April 1919

THE early spring evening still held a reminder of the winter’s chill, but as soon as Michael opened the door of the Saint Alexander’s Baths, it might as well have been high noon in the middle of summer. The sultry
heat and humidity washed over him, drawing him inside and tugging him down the wide steps to the place that, for all its chipped paint and flickering Mazda lamps, had become his second home, his refuge.
By the time he reached Millie’s office, he had shed his jacket and collar and was working on the buttons of his vest. He was not looking forward to this conversation, but there was nothing else to be done. He had no choice.

“Darling! You’re early!” The sweet scent of Millie’s perfume momentarily drowned out the stronger odors of the bathhouse as she hugged him to her ample bosom. When she released him, she peered into his eyes, that sapphire-blue gaze seeing right through him, as it always had. “What’s the matter?”
Michael motioned her to her overstuffed chaise; she shot him another glance but did as he wished, and he sat in the chair opposite. “I wanted to let you know I have an interview tomorrow for a position. I’m probably going to get the job; my uncle’s all but fixed it.” 

Millie pursed her rouged lips. “Refresh my memory, dear. You have so many relatives.”
“Padraig, my mother’s eldest brother. He’s a gardener—works for the City most of the time, though he also does some work for the types with mansions near the Park.”

“You’re going to work as… a gardener?” Millie’s sour expression made it clear what she thought of that idea. Reaching out, she gripped Michael’s broad hands in her finer ones. “Your poor, talented hands—you’ll ruin them!” she exclaimed in horror. Michael squeezed her fingers before drawing away. “I’ll be fine. As Uncle Paddy says, it’s a good opportunity for a working man.” He forced a twisted smile that wasn’t intended to convince her of the statement.

Millie made a derisive noise. “Yes, well, you know what I think of that.” She sighed. “I suppose it’s not the end of the world. At least you should still have a bit of time to work here, especially in the winter.”
Michael shook his head, the rage he’d been feeling since hearing from his meddling bastard of an uncle threatening to stop his throat. “If this comes through, I’ll be leaving New York. One of the old blueblood
biddies needs someone to tend her Hudson River estate. If I’m lucky, I’ll manage to visit Manhattan once a month, if that.”

Millie stared at him, her carefully plucked eyebrows climbing. “But why? Why leave the city? Everything is here.” For a moment, Michael considered telling her. For all her flash, she was a kind-hearted soul, and she’d been a good friend to him over the years. All the more reason, though, not to burden her with his
troubles. He knew full well she’d survived more than he ever had, and while she would be outraged on his behalf, it would do neither of them any good. Instead, he shrugged and murmured, “Time for a change, that’s all.”
Millie shook her head, then leaned forward slightly. “Have you given any more thought to what we talked about last week?” Michael settled further into the chair. “You know I haven’t.”

Millie scowled, the deep lines revealing her age in a way that Michael was sure would horrify her. “If you’d just stop being such a—” she began hotly.
Cutting her off with a sharp gesture of his hand, he said, “I’m not going to take your money, Millie. I already owe you too much. And even if I could, I don’t want the things you think I want. That discussion is finished.”

“Consider it a loan,” she persisted. “You can pay me interest if it offends your virtue. And you owe me nothing. You’ve long since paid me back for everything I put toward your education. You know that.” Michael stood, suddenly eager for the conversation to be over. “I’m sorry. And please don’t think I’m not grateful you gave me my old job after I came back from the war. I didn’t know what I was going to do, and you made it possible for me to—”

Millie waved away his words, and he smiled in spite of his mood. “Well, you’ve got no one to blame but yourself. I was a rough, ungrateful Mick ruffian before you taught me manners.” Rising to her feet, Millie took his face gently between her palms. “You were never a ruffian, my darling,” she said softly. “And I wish you’d think about what I’m offering you. When you left six years ago, you had such dreams.”

Christ, Millie, he wanted to say, you have no idea. For you, it’s been a few short years. For me, it feels like a fucking century. And every time I dream now, it’s a nightmare.

“This is a good position,” he said, parroting his uncle’s speech.
“A good opportunity.”
“Well,” Millie said, releasing him with a final pat, “perhaps the country air will clear your head.”
Michael leaned down and brushed his lips against hers softly.
“From your mouth to God’s ear.” Too bad the old bastard is deaf, he added silently.
Sighing, Millie hooked an arm around his neck and pressed into his embrace for a moment before releasing him. He tried not to notice that her eyes were bright when she pulled away. “Get to work, you loafer,” she whispered. “Your customers are waiting.” 

Michael touched her cheek with his fingertips, the faintest hint of beard greeting them even through the heavy layer of paint. At least you still have your disguise, Henry m’dear, he thought, allowing himself a moment of fierce sentimentality. “Mustn’t disappoint the customers,” he murmured, planting one final kiss on her forehead before plunging back into the tropical atmosphere of the bath, filled with the seductive scents of sweat and lust.

