Page 61 of Exposed
The elevator whooshes open, nodinghere. Just the door sliding open to frame you. My throat closes and my mouth goes dry. You are shirtless and sweaty, wearing a pair of tight black sweatpants with the elastic cuffs tugged up to the knee, pristine white socks peeking up over the edge of black athletic shoes. Your muscled chest is coated in a sheen of sweat, beads trickling down between your pectorals, shining on your biceps, running down from your hairline over your temple and into the day-old stubble on your jaw. Your chest heaves rapidly. Cords trail from your ears, meet beneath your chin, and extend to your cell phone, which is in your hand. You are speaking rapidly in fluent Mandarin as you enter, and your eyes find me. A gleam mars the blankness of your expression as you see me, and I think you almost smile.
Even half naked and sweating, you are a work of art, perfect even thus—perhaps even especially thus—crafted particularly to please the female eye. To rile the female libido.
I take a large swallow of whisky to fortify my nerves, letting out a breath as you approach, still talking in a low voice in Chinese. You stand two feet away from me, and I smell the sweat on you. The person on the other end of your conversation is speaking now, judging by your focused silence, and you reach down, take my glass from me, drain the rest of my scotch.
Gesture at the bottle with the glass as if I’m your servant, sent to fetch more for the imperious master.
I do so, refilling the glass, but I remain by the table and drink it myself, staring at you. I place the cigar in my teeth, baring them, an unladylike expression in the extreme, and replace the crystal stopper in the decanter. You lift your chin and your eyes crackle, spark, spit fire. You see then. You see that I will not be cowed any longer.
You spin away, stalk to the kitchen, say a few angry-sounding words in Mandarin, then resume listening as you pull two bottles of water from the refrigerator. You down one without stopping for breath as you listen. Say a few sentences, pause and listen, say a few more, and then slowly drink the second bottle.
Ignoring me now, are you? Fine by me. I take my seat and stare out at Manhattan, swilling my second glass of scotch and feeling the first. Smoking my cigar. Studiously not rehearsing what I will say, because I know whatever I might imagine you will say, it will not be close to the truth. You are not predictable.
Finally, you say what sounds like a good-bye, touch the screen, and stand in silence for moments more, finishing your water.
You turn to me. “Good morning, Isabel.” This, from the kitchen, many feet away from where I sit.
“Good morning, Caleb.”
“Early for scotch, isn’t it?” Your voice, so calm, so deep, so deceptively hypnotic. Like staring into a sinkhole, unplumbed depths, darkness and mystery and danger.
I shrug. “I haven’t been to sleep yet, so it is late, for me.”
Your expression hardens at this. “I see. And how is Logan?”
“None of your concern,” I return. “Whatisyour concern is that he told me how you got him put in prison.”
You smirk. “Ah. He told his side of the story, did he?”
“His side?”
A nod. “There are two to every story, aren’t there?” You swagger to me. Sit in the chair opposite mine, nearly empty water bottle in hand. “He went into the situation eyes open, Isabel. He knew exactly what he was getting himself into, but wasn’t smart enough to not get caught.”
“So what he told me is true.”
“Oh yes. Very much so. He was a pawn. I used him, kept him disposable, and let him take the fall when the SEC came knocking. I was grooming him for it the entire time, keeping him isolated, keeping him flush with cash, making sure he had the requisite skills to do what I needed. And he did. So I made use of him. Lured him in, hook, line, and sinker. And then, yes, I intentionally set him up to take his share the blame when things went bust, as I always knew they would. And really, I didn’t set him up. I just made sure he was out in the open and I wasn’t. I didn’t accuse him of or frame him for anything he didn’t do. If you’re going to commit a crime, you have to plan on getting caught, and have a plan for getting away when you do.Your boyfriend was a sucker, Isabel. And if you’re expecting an apology or an explanation for that, or for any of the many ways I’ve made my fortune... well, don’t hold your breath. I will not apologize to anyone, not for anything.”
“I would never expect an apology from you, Caleb.”
“You know me better than that, obviously.”
“No one knows you, Caleb.”
You finish your water and crumple the bottle into a ball, twisting on the cap. “Not true. You know me. Better than anyone, I think.”
“Which is saying something, because you are a complete mystery to me.”
You merely breathe and stare at me for a while, and I merely breathe and stare back. I set my scotch down. I’ve had enough. I’ll need my wits about me for this, something tells me.
The silence extends. The history between you and Logan is irrelevant, really. It doesn’t concern me, or the crux of my problems. It’s rather underwhelming, actually.
“What do you want, Isabel?” you ask, eventually.
“I don’t know,” I say, truthfully. “I wish I did.”
I hand you my glass of scotch, but keep the cigar. It’s something to do with my hands, something to distract myself from your beauty. You take the tumbler and swirl the amber contents, toss back a sip. I watch your Adam’s apple bob as you swallow.
Your eyes pin me. “Youdoknow, you’re just afraid to say it to me.”