"We're getting a divorce," Ralph explains.
"You cheat on her too?" I don't know why I find this so pleasurable.
"No. I never cheated on Zoe. We just drifted apart."
Bloody bastard. "So it's only me you cheat on."
"I've apologized a million times for that, Elizabeth. And I will apologize for a million times more. Just tell me what you want and I'll do it." He sounds sufficiently contrite but fuck him. Seven years together and he cheats on me.
Go kill yourself, I think. "I don't want anything," I say instead.
"Lizzie..." he starts. The look I give him stops him right in his tracks.
"I'm sorry. I know you don't like that," he apologizes. "I wronged you and I want to make it up to you. I've never stopped loving you. We can start over."
Hell no. "We can't."
"I can ask my bank for a transfer to Houston. You loved me once..."
"Once. Not anymore."
"Elizabeth. Please. You're the only woman for me. You've always been." Ralph makes a move to touch my face. I used to love it when he brushed my face. I still love it now. All those memories come flashing back when his palm makes contact with my cheek. Suddenly I'm fifteen again.
After years of traipsing through half the states in the union, mom had finally decided to settle in Tampa. But I didn't know it at the time. I enrolled at the local high school and I fully expected that we would be out of Tampa and on our way to another city before the year was out. I didn't try to make any friends. There was no point. When you're moving every other year, you grow very weary of goodbyes.
Ralph pursued me aggressively. He was 17 and I was 15. That two-year gap feels massive when you're 15. 17-year-olds look so grown-up. I'm 27 now and I still don't feel grown-up enough. Ralph was cute, funny, and smart. He was on the student council and the football team as well. He wasn't the star quarterback or anything but he still got to play regularly.
At first, I turned him down because I thought it was a prank. He was quite a catch and I had no social clout to speak of. I had only been enrolled at the school for a week. By the pecking order of any high school, he was out of my league. I had been the new girl at half a dozen schools by that point and had learned to be wary of meanness the hard way.
Once he convinced me of the purity of his intentions, I was still apprehensive. I was attracted to him but dating him would just leave me feeling worse when we eventually moved away. It's the very reason I had never had a boyfriend or even a platonic friend. Only a dog.
I finally said yes to him after a whole semester. Knowing that he would have to go to college the following year and mom might drag me away to another town even sooner than that gave our relationship a level of intensity I haven't been able to experience since. That's the reason I miss him so much at times.
All the happy memories come flashing back. Making out for hours behind the bleachers. Making out in the back seat of his father's jeep. Losing my virginity to him in that back seat the day before he left for college. Tearfully watching him go off to Georgetown and then spending every spare minute with him when he returned home.
I relive the crushing defeat I felt when Georgetown waitlisted me. I desperately held out hope for a while but it was futile. I was so anguished that I wasn't going to attend the same school as Ralph. I wanted to be with him. But he said it would be fine. He would come to visit me at the University of Virginia. And he did, making the drive to Charlottesville almost every weekend.
I visited him a few times at Georgetown but I could never stay the night. His roommates had to sleep somewhere and they always got in the way. I had no roommates so we kept our trysts at my place. At least there we could cuddle and talk. I miss cuddling, I think idly.
The visits became less frequent when he took a job in New York after graduation but he still tried. We loved each other so much. There were a lot of tearful goodbyes but the passionate reunions are what I lived for.
That was until I completed my finals earlier than anticipated. It was the Thursday before Labor Day weekend and graduation was six weeks away. With my weekend unexpectedly free, I decided to drive up to New York and surprise Ralph. He had given me the key to his apartment but I had only been there a few times.
I had a job of my own lined up in New York after graduation. Ralph had told me I could move in with him. We were finally going to be together and nothing would keep us apart ever again. I was so happy that I practically skipped out of the examination room.
I got to Ralph's place around eight. I had stopped and showered at a gas station so I could smell fresh for him. I changed into his favorite dress and wore no underwear. He never had dinner before nine so I stopped by his favorite restaurant and picked up takeout. I was giddy when I opened his door. We hadn't been together in almost two months. I had finals and he was busy at work. We would spend that long weekend making up for it. We didn't
There was a woman in his kitchen. She was wearing his shirt. A shirt I had bought him for the sixth anniversary of our first kiss. We liked celebrating little things like that. "Elizabeth," she greeted me sweetly. "I didn't know you were coming."
"Who are you? How do you know me?"