Warren’s scars ached.

It made no sense. How could scars earned in a war almost fifteen years earlier suddenly start hurting again just because he was low on sleep?

Logical or not, driving home from work at seven o’clock on a Saturday morning, they throbbed in time with his heartbeat. One across the bridge of his nose, one along the right side of his jaw, another intersecting his left eyebrow, each one telling him he needed at least eight uninterrupted hours of dreamtime.

As if he didn’t know that already.

Working all night was nothing new. The way he made his living often called for odd hours. Warren kept his left hand on the steering wheel and used the fingers of his right hand to rub each scar in turn, trying to quiet them down. All it really did was make him think about the horrible morning in Afghanistan when he’d earned those scars.

His phone rang as he communed with his past, and he groaned. Probably another client calling him away from the nice soft bed he had waiting at home, but a glance at his phone told him the caller was one of the few people he called “friend.”

“Good morning, Phil.”

“Oh, is yours good? Because so far, mine sucks. I could kind of use your help.” Phil was phramacist at a local Denver hospital. He was small and trim and ruthlessly neat. He also wasn’t the type who asked for help easily. Warren’s curiosity was piqued despite his weariness.

“What’s going on?”

“It’s easier if you see. Can you meet me at the hospital? I’m parked around back, in the employee lot.”

Ten minutes later, Warren found Phil squinting into the late February sun, leaning against a bright red Audi Cabriolet that looked like it’d just participated in a demolition derby. Warren climbed out of his car and removed his sunglasses to look at it.

All four tires had been slashed. The windows, headlights, taillights, and side-view mirrors were in pieces. The hood looked like it’d taken a few hits from a chrome baseball bat, and Warren thought he detected the ripe scent of urine coming from the interior. “Jesus, you sure must have rubbed somebody the wrong way.”

“Apparently,” was all Phil said. His attention seemed to be more on Warren than the car. “Why are you dressed like a cop?”

“I’m not.” Except he kind of was. He wore dark slacks, and a dark shirt with a shield-shaped gold insignia on the breast. It was just enough to look like a uniform to somebody who didn’t know better, but not enough to get him busted for impersonating an officer.

“I see,” Phil said. “One of those things I don’t want to know, then.”

“Probably. So when did this happen?” Obviously not before work, since Phil hadn’t driven it this way. Warren studied him. His blond hair was in need of a cut, which was unusual for Phil. His unzipped jacket revealed a wrinkled shirt, dark circles shadowed his eyes, and it wasn’t even seven thirty in the morning. “You working graveyards now?” Warren asked.

“As of last month.”

“Don’t you have enough seniority to get out of the shitty shifts?”

Phil pushed his hair out of his eyes and cracked a bare hint of a smile. “I did, until some doctor with an ego the size of a house came down to the pharmacy to tear me a new asshole.”

“And you didn’t bend over and take it like a good boy?”

This time, Phil really did smile. He always reminded Warren a bit of Alex P. Keaton from Family Ties when he did that. “Do I ever?”

Warren shook his head, letting the obvious double entendre pass. Instead, he pointed to the ruined car. “You think that’s who did this? Some doctor with his nose out of joint?”

“No. They may be arrogant assholes, but no doctor I know would sink to something so juvenile. This seems like real rage, not just a bruised ego, know what I mean?”

“I guess so.” Warren eyed the car. “So, what exactly do you need me to do?”

“I called for a tow.” His gaze moved over Warren’s shoulder. “Ah. Speak of the devil.”

Warren hung back while Phil dealt with the tow truck driver. Once he’d signed the last bit of paperwork, Phil turned to Warren.

“Give me a ride home?”

“Of course.” They climbed into Warren’s 4Runner. It was old and beaten, the paint faded and flaking, but it got him from point A to point B. Warren started the engine. “So why didn’t you call Gray?”

Gray was a mutual friend, and a cop. He would’ve been the logical choice, but Phil shook his head. “You know how Gray is. When it comes to his job, he always toes the line. He’d want me to file a report and press charges. All that bureaucratic bullshit. And the guy who I think did this? I don’t want him arrested.”

Warren raised his eyebrows in surprise. “You want me to rough him up?” It wouldn’t be the first time he’d been paid for that service, but he would never have expected it from Phil.

“Of course not. Frankly, he’d probably like it if you did.”

“Okay.” Warren was a bit relieved that wasn’t where this was headed. He turned south, angling toward Phil’s neighborhood. “So what’s this guy’s deal?”

“He’s a mess. That’s the thing. He’s just a kid, and he’s as fucked up as they come. He doesn’t need Gray harassing him. He just needs to be straightened out.”

“Who is he?”

Phil sighed. It took him a moment to answer. “He went by the name TJ, although I don’t think that’s really his name.”

“What makes you say that?”

