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Her first syllable—Nat—paired ironically with my buzzing thoughts, her existence only a series of letters and sounds that held more of a warning than anything else.
Don’t do this, Gemma—I lectured myself, simultaneously typing Natalie’s name into Instagram. It wasn’t just about seeing her face; it was about acknowledging my own insecurities and, somehow, shopping for the perfect identity to fit Natalie Brower was just what I needed. If I could just see that she was ok—undermining Parker’s warnings—then I knew I could be ok as well.
Alejandro is just a good man, trying to do good things,I mused, tucking my knees to my stomach, curled on my side as a result popped up on my phone.
Instantly I saw who I thought she was, the perfect mundane image of a woman who otherwise didn’t even know I existed.
Nat Brower - Brooklyn.
It didn’t take long to memorize her face, the flow of heart-pounding blood fueling my brain with the power it needed to remember her forever: long black hair, freckles like little constellations between almond eyes and crooked lips. She wore a blue Dodgers Cap, its size much larger than her head could fill.
Alejandro is just a good man, trying to do good things. I repeated once more, deciphering how her troubled stare somehow perfected itself into a smile.Are you ok? Are you safe?I asked, disappointed by the privacy notice that blocked me from seeing more of her photos.
I wasn’t sure if I felt better or worse, left with no conclusions on if Natalie was some foreshadowing figure on who I could end up becoming.
What if Alejandro really was in trouble, and that somehow, all of this—Belmont Hills, Natalie Brower, The Pierre Hotel—would lead to the end of us? There was only one person who could help, whose number I dug out of my clutch as I rolled over to the edge of the bed.
Gemma: Lina… I don’t need specifics about the lawsuit, and I don’t need you to share anything outside of what you’re able to disclose. I just need to know if Alejandro will be ok… and I don’t mean financially, I mean physically. Just tell me, could he ever be taken away?
I asked in the best way I could, not even wanting to type out the word prison in the text message. The prospect seemed too real, too permanent and far scarier than the equally nauseating reality of him ever returning to California and leaving me behind, because Alejandro was—in many ways—the strike of tailor chalk against my life, leaving his mark on all the perfect places to cut me into existence. Who was to say I wasn’t the same for him? A half-stitched gown wasn’t a gown at all; it was loose and unfulfilled fabric, and that’s what we would be, if he ever left.
It scared me.
He scared me.
And the thought he could be in more trouble than he was willing to admit became unbearable.
Gemma: Please, just tell me he’s safe, that’s all I ask. Tell me, and I’ll sign the non-disclosure.
Chapter14
Alejandro
The ding of the elevator entrance was barely noticeable, traveling especially weak through the penthouse. I almost missed it, which was good, since it had been hours since Gemma had gone to sleep, and I didn’t want to wake her.
Lina turned the corner of the foyer, approaching quietly on her bare feet. I sat in the dark living room, studying her approach, noticing the concealed look of concern on her face. She hid it well, tight under red lips, the guise of a pearly white blouse.
“You know I up-charge for late night visits,” she greeted quietly. “Especially with instructions as unique as yours.” I didn’t return the smile she gave me.
“Have a seat,” I pointed to the couch, leaning back into my large, leather chair. “I see you did as you were told.”
“Heels in hand.” She confirmed. I didn’t need her clicking along the halls so loudly, or having Gemma know that Lina was here for business. “Long night?” she asked as I uncorked the top of an old bourbon bottle. I poured a measure into a small crystal glass.
“Frustratingly so,” I said curtly.
“Must have made you thirsty.”
“It made me a lot of things, but this one’s for you.” I slid the drink across the coffee table towards her reach. “Drink.”
Lina didn’t hesitate, not showing a desire to please, but a casualness that she used to dispel our tension. I said nothing. I only wanted there to be silence.
“Surprised it’s not tequila,” she cleared her throat.
“Tequila is for celebrations and negotiations.”
“And bourbon?”
“Bourbon is for problems…big ones.” I laughed, showing more of an annoyed smile than I intended to display.