"I'm Zoe. I'm a friend of Ralph's." Those words brought my world crashing down. This 'friend' of Ralph's was obviously fucking him. She wasn't wearing anything under his shirt. I would like to say that I walked out and never looked back but I didn't. To my enduring shame, I stayed.
Zoe quickly excused herself. Ralph and I had a huge fight. We had never fought before. There had been minor disagreements but nothing serious. We always resolved those with zero drama and stayed happy. It felt like we had a telepathic connection. This wasn't one of those times. It was a shouting match for the ages.
I yelled and yelled until I finally broke down and started crying. Tears flowed freely until we were both drenched. I let Ralph take me into his arms and console me.
Zoe was just a friend. They only had a casual thing and it was because he got lonely. He had been faithful throughout our relationship and only strayed in the past couple of months because I was so far away. It was me he loved. Even Zoe knew that. And now that I was here, he would break up with her and never see her again. He would make it up to me.
I extracted a promise that he would never stray again. He got onto his knees and swore it. He begged me not to leave him. I forgave him. At least I thought I did. We ate the food. It didn't taste so good anymore. Then we had make-up sex. It was the worst I ever had.
I wanted to show that I had forgiven him but I just couldn't get it up to fuck him. He still smelled of Zoe. I lay there lifeless as he pumped away and all I could think of was strangling him, ripping his throat out, and feeding him his own guts. When he finally came, he just rolled over and fell asleep. That was the final straw.
I tried to sleep but I couldn't. I was disgusted with myself. I felt used. Defiled. Pathetic. I couldn't stand being in the same bed with him anymore. I went to shower but felt no cleaner even after being at it for hours. When I walked out of the shower, Ralph was still asleep. He had rolled over onto his back and was sleeping face up, his mouth slightly open. That triggered something.
I got dressed in a dark rage. It was 2 am. I resolved to leave immediately. I was halfway out of the door when he groaned. I turned to see his mouth had opened wider. This offended me on a visceral level. Without any thought, I walked back, picked up a pillow, and shoved it into his face. Then I just kept pushing down on the pillow until he started struggling.
"What's the matter?" he asked wide-eyed after finally fighting me off. I never answered him. I walked out and drove home, crying all the way. I slept and cried for a week. I hadn't seen him since that day. He came and tried to talk to me at some point during the weekend but I called the cops on him.
Once my eyes were dry again, I drove up to CIA headquarters in Langley and filled out an application form. A couple of weeks later I got the call. I was going to become a proper assassin and kill that son of a bitch. No one does that to me. No one!
The rage has dissipated over the years and so did my desire to become a killer but the thought of him marrying Zoe just one year after that incident brings it up all again. I watch my body like a disinterested observer. It feels like someone else is carrying out the actions.
I ball a fist and determine the position of his sternum. I know where it is. I probably know his body better than he does. I swing back my hand and throw the punch with all my weight behind it. It lands with a satisfying thump on his solar plexus, bending his diaphragm, and knocking all the wind out of him. Ralph stumbles back, wide-eyed and gasping for breath, then drops like a stone.
Two security guards and another guest run to him. "He's not breathing," a voice says. "Check his pulse," says another. I watch the whole scene with strange disinterest. After a security guard desperately pumps his chest, Ralph coughs and sits up. We make eye contact. He looks stunned. And there's something else on his face. Fear.
"Where did you learn to throw a right hook like that?" The deep sonorous voice comes from behind me. I would recognize it anywhere and yet… It can't be. It can't be him. I turn quickly and too suddenly for my four-inch heels. They weren't made for this kind of motion. I start falling.
Strong hands grab and stabilize me. One around my upper arm and the other around my waist. For a moment, we're practically embracing. I'm close enough to smell his body wash and beneath it, his own intoxicating scent. A tingle runs up my spine as his fingers make contact with the bare skin above the waist of my backless dress. He lets go once I'm steady enough. I want to lean in and embrace him for real. I can barely believe it's him. Aaron.
"Mr. Waller... " Words escape me. The incomplete sentence hangs in the air for an awkward moment.
"Elizabeth. It's good to see you again," he looks amused by my clumsiness. Then he turns and glowers at Ralph with unconcealed hostility. Ralph stumbles to his feet and practically runs off.
"Who's that?" he asks after Ralph is gone.
"Ralph. My ex."
"How long?" Aaron asks with a raised eyebrow.
"Four years now. He came to Houston on business and decided to gatecrash this fundraiser."
He makes that throaty sound then graciously changes the subject, "I heard you have Remington's Bronco Buster on loan from The White House. Where are you hiding it?"
"It's being cleaned."
