Page 20 of Omega

“What, you can’t divide your attention?”

Harris let out a breath, a very frustrated breath. “Oh for fuck’s sake. You’re impossible.”

Layla had no reaction to this. She just crossed her arms beneath her prominent breasts and stared out the window at the rural New York State scenery.

I glanced at Roth as this exchange occurred. We traded looks, both of us surprised at our respective friends.

I’d never seen Layla interact with anyone this way. She dominated conversation simply by virtue of being louder and talking faster, by being in your face and unapologetic and rowdy and bawdy. She was beautiful, tall, strongly built, had curves for days, and a personality that naturally took up all the attention in any given room. Every guy she’d ever dated or slept with or whatever she wanted to call it, they’d all just gone along with her, because trying to buck her need to control and trying to steer her at all never worked. Not for anyone. She was the epitome of the no-fucks-given mentality, not because she genuinely didn’t care about how she came across, but because she refused to be cowed or dominated or controlled by anyone.

But Harris, with his quiet, calm, unassuming mannerisms, had somehow taken her down a few pegs without even trying. He’d gotten under her skin. No one—nothing—ever got under Layla Campari’s skin. Her skin was so thick it was like armor.

This interaction with Harris had me thinking. Combine this with the overly quick denial that anything could ever happen between her and Harris…

The lady doth protest too much, methinks.

4

THE SYSTEM

We were going to the Turks and Caicos islands.

Population roughly 33,000 people. Geographically, it was an archipelago of forty islands, governed by the UK as a “British Overseas Territory”. Their currency was the US dollar.

It was a paradise with turquoise water, white sand beaches, tiki-hut bars on endless beaches.

I couldn’t wait to get there.

After transferring from the limousine to a small twin-engine jet, Harris took a few minutes to go over his flight plans and to make final arrangements for the trip. Within a few short minutes he had us airborne, flying us several hours south to the Caribbean.

Layla spent much of the flight ignoring Roth and me, her earbuds plugged in, music blaring, reading a book on her Kindle. Then, partway through the flight, without explanation, she went forward and knocked on the door to the cockpit. Harris let her in, and the door closed, and we didn’t see her again until after landing.

As the islands of the Turks and Caicos came into view, I watched with interest as we began our descent. It truly was a special kind of paradise. Under perfect blue skies, Harris made his approach to the Providenciales International Airport and we landed a few minutes later with a perfect no-bounce touchdown.

We taxied to a private hanger where an old-school white Range Rover waited, engine idling. After transferring our baggage to the Rover, Harris drove us away from the airport…in complete silence.

I wasn’t sure what was bothering Layla, or whether Harris was pissed off, but you could cut the silence with a knife. Harris was hard to read when it came to facial expressions, but that was just his way—helikedbeing quiet and inscrutable. Layla was easier to read. She was my best friend, and had been for many years. I knew her inside and out, so it didn’t take much for me to figure out that she was indeed still stewing.Whatexactly her problem was, I wasn’t sure. It was her own filterless, sassy mouth that had embarrassed her, not me.

It was a long drive across Grand Turk Island to a marina where a yacht waited for us. During that time she didn’t look at me, didn’t look at Roth, didn’t look at Harris. She just stared in silence out the window.

The silence between Harris and Layla especially was rather icy and pronounced, and a little awkward. Maybe I was imagining things…or maybe not. Maybe they’d argued while alone together in the cockpit. Or maybe something else had happened.

I watched Layla intently the whole way to the marina. She was leaning against the door, forehead to the glass, watching the scenery, her lovely half-black/half-Italian features schooled into neutrality. I knew that look. It was the look that said she was battling intense inner turmoil, keeping an emotional tsunami from overtaking her.

Layla was an intense person. Everything she did was done at full speed, no holds-barred, all-in. But, emotionally, she could be closed off. Anything real, anything personal, anything deep, and anything that could leave her vulnerable she avoided or kept behind those walls of hers. Even with me, she was very rarely openly emotional, using her smart mouth and colorful vocabulary to deflect anything that got too personal. And if things got too intense she closed down completely, putting out spikes, and refusing to interact until she had it under control.

I would be willing to bet money that something had happened in that cockpit.

Things didn’t improve on the boat ride either. Harris piloted the big antique boat out of the marina and away from Grand Turk in silence, black Oakleys shielding his eyes. His only concession to the Caribbean climate was that he chose to wear a white short-sleeve button-down and khaki trousers, rather than the two-piece suit he usually wore.

The boat was long, low, and open-sided, with a roof to block out the sun. Benches lined the sides, and there was a screened-in sitting room/saloon at the bow, two small cabins belowdecks and the cockpit aft. As soon as we were out of the marina, Layla walked along the outer railing and stood as far forward as she could, her thick, curly hair tied back, a cheap pair of knock-off Ray-Bans on her face, looking completely miserable.

I was tempted to go forward with her and try to get her out of her shell, but something told me she wasn’t ready.

I left Harris alone, too. He was busy piloting the ship, navigating around the many small islands and reefs. I knew him well enough to know he wouldn’t say a word to me about whatever may or may not have happened between him and Layla.

That left Roth and me to lounge on the starboard-side bench, the wind in our hair, warm salt water leaping up in spits and sprays as we rolled over the shallow waves.

“She okay?” Roth asked, nodding at Layla, who was visible standing at the port railing, staring out at the water.