likely to be happy. And if you're happy, that just means things between us will be that much better."

I can't help a smile. "So even your selfish motivations are centered on my happiness?"

A grin. "Well, yeah. I mean, think about it. If you're happy, then your focus can be on me. If you're happy, my chances of being able to keep you naked in my bed for entire weekends are that much better. And after last night and this morning, Isabel honey, I've got plans to keep you naked and sweaty for as long as you'll let me."

"I like the sound of those plans."

His eyes heat up. "We could buy a little place in the Caribbean, stay naked on the beach for weeks on end."

I close my eyes and dream. Pretend I'm successful. Making my own money running my own business. Logan is mine, all mine. There is no one else. I imagine being on a beach somewhere. With him. Lying naked on a blanket in the sand, the sun hot above us. His mouth all over me. I squirm, desire flushing through me at the idea.

"You're picturing it, aren't you?" He's leaning toward me over the table, whispering in my ear. "You and me, naked on a beach?"

"Yes," I breathe.

"Picture it, babe. Keep that image in your mind. We'll make it a reality."

There are a few moments of silence then, as we finish our food. My mind wanders, back to his bedroom, to us. To him, asleep on the couch. The notepad, the scribblings.

"Logan?" I have to know. I have to ask.

He glances up, eyebrows lifted in query. "Hmmm?"

"Who is Jakob Kasparek?"

He freezes. "You saw that."

"Yeah. I saw. What did that note mean, Logan?"

He chews, swallows, breathes. "I did a little more digging. I managed to get a peek at the discharge papers from the hospital. The signature on your discharge sheet is Jakob Kasparek."

"Not Caleb Indigo?"

He shakes his head. "No. Jakob Kasparek." A lift of his shoulder. "I looked for that name, but I found nothing. Not a single thing. So I don't know anything except that whoever signed you out of the hospital was named Jakob Kasparek, not Caleb Indigo."

I swallow hard. Try to breathe evenly. "I... I don't mean to doubt you, but... are you sure?"

"One hundred percent. I'm sorry, I know that... probably doesn't make things easier for you."

"I just... I remember the day he signed me out. I remember him signing the paper. I—I didn't see the signature, but... it just makes no sense. I don't know. I don't know."

My head spins. Whirls. Aches. Nothing makes any sense. Nothing adds up. Nothing is true.

I feel panic boiling under my skin, gripping my throat and my mind. I have to shut it down. Think of something else. Don't go there, not now. Not here.

"You said you give money to charity?" I ask, just to shift the conversation.

He shrugs, recognizing my gambit for what it is. "Yeah. I mean, my business is worth... well, a lot. Thirty million, last time I checked. I spread it around, make sure my people are raking in their own personal fortunes, because they do the lion's share of the work. But even if I only kept thirty percent of the company's profit, that'd be nine million a year, something like that. And I'm just one guy, you know? What does one guy do with nine million dollars a year? I keep my life simple. I own one home, and I stay around Manhattan for the most part. Take a few vacations here and there. But I like working, so I work a lot. Means I don't spend a lot. I only have the one car, because driving in New York is a bitch so there's no real point in owning a bunch of fancy cars. Not my thing anyway." He waves a hand. "So I give a lot to various charities."

"Like what?"

He's clearly uncomfortable with this line of conversation. "There's one that does a lot of work with combat veterans, guys coming home from Iraq and Afghanistan. Therapy, retreats, shit like that. It's a nonprofit I started with a couple other guys from Blackwater. They do a lot of really amazing work with guys that have PTSD, outside-the-box stuff, not just sitting in a fucking room talking about our emotions with a shrink. Soldiers hate that shit. We hate talking about what we did. We just want to put it behind us and not have nightmares, you know? So the focus is PTSD treatment that's not just talking. Equine therapy, canine therapy. Art, music, sports. Stuff like that. Then there's the education fund. That one directs money past all the red tape of bureaucracy and directly into school districts that need money, inner-city schools here in New York and all across the country. They're expanding all the time, getting into new school districts with every check written. No testing requirements, no bullshit, no politicians skimming off the top. Just cold hard cash going into schools so kids can learn." He opens up as he speaks, and his eyes and his expression reveals his passion. "I love that one especially. When I was a kid, my education wasn't all that important to me. I was more concerned with getting high and into trouble with the fellas. But even if I had been, where I lived, I wouldn't have gotten much of an education anyway. And San Diego is a lot better off than somewhere like L.A. or the schools in somewhere like Queens, you know? There's just not enough money for the schools to do shit about shit for anyone."

