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“Nami?” Law asked, sounding surprised.
“Oh don’t start with me Huck,” I fumed. “Game’s over now. You got inside my head, congratulations. Now go back to Morris and tell him what a good boy you’ve been.”
“Dammit, Nami!” Huck—I mean Law, yelled. “What do I have to do to prove to you that I’m not working for Morris? I’m just as fucking surprised as you are that you’re Dandelion.”
I rolled my eyes, even though he couldn’t see. “Do you really fucking expect me to believe that? That of all the people on that app, you responded?”
“I don’t care what you believe any more Nami. I’m sick of trying to prove that I’m not the bad guy.” Huck—Law, dammit!—hung up before I could. I stared at the blank screen for a few moments then chucked it at the wall. Watching the phone break in two, I felt a momentary catharsis for the girl I’d become.
There was a knock on my door. I eyed it from my couch warily. I was comfortable, finally. After having spent a few hours drinking to forget my humiliation, now I was watching Netflix and researching the reporter Matthew Jameson. I’d even laughed a bit at the TV. Progress, right?
Before looking up Jameson, I’d looked up Law. Turned out it was a bit harder to do than just googling “FBI ID number”. I’d had to actually call the FBI, and when I told them I was trying to confirm if “Law” had worked there, they thought I was playing a prank and hung up on me. I almost gave up, thinking Law really was a scumbag. Still, there was that annoying feeling in my gut, so I pressed on. Finally someone connected me to the right bureaucrat and they confirmed that yes, Law was a former FBI agent. I drank a few more glasses of whiskey after getting that confirmation.
Back to Jameson. According to the all-knowing internet, Jameson was a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist who covered such lighthearted topics as government corruption, genocide, and sex trafficking. He’d won the Pulitzer for an exposé on sex trafficking within government-subsidized corporations. I hated to admit it, but he seemed like the real deal. Why he was living in Salt Lake City, I couldn’t tell you.
Suffice it to say, after all the research and whiskey, when someone knocked on the door, I didn’t want to get off my ass and answer it. I knew nothing good waited on the other side. I didn’t have friends. I didn’t have family. All I had were paparazzi and potential rapists. It was past twelve in the morning and I knew that whatever was knocking on my door was most certainly a boogieman.
Another knock sounded on the door and I burrowed farther into my couch. If it couldn’t hear me, then it couldn’t get me, right? A pang of grief hit my chest as I remembered Raskol, who would’ve undoubtedly been barking at the door. He might have been a small and, at times, unreliable guard dog, but he was my small and, at times, unreliable guard dog.
“Nami open your door! It’s me, Law!” I perked up a bit, looking at my door with less hostility and more interest. Why was Law here? Still, my interest was not enough to get me off the couch. Law was persona non grata in the DeGrace house.
“Go away!” I yelled, curling myself in blankets.
“I will stay here and wake up all of your neighbors if you don’t let me in!”
“Go ahead!” I yelled back. “They hate me anyway!” Silence radiated through the wood, and I hoped that Law had decided against staying. When I’d all but settled back into my alcohol-induced comfort, I heard something truly disturbing.
Singing.
Loud, operatic singing.
I could hear Law clearly through my door, though the language was unknown. He was bellowing the notes, his voice getting higher and louder. It was beautiful, but it was also incredibly annoying. I didn’t mind him waking up my neighbors—they’d been less than kind to me; I did mind, however, my neighbors calling the police. I didn’t want to deal with the police. Ever again, if I could help it.
I opened my door, angry, slightly tipsy, and using my blanket as a cape. Law didn’t stop singing even though I opened the door. He continued, his voice an operatic majesty that did not belong in my hallway. He even gesticulated with his hands.
“Stop!” I yelled. Law continued to sing, gesturing at my apartment that I blocked with my body. I glared furiously at him as I let him enter my apartment. He only stopped his song when I closed the door behind us.
“What the hell was that?” I fumed, trying to block him farther entry into my apartment. If I could keep him contained to just the entryway, then I technically hadn’t lost.
“Puccini. Madama Butterfly.”
I raised an eyebrow, scoffing. “So you’re an FBI guy who sung in the opera?” I wondered when I would get to the truth of him—Huck, Law, whoever the hell he was.
“I’m an FBI guy who had a grandfather that loved the opera,” Law explained.
I scoffed and, remembering why I hated Law, got to the point. “Why did you come here?”
“I decided that I do care what you think of me.” Before I could respond, Law pulled me in both arms and kissed me on the mouth, hard.
I fought Law, pushing at his chest and biting at his lip until I tasted copper. He stepped away from me, untangling his hands from my hair and dropping them to his sides. For the first time since Law had barged into my life, I saw him undone.
“Sorry,” he rasped. “Sorry. That was…” Law shook his head. “That was wrong, I’m sorry.” I squinted, not sure what to make of him. Whether I wanted to admit it or not, the kiss had been all consuming. Intense. Visceral.
Terrifying, too. I couldn’t forget that. It had been terrifying. Not because I remembered Morris, but because for an instant I’d forgotten him. I’d drowned in Law’s flavor and smell. For those few brief seconds, I was free.
“Kiss me,” I said, voice barely above a whisper. Law’s honey gaze was elsewhere, so clouded it appeared like a stormy sunset. I spoke up again. “Kiss me.”
Law snapped his attention back to me. “What did you say?”