"I'd like to see it." It's not a request.
"This way," I gesture and lead him away from the party in the museum's gallery.
"About the right hook. Where did you learn to punch like that?" he asks as I lead him down a hallway.
"The ..." I almost give myself up. "...My grandfather taught me," I quickly self-correct. It's not entirely a lie. I used to tuck my thumb in so grandpa taught me how to ball up a fist properly and throw a punch without falling over.
The CIA taught me where to aim that punch. Two quick ones to the kidneys on each side, one to the throat, and one just below the sternum to the solar plexus plus a swift kick in the balls. An opponent bent over in pain is an opponent who isn't fighting back. By the time he raises his head, your gun should be out. Don't punch a man in the head. That's Hollywood nonsense. The skull is harder than your knuckles. Go for the soft bits and hit hard. Fight quick, fight dirty, and most importantly: fight to win, the hand-to-hand combat instructor's voice rings in my head.
"Was he a pugilist, this grandfather of yours?"
"No. Just a draft dodger."
"Vietnam?"
"Yes."
"Can't blame him. My father lost two fingers and half an ear in Vietnam. His brother spent four years as a POW and returned home as an alcoholic. Stupidest war in war in American history."
"Both your father and his brother got drafted? That's terrible."
"No. Uncle Jimmy was the one who was drafted. Father ran off to enlist in the Marines at 17 when he heard his brother had been captured. He believed it was the patriotic thing to do. He wanted to fight communists and probably dreamed of storming a POW camp to rescue Uncle Jimmy. He woke up in Walter Reed with bandages covering half his body."
We go down another hallway, then past a maze of security grates, and finally into the Restoration Department. Nathan Ayles is bent over a painting in the corner of his office, magnifying glass in hand when we walk in. He's half-blind but is still the best art restorer north of the Rio Grande.
He recognizes Aaron immediately and almost salutes. "Aaron," he smiles sheepishly. Then he gets serious, "How is Yvonne? I haven't seen her since Zack's funeral."
"She's soldiering on. You and Lauren should stop by some time. She would appreciate the age-appropriate company. I'm doing my best and so are Brandon and Christine but… we're kids. She needs people her age."
"We will," Ayles promises. "What brings you to my dark corner of the world?"
"You have The Bronco Buster."
"Yes. But you know it belongs to the White House. It's only here on loan," Ayles' tone is beseeching.
"I know. I just want a look."
Ayles hands Aaron a pair of white gloves and extracts the sculpture from its glass casing. Aaron takes it and quietly examines it from multiple angles. "This is the exact sculpture Frederic Remington gave Teddy Roosevelt," Aaron says. It's half a question and half a statement. Ayles just nods.
After another long examination, he hands the bronze sculpture back to Ayles. The two exchange a long look then Ayles puts the Remington back in its case. "It was great seeing you Aaron," Ayles adds as they shake hands.
"You too Nate. Why aren't you down there emptying our wallets with the rest of them?" Aaron asks.
"They can shake you down just fine without my help. Lauren went to visit her sister so I figured I could get some work done instead."
"Ok. Give my regards to Olivia and Lauren," Aaron adds as we depart.
We head back to the party in the lobby. It's the museum's spring fundraiser and the first party I've attended since Stewart's birthday. Aaron is a sight to behold in his black tuxedo and I feel oddly proud walking next to him. The envious looks of the other attendees probably have something to do with it but I decide not to dwell too much on it.
"How do you like working here?"
"It's great. I like it."
"Is it better than working for me?" his gaze narrows and zeroes in on my eyes. That gets the butterflies going and my heart thudding.
"Well..."
"You can say it," he encourages.
"The workload is lighter and there are no performance evaluations." That brings a tiny smile to his face.
"I'm glad you like it." Then a hint of uncertainty enters his voice. I have never heard Aaron speak with anything less than iron certainty. "I had an ulterior motive for coming here today. The Remington is exquisite but it doesn't stir up my passions half as much as you do."
I swallow as I hear that. Did he just… "Would you like to go out to dinner with me, Elizabeth?" he asks.
"Yes!" I blurt out without a second thought and instantly regret it. Curb the excitement you dumb bitch. Make him work for it.
My eagerness doesn't seem to bother Aaron in the slightest. He breaks into a wide smile. It's the first time I've seen him smile fully. "Then let's get out of here. Where's your coat?"
"The fundraiser," I try to protest.
"I brought them a check. They don't need my company. And there are far too many plastic smiles here for my taste. Get your things. I'll go find the museum director. Meet me at the door," Aaron heads off into the crowd.