“He never answered to it right away. Like he kept forgetting that’s what he’d told me to call him.”

“You still haven’t told me who he is exactly, or how you know him.”

“He lived with me for about three weeks. He’s…well, he’s a hustler, basically.”

Warren turned to look at Phil in surprise, then had to remind himself to keep his eyes on the road. “You had a whore living with you for three weeks?”

“See, this is the other reason I didn’t call Gray. Because he gets all judgy about shit like this, and I thought I could count on you to be a bit more diplomatic.”

Warren found himself chuckling. “Okay. So, you had a rent boy temporarily residing at your domicile. Does it sound better that way?”

“It does, actually.” He laughed. “Look, I know it sounds crazy—”

“Not ‘crazy.’ Just not like you. You usually kick them out two minutes after the festivities end.”

“I know. I don’t really even know how it happened. We met at a party. I took him home for the night. Left for work the next morning, and when I got home, he was still there. Seemed odd, but I wasn’t going to complain about getting to go another round with him. And after that, he just sort of stayed.” Phil shrugged and pushed his hair out of his eyes. “He basically traded sex for room and board. And it was good for a while. The kid’s hot like you wouldn’t believe, and he’s dynamite in the sack. So it worked, you know? Things were good, right up until they weren’t.”

Warren nodded. “Funny how it works that way.” He could think of a dozen instances in his own life that fit the same bill. But he wasn’t in the mood for a repeat performance of “All the Shit That’s Gone Wrong in My Life.” He focused instead on the other part of what Phil had said.

Dynamite in the sack.

Let me start off by saying I don’t hate my life. To someone from the outside, it might look like a bad life, but I don’t care. I know the truth. I have a roof over my head. I’m frying juicy steaks in the kitchen. My dad, Dan, isn’t abusive or in prison, which basically puts me at a huge advantage in comparison to the rest of the kids in my neighborhood. I have Ryan, who looks out for me, and, for the most part—albeit in an unconventional, fucked-up way—I feel loved.

Mostly.

But feeling loved doesn’t mean that I’m happy with my circumstances. It doesn’t mean I’m content with the street I live on that manages to taint every man, woman, and child that is unlucky enough to land here. It doesn’t mean that I won’t try to run away.

I live in Las Vegas, the city that sucks out your soul and spits out whatever’s left of you. Your job is to pick up the pieces and find out who you are.

I’m about to. Planning to. Soon.

I flip the steak, and the searing pan hisses in delight. Take two steps to my right. Stir the boiling pasta. Al dente, just like Ryan likes it. Walk over to the sink. Wash my hands. Look out the window, the screen is hole-ridden and the frame rusty and eaten by the scorching heat and age. Then I smile. I see Ryan kneeling on our yellow overgrown grass, in front of the cracked, bruised asphalt of the road, working on his Harley. As if he senses me, he lifts his gaze to mine.

Stern. Severe. A little on the psycho side. But, he’s my family nonetheless.

Ryan is not my biological brother. My mom, Mary, died in a car accident when I was two. I don’t remember her, and although I’m sad that I never got to know her, it’s my dad I truly hurt for. All I have left of Mary Julia Stringer is an old, beat-up camera from the nineties, and I hold on to it like it’s my lifeline.

I used to use my high school’s dark room to develop the film myself, but now, I’ll have to figure something else out. I’m autodidactic. Self-taught, if you will. That doesn’t come without a price, because I’m probably no good, but taking photos is what I love. Dad says Mom always had a camera in her hand. Funny how those things can be passed down without even knowing her or having her influence. It makes me feel connected to her.

A few years after she passed, my dad took another stab at dating. Enter Darla and ten-year-old Ryan. I knew Darla was bad for Pops, even at the tender age of five. She smelled like smoke and cheap perfume and always went out of her way to make me feel like a burden. But Pops seemed happy—at first, anyway—and I got Ryan. So, it wasn’t all bad. Over the next five years, however, things deteriorated, along with their relationship. Darla started skipping out on us for days at a time, and even flaunted other men in front of my dad. After more than a few knock-down, drag-out fights, Darla had finally bailed for good. When my dad found Ryan, who was only fifteen, packing his things up, he told him to unpack his shit and go set the table for dinner, and that was that. Darla was out, and Ryan was staying. When I asked my dad why she left, his response was something along the lines of, “Darla’s a whore. Don’t be like Darla.”

Duly noted, Dad.

The night Darla left was the first night I snuck into Ryan’s room. It was innocent, of course. I wanted to comfort him, even though he showed no signs of being particularly saddened by his mom’s absence. At first, he stiffened when he felt the bed dip under my weight. But my intuition had been right, because that night, Ryan held me and cried himself to sleep while I rubbed his arm and sniffled quietly. He never cried again, and we never spoke about it, but he still sleeps with me on occasion. Except now, it’s Ryan who sneaks into my room.