"That's amazing, Logan," I say.

He rolls his eyes. "It's not. I just donate money. I've got it coming out of my fucking earholes, and charity is somewhere to put it so it's not just sitting there. And besides, it's a tax deduction."

"What others are there?"

"Lots of little ones here and there. Helping at-risk teens, 'cause I've been one, women's shelters, food banks, drug recovery clinics."

"Don't downplay what you're doing, Logan. It makes a difference."

He smiles at me. "I know it does. That's why I do it. Warrior's Welcome, the one that works with soldiers... I host retreats every year for that one. Get a whole bunch of rotated-out soldiers and Marines and security contractors, take 'em to a farm in upstate New York, and do a bunch of fun stuff. Trail rides, paintball games, basketball tournaments. The whole point of the retreats, though, is the Bonfire Bullshit. Make this huge-ass bonfire, tap a keg, and trade war stories. It's a judgment-free zone, you know? That's the point of it. You don't tell stories to friends or family, 'cause they won't get it. They can't . When it's a bunch of other dudes who've fuckin' been there , it's different. Some guys don't want to talk, and they don't have to, but even listening to other guys' stories, hearing the truth that there are people who know exactly what you're going through, what it's like, that's cathartic as anything else ever could be."

"You never cease to both surprise and amaze me, Logan." I cup his cheek. "Every time I think I know you, you reveal something new."

He shakes his head and laughs softly. "Yeah, I'm a real puzzle."

"You are, though. You're a successful businessman, yet you came from urban poverty and an at-risk childhood. You were in a gang. You watched your best friend get murdered. You've been to war. You've been to prison. Yet despite all that, you're successful and well adjusted." I give a lock of his hair a playful tug. "And you're the sexiest man I've ever met."

"You're gonna give me a complex, babe," Logan says.

We're outside, standing on the sidewalk near his SUV. For once in my life, things feel... normal. I've got hope. I feel like I am a new person, becoming someone complete.

My heart feels full.

I love Logan. He loves me.

The world is afire with possibility.

And then my blood runs cold.

I see Thomas, first. Tall, frightening, skin black as night, teeth white as piano keys. He has something long and thin and dark in his hands, not a gun, but a stick of some kind. A bludgeon. I don't know where Thomas came from. He was not there, not anywhere, and then in an eyeblink, there he is. I don't have time to even open my mouth.

Thomas's hand flashes in the bright golden light of early afternoon. There is a dull thud , and the stick connects with Logan's head, right behind his ear, just so. Precise. A practiced move. I see Logan collapse, the light instantly bleeding out of his eyes.

I inhale to scream, but a hand covers my mouth. Len. I twist, kick.

"You think I wouldn't find you?" This isn't Len's voice in my ear.

It's yours.

I feel tears of despair prick my eyelids. No. No. Not this. Not you. Not again. Not now.

I feel motion, feel the whispering breeze of your passage from behind me to in front of me. There you are. Perfect, handsome. Calm and collected. Cool. I smell your cologne. Black suit, crimson shirt, top button loose, no tie. You have a pistol in your hand. Flat black, small in your large paw.

You glance at me. You do not smile. "I thought I could let you go," you say. Your expression is... almost sad. Regretful. You glance at Len, behind and above me. "I was wrong."

I feel something sharp touch my neck. A needle. It pricks me, and something cold rushes through me.

Darkness rises from the shadows at my feet. Reaches up for me.

I fight it.

You point your gun at Logan.

No!

No! I scream, but it comes out a faint whimper.

I watch in slow motion as your finger tightens on the metal crescent of the trigger.

NO!

I want to scream and cry, but I cannot. I can only fade into darkness.

I don't see it happen. I only hear a loud BANG!

And then there is nothingness.

Only cold and black and empty.