I get my handbag and coat then make for the door. Aaron is already there, waiting. I observe him quietly before he spots me. He stands still, like a predator prepared to pounce. His face is fierce in its neutral state. The light shining on only one half of his face just makes him appear fiercer. My heart does a little jig.
He lights up as soon as he sees me, closes the distance between us with a single stride, and takes my hand.
"My car," I remember.
"Your keys," Aaron holds out his other hand. I dig them out of my handbag and give them to him. A man materializes out of nowhere and disappears as soon as Aaron tosses him the keys. I'm a little embarrassed that I was unable to spot his bodyguards despite being a highly trained agent. I spot a second one off to our left and possibly a third one but I can't be sure. You're getting rusty.
Aaron holds the door of his Mercedes van for me. The thickness of the door and the reinforced hinges are proof that it's armored. I try lowering the window but it doesn't go all the way down. The glass is over two inches thick. "Bulletproof proof glass," Aaron explains as I fiddle with the window. "It can't stop bullets if it's lowered."
"Who's trying to shoot you?"
"It could be anyone and it could be no one. I don't know. Chalk it all up to paranoia. Codd insists on it whenever I make a public appearance."
"Who is Codd?"
"My head of security. You've met him I'm sure."
Six guns guy. "The bald guy?"
"Yes."
"I've met him. But I didn't know his name. He never told me."
"He's not very talkative. I like that about him."
"Where are you taking me?" I change the topic.
"My basement. I'm going to dismember you and feed you to my dogs." His expression is deadpan.
I'm startled for a moment but that brings a smile to his face. "Too dark?" he asks. "I don't own any dogs."
"Yes. Too dark," I concur, momentarily relieved.
"Brandon told me jokes are a great icebreaker with the ladies. I should have asked for pointers on the kind of jokes that are considered appropriate. Anyway, I'm taking you to a restaurant. Italian."
"And you listen to everything this Brandon tells you?"
"He's my brother. And he has a lot more experience in these kinds of things than I do."
"Big brother?"
This seems to amuse him, "Brandon is three years younger than me. I'm the eldest child. He's just spent more time chasing skirts than I have."
I remember the conversation he had with Nathan Ayles back at the museum. They seemed quite chummy. Brandon and Christine must be the siblings. Yvonne the mother. "And Christine?"
"She's the youngest."
"Your parents named you in alphabetical order?"
He makes that intoxicating throaty sound of his and smiles, "Something like that. My father's name was Zachary, my mother's Yvonne, and our family name is Waller. I suppose they spent far too much time at the bottom of alphabetically-ordered lists and decided to give us kids a fighting chance."
"Mmmh..."
"Well, we're here. The van had come to a stop."
Aaron steps out and holds the car door open for me. I could get used to this, I think pleasantly. Niccolo Federici, the neon sign above the door announces. But the door is closed. It opens as we approach. A stocky man in a chef's hat holds it open as we approach.
"Mr. Waller, welcome." He has a thick Italian accent.
Aaron nods and leads me in. The restaurant is empty. Everything looks new. I look up to him, my eyes transmitting a silent question.
"The restaurant officially opens its doors tomorrow. Niccolo is doing me a favor," Aaron answers my unuttered question.
He leads me to a table by the corner and sits facing the door. I'm quite uncomfortable sitting with my back to the door. Always sit facing the door. Never have an unmonitored opening behind you had been drummed into me at The Farm. Sitting with my back to the door feels unnatural. I can feel my back crawling just at the thought. But I can't throw a tantrum over seating orientation. I have to trust Aaron to watch my back.
Niccolo starts us off with a bowl of bruschetta. It's heavenly. "Wine?" Niccolo asks.
"Bring us your best bottle," Aaron replies.
I notice Aaron flinching as he takes his first sip of the wine. It's a superb dry red that perfectly pairs with the beef cannelloni. "Something wrong with your wine?" I'm curious.
"No. I've just never liked the taste. I'm a barbarian. I prefer coke," he answers with a straight face. It's endearing.
"Mmh... You could ask for a coke," I advise.
"No way," he's adamant. "I can endure half a glass of wine. And it gets easier on the tongue the more you drink. It's the hard liquor that I can't stand."
"I don't think people drink hard liquor for the taste."
"I know. I don't appreciate the effects either. Drunkenness is overrated. I understand the evolutionary significance of drinking… the drunken monkey hypothesis... but we no longer need to get wasted in order to trust those around us."