And it’s not innocent. Not anymore.

The years passed, as they always do, while Ryan still lives at home, neither my dad nor I want to see him leave. Maybe it’s because Dad is rarely at home. He makes the Las Vegas-Los Angeles route twice a week, and occasionally takes longer trips that have him on the road for weeks at a time, which leaves him very little time for actual parenting. Since sleeping by myself in this rundown house, in this horrific neighborhood is pretty much a death wish, I’m happy to have Ryan by my side. With his tall frame, bulging tattooed muscles, uniform of wifebeater and don’t-fuck-with-me expression plastered to his face, you’d have to be stupid to break into our house.

And it’s not the only reason I am happy to have him around. We need each other. It’s always been us against the world. Not that the world was particularly against us. It just didn’t care.

I start making the sauce for the pasta. Tomato. Basil. Olive oil. A shit-ton of garlic. I read the recipe somewhere on the internet after Ryan and I saw it on some cooking show that aired on one of the few channels we have.

Maybe it will make him crack a goddamn smile for once. He’s always been a bit of a ticking time bomb. The homemade, highly unpredictable type. But lately, I feel like he’s seconds away from exploding.

Tick, tick, tick.

For the rest of the meal prep, I’m on autopilot. I chop, stir, drain, flip, arrange everything on the plates, take out two bottles of Bud Light from the fridge, and set the table. Then I proceed to kick the whiny door and bang my fist against the screen a few times to draw his attention.

“Dinner’s ready,” I yell.

“Two secs.” I hear the clink of heavy tools dropping onto the concrete near the yellow grass he is kneeling on. His bike’s been fucked for two weeks now, and he can’t take it to the shop because he spent his last few bucks on bailing out his best friend, Reed. Not that having a broken-down bike has slowed him down any. The guy is never home anymore.

“Steak’s getting cold. Get your ass inside or I’m eating without you,” I mutter and slam the screen door with a bang.

I wait for him, slouched on my chair in front of our plates, scrolling my thumb along the touch-screen of my phone—one of the three things that my dad makes sure we always budget for: the rent, the food, and my phone. Most kids would be pissed to have an older model, but I’m just happy this thing has internet capabilities. Ryan saunters in and collapses on the chair opposite me, not bothering to wash his dirtied, greasy hands.

I chance a glance at him. Ryan looks like a man. He’s looked that way for a long time now. His arms are ripped—not in the gym rat way, just in the way of a guy who does manual labor—and his body is big, wide, and commanding. Long, dirty blond hair that almost touches his shoulders, brown eyes, cut bone structure—the only good thing he inherited from his deadbeat real dad. Every time we hang outside the house together—which, admittedly, is not often these days—girls I went to school with throw themselves at him. He’s screwed half of them, I know, even though they’re underage. If I’m being honest, it seems to be half the charm about this guy. Other than the fact that he is inked from head-to-toe. It’s that slightly unstable, dangerous vibe he gives off. Every girl wants to be good until a bad boy whisks her off her feet and corrupts her.

And every girl hated the one who stood in their way. That’d be me. At least in their mind. Sure, Ryan would fuck them, but that’s all they ever got. He always stood a little too close to me, stared a little too long. They noticed. And they were ruthless. So, I was deemed the brother fucker. I didn’t really care. Ryan didn’t help matters by forbidding the entire male population of Riverdale to stay far away from me. He was out of high school before I even began, but he’s somewhat of a legend around here. No one in their right mind would willingly cross him.

TEN YEARS AGO

The stench of rotting meat permeates the cool, dank air of the basement. A rotating air purifier in the corner does nothing for the smell, only blasts my sweat-slicked skin with a chilly, stale breeze, causing gooseflesh to rise along my exposed skin.

My pink tank top clings to my body, saturated with old and new sweat, dirt and filth. My legs remain bare—my boy-shorts the only guard against the elements…and him.

I nudge the plate of uneaten food aside with my knee, my shackles rattling from above. The chains tighten, and I wince at the sharp, pinching pain. A whimper escapes my mouth.

My arms stopped aching hours ago—my muscles numb. If I stand, the feeling will come alive with unbearable agony. My calves still burn from the stretching. I no longer feel my toes, either. I wriggle them, trying to force circulation into my feet and legs, the cold cement floor fighting back against my attempt.

Three days. Five. A week? With no windows, no light from outside, there’s no way to be sure. Time doesn’t pass down here; it stalled and the world quit spinning the moment he touched me. Invaded me. And I stopped existing.

I’ve tried to measure my time trapped in this dungeon by his comings and goings—but they’re too sporadic. Sometimes I’m left alone for so long, I fear he’s forgotten about me. Then I’m sickened by the realization that I actually fear he won’t return.

Twisted.