I don't know how to counter and the wine is making me bolder so I ask the question that has been at the back of my mind this whole time, "Why did it take you so long to ask me out? Was it the fart?"
He chuckles, "No. Everybody farts. Yours was a strong one but I've smelled worse from Brandon." I just drop my eyes in shame. He doesn't seem to notice and continues, "You worked for me. It wouldn't have been fair."
"Fair how?"
"It's kinda hard to say no to the guy who signs your paychecks. I didn't want to put you in that position."
"But Braithwaite signed my paychecks," I try to sound playful.
"And I sign Braithwaite's paychecks," he counters.
"Touché," I concede.
"Besides, It's bad for staff morale," he adds. "Your coworkers wouldn't respect you. They would chalk down all your career advancements to favoritism rather than merit. It creates a very unhealthy work environment."
"There are also the legal repercussions," Aaron continues. "If a relationship turns sour, a junior employee can always claim the boss coerced her into an affair. It's an unwinnable case if you're the boss. Even if you didn't use any explicit threats, subordinates can still insist that they feared for their career prospects if they turned down your advances. There's no way to refute that."
"You think I would sue you?"
"No, Elizabeth. I never got the impression that you would. I was attracted to you but I had no way of knowing if you felt the same. It's just a risk that comes with dating employees. Break-ups aren't always amicable. I have quite a few friends who have had to settle harassment suits because they can't stop banging their assistants. The girls are always mad when they get dumped and then it's settlement time. I didn't want to join that club."
I don't know whether to be offended or impressed by his foresight. Would I sue him if he dumped me? I did want to kill Ralph. That's why I joined the agency. But Ralph cheated on me. Would I react with similar vitriol and try to destroy Aaron if he broke my heart?
I just look at him wordlessly. "Are you angry at me?" he asks.
"I don't know," I reply honestly. "How many of your employees have you dated?"
"None."
"What about former employees?"
"You'll be the first one."
"Really?"
"Yes."
I decide to change the topic, "I heard a rumor around the office."
Aaron just looks at me. Proceed, his gaze says. So I plod on, "It was about you… your… err..."
"The castration rumor?" He doesn't seem bothered in the least.
"Yes," I mumble.
"A lie," he states matter of factly. "A drunken joke Brandon made a few years back that took on a life of its own. But I suppose you'll find out the truth for yourself soon enough." Aaron winks as he says the last statement and my heart rate spikes.
Niccolo diffuses the situation when he brings dessert, tiramisu. It's delicious. Aaron skillfully segues into boyhood adventures with his brother. The tale of Brandon and the tiramisu. It makes me a little jealous having grown up with no siblings.
Aaron takes me home after the date. It's the longest I've heard him speak. The bodyguard materializes out of seemingly thin air again and hands Aaron my keys. My car is already in the driveway. Aaron walks me to my door.
"One last question," I start as we walk down the driveway. "Why do you wear the same outfit every day?"
"Efficiency," he answers simply. I don't quite get it so I just give him a puzzled look. "I don't want to worry about what to wear or what clothes to buy. Or maybe I just couldn't be bothered. I don't think I actually know the real reason now that I think about it. It wasn't a reasoned decision. I just started doing it and nobody has ever dared to question me about it," he concludes. I nod along.
I've had a really good time despite myself. This is the first time I've seen Aaron outside of work and he's not as intimidating as I used to find him. He's actually quite sweet if a little distant emotionally. I used to find his demeanor hostile but I've found it's just a coping mechanism. His eyes mask a lot of sadness. I want to heal him.
I want to invite him in, kiss his pain away, and wake up in his arms in the morning but I'm scared of what he might think of me. I also haven't shaved in a month. So I hug him instead. His scent is so intoxicating that I almost lose it. He runs his right hand gently down my back as he holds me close. I wish he was caressing my bare back. My backless dress should facilitate that. Too bad I'm wearing a coat.
I run my hands up and down his back in response, holding him as tightly as I can. I mash my breasts against his chest in a doomed effort to meld my heart with his. I idly wonder whether I should include this in my diary.
I feel his cock stirring against my stomach. He wants me. Inner me jumps with joy but Aaron pulls back: slightly embarrassed. He leans down and kisses me on the forehead. His lips are warm. I feel that warmth spreading down from my forehead. I want to embrace him and never let go.
"Goodnight Elizabeth," he murmurs while brushing my left cheek with the back of his right hand. Then he turns and walks away. I watch him until he climbs back into his van. We exchange a final wave.