At first, I screamed. I screamed for hours until my throat burned and my voice gave. He never covered my mouth. So the only thing I know for sure is that I’m somewhere far enough away where he doesn’t worry about me being heard. No. He likes my screams. That’s the first thing I learned. Then I learned to hold them in. Not to encourage him.

My body ices over with dread as my gaze swings to the cross.

I made the mistake of demanding to know what it was used for…having spent hours staring at it, fearing it…and then he showed me.

Not today. Please, not today. A hot tear trickles down my cheek, and I wipe the side of my face against my arm. He can’t see me broken. Because when he knows I’m broken—when he’s mastered me—I’ll be of no more use.

I pull at my memories, try to find a sanctuary.

So stupid. So, so stupid. My lips tremble as I recount my actions that brought me here. That dumb fight with Brandon, the one where I slammed his car door and stormed off—I can hardly remember why I was so angry.

He was texting some other girl. That was it. Then it blew up from there. Accusations and claims that I’m crazy. Girls are always the crazy ones. We never actually see what’s right before our eyes.

Furious, I walked off on my own, desperate to be away from him and empowered by the right to be a strong, independent woman who didn’t need her cheating boyfriend to drive her home. Damn if I wouldn’t walk myself right there. Then—

The night swallowed me.

And I’ve been engulfed, surrounded by its darkness ever since. I now know what evil lurks where even the light is afraid to shine.

A thump from above hitches my breathing.

Oh, God. I want the fear back. I wish my limbs would quake—that my body would shrivel up and my mind would space. I’ve moved past that fight or flight adrenaline rush, though. I’ve moved on to acceptance. And I want his touch to kill me.

I just want this to end.

As his footsteps travel down the steps, echoing against the cement walls, I decide I’m broken. Just let him see me break. That’s all he wants, then the torment will end.

And when I meet his intense gray eyes—no mask to protect his features—I know. This is my end. He’s no longer concerned about my escape, or someone finding me. I’ll never be able to utter his likeness to a soul.

His tall, muscular form moves to the wall behind me and he cranks a lever. My chains jerk taut, and I’m forced to my feet. My arms and body stretch thin, fire-hot needles attacking my arms and calves, my toes just scraping the floor. I shut my eyes against the pain and bite down on my lip to stifle the scream slithering up my throat.

He hates this. He’ll punish me. He wants to see my fear through the windows of my soul. Smell my sweaty skin. Taste my terror. If I anger him enough, maybe he’ll make it quick.

The feel of his calloused fingers gliding along my skin knots my stomach. “You’re being a bad girl again, I see.” They trail down, down my arms. Down my ribs, and further to my waist. The chains jangle at my uncontrollable tremble. “My dirty girl.” His guttural voice surrounds me, blanketing my body with malicious intent, and my vision tunnels until I detach, removed far away from myself.

But he doesn’t allow me to stay there. He always brings me back.

The second his fingers dip beneath the front of my underwear, I seize with awareness. I’m present. I feel. Shocked into alertness, I fight back. Writhing against his iron-fisted hold, I force my legs closed. The same dance every time.

I never win.

“Later!” The word, the voice, the attitude.

I’d never heard anyone use “later” to say goodbye before. It sounded harsh, curt, and dismissive, spoken with the veiled in- difference of people who may not care to see or hear from you again.

It is the first thing I remember about him, and I can hear it still today. Later!

I shut my eyes, say the word, and I’m back in Italy, so many years ago, walking down the tree-lined driveway, watching him step out of the cab, billowy blue shirt, wide-open collar, sunglasses, straw hat, skin everywhere. Suddenly he’s shaking my hand, handing me his backpack, removing his suitcase from the trunk of the cab, asking if my father is home.

It might have started right there and then: the shirt, the rolled-up sleeves, the rounded balls of his heels slipping in and out of his frayed espadrilles, eager to test the hot gravel path that led to our house, every stride already asking, Which way to the beach?

This summer’s houseguest. Another bore.

Then, almost without thinking, and with his back already turned to the car, he waves the back of his free hand and utters a careless Later! to another passenger in the car who has probably split the fare from the station. No name added, no jest to smooth out the ruffled leave-taking, nothing. His one-word send-off: brisk, bold, and blunted—take your pick, he couldn’t be bothered which.

You watch, I thought, this is how he’ll say goodbye to us when the time comes. With a gruff, slapdash Later!

Meanwhile, we’d have to put up with him for six long weeks. I was thoroughly intimidated. The unapproachable sort.

I could grow to like him, though. From rounded chin to rounded heel. Then, within days, I would learn to hate him.

This, the very person whose photo on the application form months earlier had leapt out with promises of instant affinities.

Taking in summer guests was my parents’ way of helping young academics revise a manuscript before publication. For six weeks each summer I’d have to vacate my bedroom and move one room down the corridor into a much smaller room that had once be- longed to my grandfather. During the winter months, when we were away in the city, it became a part-time toolshed, storage room, and attic where rumor had it my grandfather, my name- sake, still ground his teeth in his eternal sleep. Summer residents didn’t have to pay anything, were given the full run of the house, and could basically do anything they pleased, provided they spent an hour or so a day helping my father with his correspon- dence and assorted paperwork. They became part of the family, and after about fifteen years of doing this, we had gotten used to a shower of postcards and gift packages not only around Christ- mastime but all year long from people who were now totally de- voted to our family and would go out of their way when they were in Europe to drop by B. for a day or two with their family and take a nostalgic tour of their old digs.

At meals there were frequently two or three other guests, sometimes neighbors or relatives, sometimes colleagues, lawyers, doctors, the rich and famous who’d drop by to see my father on their way to their own summer houses. Sometimes we’d even open our dining room to the occasional tourist couple who’d heard of the old villa and simply wanted to come by and take a peek and were totally enchanted when asked to eat with us and tell us all about themselves, while Mafalda, informed at the last minute, dished out her usual fare. My father, who was reserved and shy in private, loved nothing better than to have some precocious rising expert in a field keep the conversation going in a few languages while the hot summer sun, after a few glasses of rosatello, ushered in the unavoidable afternoon torpor. We named the task dinner drudgery—and, after a while, so did most of our six-week guests.

Maybe it started soon after his arrival during one of those grind- ing lunches when he sat next to me and it finally dawned on me that, despite a light tan acquired during his brief stay in Sicily earlier that summer, the color on the palms of his hands was the same as the pale, soft skin of his soles, of his throat, of the bot- tom of his forearms, which hadn’t really been exposed to much sun. Almost a light pink, as glistening and smooth as the underside of a lizard’s belly. Private, chaste, unfledged, like a blush on an athlete’s face or an instance of dawn on a stormy night. It told me things about him I never knew to ask.

It may have started during those endless hours after lunch when everybody lounged about in bathing suits inside and outside the house, bodies sprawled everywhere, killing time before some- one finally suggested we head down to the rocks for a swim. Rela- tives, cousins, neighbors, friends, friends of friends, colleagues, or just about anyone who cared to knock at our gate and ask if they could use our tennis court—everyone was welcome to lounge and swim and eat and, if they stayed long enough, use the guesthouse.

Or perhaps it started on the beach. Or at the tennis court. Or during our first walk together on his very first day when I was asked to show him the house and its surrounding area and, one thing leading to the other, managed to take him past the very old forged-iron metal gate as far back as the endless empty lot in the hinterland toward the abandoned train tracks that used to connect B. to N. “Is there an abandoned station house somewhere?” he asked, looking through the trees under the scalding sun, probably trying to ask the right question of the owner’s son. “No, there was never a station house. The train simply stopped when you asked.” He was curious about the train; the rails seemed so narrow. It was a two-wagon train bearing the royal insignia, I explained. Gypsies lived in it now. They’d been living there ever since my mother used to summer here as a girl. The gypsies had hauled the two derailed cars farther inland. Did he want to see them? “Later. Maybe.” Polite indifference, as if he’d spotted my misplaced zeal to play up to him and was summarily pushing me away.

But it stung me.

Instead, he said he wanted to open an account in one of the banks in B., then pay a visit to his Italian translator, whom his Italian publisher had engaged for his book.

I decided to take him there by bike.

The conversation was no better on wheels than on foot. Along the way, we stopped for something to drink. The bartabaccheria was totally dark and empty. The owner was mopping the floor with a powerful ammonia solution. We stepped outside as soon as we could. A lonely blackbird, sitting in a Mediterranean pine, sang a few notes that were immediately drowned out by the rattle of the cicadas.

I took a long swill from a large bottle of mineral water, passed it to him, then drank from it again. I spilled some on my hand and rubbed my face with it, running my wet fingers through my hair. The water was insufficiently cold, not fizzy enough, leaving behind an unslaked likeness of thirst.

What did one do around here? Nothing. Wait for summer to end. What did one do in the winter, then?

I smiled at the answer I was about to give. He got the gist and said, “Don’t tell me: wait for summer to come, right?”

I liked having my mind read. He’d pick up on dinner drudgery sooner than those before him.

“Actually, in the winter the place gets very gray and dark. We come for Christmas. Otherwise it’s a ghost town.”

“And what else do you do here at Christmas besides roast chestnuts and drink eggnog?”

He was teasing. I offered the same smile as before. He understood, said nothing, we laughed.

He asked what I did. I played tennis. Swam. Went out at night. Jogged. Transcribed music. Read.

He said he jogged too. Early in the morning. Where did one jog around here? Along the promenade, mostly. I could show him if he wanted.

It hit me in the face just when I was starting to like him again: “Later, maybe.”

I had put reading last on my list, thinking that, with the willful, brazen attitude he’d displayed so far, reading would figure last on his. A few hours later, when I remembered that he had just finished writing a book on Heraclitus and that “reading” was probably not an insignificant part of his life, I realized that I needed to perform some clever backpedaling and let him know that my real interests lay right alongside his. What unsettled me, though, was not the fancy footwork needed to redeem myself. It was the unwelcome misgivings with which it finally dawned on me, both then and during our casual conversation by the train tracks, that I had all along, without seeming to, without even admitting it, already been trying—and failing—to win him over. When I did offer—because all visitors loved the idea—to take him to San Giacomo and walk up to the very top of the belfry we nicknamed To-die-for, I should have known better than to just stand there without a comeback. I thought I’d bring him around simply by taking him up there and letting him take in the view of the town, the sea, eternity. But no. Later!

I get up and rush toward the door. I don’t get to take two strides before my back slams harshly against a hard surface. His palms are pressed against the wall, and somehow my head ends up enclosed between them. Looking furious, he kneels on one knee erasing our height difference. We’re face to face now.

“Lila.”

The hoarse sound of his voice makes me shudder. Nobody’s ever said my name like that, with that breathy, lustful quality. I don’t want to admit that I love the way my name sounds on his lips.

Please say my name again.

My mind reels into a hazy state. Right now, the sedatives aren’t letting me think clearly. All I want is to hear him say my name.

I try to escape, but I find myself caged up in the prison of his strong arms. Eager anticipation courses through me. Something is about to happen. I want it to happen, but Gary’s voice replays in my mind. He’s a soldier and a rapist. Gary lied about everything that day. I’ll believe he was lying about him, as well.

“Let’s start your training.” Gary’s voice evaporates completely from my mind. The way his breath caresses my face sends bolts of electricity all over my body.

I’m trembling. “I … uh … swords training?”

A coy smile appears on his face, and I realize what kind of training he’s referring to. I shiver.

“Don’t be nervous.”

“I’m not nerv—” I gasp when he puts his hands to both of my hips and roughly presses them against his hardness. Rubbing. Grinding.

The sensations threat to overwhelm me. I shove at his chest, trying to put distance. “Let me go.”

He ignores me.

I try to use one of my self-defense moves, but he dodges easily and traps my wrists firmly with one enormous hand. I use all my strength to try to free myself and I can’t.

His voice caresses my ear. It makes my skin ripple up in goosebumps. “Breathe, Miss Velez. Inhale,” he inhales against my neck greedily. “Exhale.” He blows his cool breath in my ear. “Even an aroused little girl like you can do that.”

A mixture of desire and anger makes my body tremble. Is he mocking me? I insult him with every swear word I can remember and push him. Does he really want me or is he just playing games?

I shiver when he nips the lobe of my ear gently. He sucks, nibbles, and pulls. I try to conceal my enjoyment, but my traitorous body squirms under his touch. He is smirking against my neck. He knows what’s he’s doing to me, and he’s enjoying it.

His tongue trails from the hollow of my throat to the side of my neck. Aleksey is acting as though he knows he’ll get what he wants and is taking his time to savor his prey.

He places soft kisses all over my collarbone, my jaw, neck. When he nibbles my sensitive flesh softly, I realize I’m panting. The nibbling becomes harsh. He doesn’t care if I end up marked. I don’t want to admit that I love his animal touch and the way it makes electric currents sweep through me.

“I know you hate surprises, Stella. In the interests of communicating our expectations and providing you a reasonable timeline, you should know we’re ready for grandchildren.”

Stella Lane’s gaze jumped from her breakfast up to her mother’s gracefully aging face. A subtle application of makeup drew attention to battle-ready, coffee-colored eyes. That boded ill for Stella. When her mother got something into her mind, she was like a honey badger with a vendetta—pugnacious and tenacious, but without the snarling and fur.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Stella said.

Shock gave way to rapid-fire, panic-scrambled thoughts. Grandchildren meant babies. And diapers. Mountains of diapers. Exploding diapers. And babies cried, soul-grating banshee wails that even the best sound-canceling headphones couldn’t buffer. How did they cry so long and hard when they were so little? Plus, babies meant husbands. Husbands meant boyfriends. Boyfriends meant dating. Dating meant sex. She shuddered.

“You’re thirty, Stella dear. We’re concerned that you’re still single. Have you tried Tinder?”

She grabbed her water and gulped down a mouthful, accidentally swallowing an ice cube. After clearing her throat, she said, “No. I haven’t tried it.”

The very thought of Tinder—and the corresponding dating it aimed to deliver—caused her to break out in a sweat. She hated everything about dating: the departure from her comfortable routine, the conversation that was by turns inane and baffling, and again, the sex . . .

“I’ve been offered a promotion,” she said, hoping it would distract her mother.

“Another one?” her father asked, lowering his copy of the Wall Street Journal so his wire-framed glasses were visible. “You were just promoted two quarters ago. That’s phenomenal.”

Stella perked up and scooted to the edge of her seat. “Our newest client—a large online vendor who shall remain nameless—provided the most amazing datasets, and I get to play with them all day. I designed an algorithm to help with some of their purchase suggestions. Apparently, it’s working better than expected.”

“When is the new promotion effective?” her father asked.

“Well . . .” The hollandaise and egg yolk from her crabcakes Benedict had run together, and she attempted to separate the yellow liquids with the tip of her fork. “I didn’t accept the promotion. It was a principal econometrician position that would have had five direct reports beneath me and require much more client interaction. I just want to work on the data.”

Her mother batted that statement away with a negligent wave of her hand. “You’re getting complacent, Stella. If you stop challenging yourself, you’re not going to make any more improvement with your social skills. That reminds me, are there any coworkers at your company who you’d like to date?”

Her father set his newspaper down and folded his hands over his rounded belly. “Yes, what about that one fellow, Philip James? When we met him at your last company get-together, he seemed nice enough.”

Her mother’s hands fluttered to her mouth like pigeons homing in on bread crumbs. “Oh, why didn’t I think of him? He was so polite. And easy on the eyes, too.”

“He’s okay, I guess.” Stella ran her fingertips over the condensation on her water glass. To be honest, she’d considered Philip. He was conceited and abrasive, but he was a direct speaker. She really liked that in people. “I think he has several personality disorders.”

Her mother patted Stella’s hand. Instead of putting it back in her lap when she was done, she rested it over Stella’s knuckles. “Maybe he’ll be a good match for you, then, dear. With issues of his own to overcome, he might be more understanding of your Asperger’s.”

Though the words were spoken in a matter-of-fact tone, they sounded unnatural and loud to Stella’s ears. A quick glance at the neighboring tables in the restaurant’s canopied outdoor dining area reassured her that no one had heard, and she stared down at the hand on top of hers, consciously refraining from yanking it away. Uninvited touches irritated her, and her mother knew it. She did it to “acclimate” her. Mostly, it drove Stella crazy. Was it possible Philip could understand that?

“I’ll think about him,” Stella said, and meant it. She hated lying and prevaricating even more than she hated sex. And, at the end of the day, she wanted to make her mother proud and happy. No matter what Stella did, she was always a few steps short of being successful in her mother’s eyes and therefore her own, too. A boyfriend would do that, she knew. The problem was she couldn’t keep a man for the life of her.

Her mother beamed. “Excellent. The next benefit dinner I’m arranging is in a couple months, and I want you to bring a date this time. I’d love to see Mr. James attending with you, but if that doesn’t work out, I’ll find someone.”

Stella thinned her lips. Her latest sexual experience had been with one of her mother’s blind dates. He’d been good-looking—she had to give him that—but his sense of humor had confused her. With him being a venture capitalist and her being an economist, they should have had a lot in common, but he hadn’t wanted to talk about his actual work. Instead, he’d preferred to discuss office politics and manipulation tactics, leaving her so lost she’d been certain the date was a failure.

When he’d straight-out asked her if she wanted to have sex with him, she’d been caught completely off guard. Because she hated to say no, she’d said yes. There’d been kissing, which she didn’t enjoy. He’d tasted like the lamb he’d had for dinner. She didn’t like lamb. His cologne had nauseated her, and he’d touched her all over. As it always did in intimate situations, her body had locked down. Before she knew it, he’d finished. He’d discarded his used condom in the trash can next to the hotel room’s desk—that had bothered her; surely he should know things like that went in the bathroom?—told her she needed to loosen up, and left. She could only imagine how disappointed her mother would be if she knew what a disaster her daughter was with men.

And now her mother wanted babies, too.

Stella got to her feet and gathered her purse. “I need to go to work now.” While she was ahead on all her deadlines, need was still the right word for it. Work fascinated her, channeled the furious craving in her brain. It was also therapeutic.

“That’s my girl,” her father said, standing up and brushing off his silk Hawaiian shirt before hugging her. “You’re going to own that place before long.”

As she gave him a quick hug—she didn’t mind touching when she initiated it or had time to mentally prepare for it—she breathed in the familiar scent of his aftershave. Why couldn’t all men be just like her father? He thought she was beautiful and brilliant, and his smell didn’t make her sick.

“You know her work is an unhealthy obsession, Edward. Don’t encourage her,” her mother said before she switched her attention to Stella and heaved a maternal sigh. “You should be out with people on the weekend. If you met more men, I know you’d find the right one.”

Her father pressed a cool kiss to her temple and whispered, “I wish I were working, too.”

Stella shook her head at him as her mother embraced her. The ropes of her mother’s ever-present pearls pressed into Stella’s sternum, and Chanel No. 5 swirled around her. She tolerated the cloying scent for three long seconds before stepping back.

“I’ll see you both next weekend. I love you. Bye.”