Page 16 of The Friends and Rivals Collection

THE LONG CON

Axel

We visit the Fountain of Neptune next, then the Piazza Colonna. Finally, we trek toward the Trevi Fountain.

The day hurtles toward evening. Hazel yawned only a few times during the afternoon. I might have logged a few too. I am looking forward to bedtime more than I usually do. Sleep is awesome, and it’ll be more awesome tonight.

As the sun dips low, we reach the popular landmark made famous in La Dolce Vita and every travel guide ever created for Rome.

A tourist trap? Yes.

But landmarks become unmissable for a reason.

The Trevi Fountain is a stunner. When we arrive at it, Hazel draws a big, satisfied breath then stares at the sight in front of us.

She doesn’t snap photos of it. She simply inhales the moment.

I can appreciate that even as throngs of tourists surround us, a far too familiar experience for me.

One that takes me way back in time.

To days and years I’d rather not remember.

I try to shake off the unpleasant thoughts.

So far, this tour guide routine is a decent way to survive being with her on day one, so I launch into the history of the fountain, how it took thirty years to build and the architect died before seeing its completion, how the fountain’s more gorgeous at night when there are fewer people and it’s illuminated, and how more than three thousand euros are tossed in the fountain daily.

When I’m done, Hazel levels me with a curious stare. “All right, Huxley. What’s the story with you and fountains?”

Whoa. Talk about diving into the deep end with her cross-examination.

“Since I noticed a theme,” she adds.

“Because I took you to fountains after you asked to see them? That’s a theme of mine?” I ask, both reminding her why we’re following this travel route today and deflecting from her insightful question at the same time.

She’s undeterred, though. “You have fountains in a few of your books. There’s usually something noble that happens at one.”

She’s like a fucking microscope zooming in on all my baggage. It’s not fair. But life’s not fair, so I have to be smarter, faster, and nimbler than anyone I encounter.

Life lessons from Pops. Some of the only useful things I learned from him.

“Fountains are cool,” I say evasively, but that’s not a smarter, faster, or nimbler answer.

It’s a stupidly obvious one. No shit fountains are cool, and that answer won’t throw a bloodhound like Hazel off the scent.

“Like in A Lovely Alibi ,” she continues, clearly not giving a fuck that I’m avoiding answering her.

“After a chase scene, the hero catches up with his buddies at a fountain in Vienna. In A Beautiful Midnight , he meets the heroine at the fountain at Lincoln Center. And of course in A Perfect Lie , there’s the climactic scene right here.

You like fountains and you use them for good in your stories.

” She sweeps out her hand like she’s presenting all the evidence—the evidence of seeing right through me.

That won’t do.

I scratch my jaw as casually as I can, like everything is no big deal. “Water is good. Rome is a city of fountains built on a series of aqueducts. This whole city is an ode to H2O,” I say, and hey, maybe that’ll fool the opposing counsel.

She shakes her head. “I don’t think this cigar is just a cigar. I think fountains are special to you, like wishes are to me. Want to know why I like wishes?”

Oh, shit. It’s the old secret-for-a-secret game. It’s a classic con. I’ll tell you mine, you tell me yours . I should say nah, I’m good.

I don’t.

“Sure,” I say, I’m fascinated by her obsession with wishes. It seems so out of character for the Hazel I know. Or that I think I know.

“Veronica and I used to wish upon stars,” she says, a small smile shifting her lips. “When we were growing up, we’d climb up to the roof and make wishes. The skies were bright in Wistful at night.”

“Yeah?” I ask, liking the story of her and her sister far too much.

“We’d make wishes for lunch the next day. Mac and cheese, and sandwiches. And for bigger things. Like being a rock star or an astronaut or president.”

I latch onto the last one, kind of digging it. “Which of those did you wish for?”

“All three.”

“Naturally,” I say.

“I wanted to be everything,” she adds. “Now I just get to write about everything.”

“Best job ever,” I say.

“It is. I make my characters’ wishes come true. When I was younger, though, I just wanted a tree fort so Veronica and I could read and make wishes in it.”

There’s a note of sadness in her voice now. I prompt gently, “That didn’t happen?”

“Not at first. My dad refused to build us one. Said we needed to learn some grammar rules first or whatever. A few years after my parents split, I taught myself how to build one. So I made a tree house for Veronica and me,” she says, squaring her shoulders, lifting her chin, damn proud of her accomplishment.

She’s never mentioned any of this before. Not that she told me everything when we worked together. Not by a long stretch.

Still, this is the old Hazel here today. The one I worked with. The one I wrote with. The one who shared stories with me. But she never shared this story. I don’t know what to make of this openness, or how to trust it.

“Why are you telling me this?” I ask, cautious.

She meets my gaze, looking tired but guileless.

“Honestly,” she says, stifling a yawn, “I wanted to share something, so you would too. I just really want to know about your fountains. I saw the puzzle pieces in your books. I know the fountains mean something. To you . Just like wishes do for me.” With a helpless shrug, she says, “I’m curious about you. ”

Yeah, it’s the time-honored tit-for-tat con.

And it works like a key in a well-oiled lock.

My childhood memories play out in sepia tones as I stare at the fountain. “My dad always said fountains were perfect spots for cons,” I begin, diving into the deep end.

“Oh,” she says, her back straightening, her tone surprised, like she didn’t think I’d go there. “He did?”

“Yeah. He honed his pickpocket skills at fountains.” I hold up my palm like my dad did when he’d teach me a con. “He told me, See how everyone’s looking the same way? They’re looking at the water and their wallets and purses are loose since they’re taking them out to grab coins to make wishes .”

Hazel clutches her purse closer. Smart move. I’m sure the square is teeming with thieves.

“Then he said: They’re usually on vacation, so they’re happier. Happy people and lonely people are easy marks for a short con .” I draw a deep breath and finish the heartwarming tale, “Then he looked at me, all fatherly, all teacherly and said, Don’t ever be a mark .”

Her green eyes flicker, perhaps with sadness, maybe even empathy. She has a shitty dad too. But she also looks like she’s adjusting to this new information. It’s one thing for her to know my dad’s a grifter; it’s another to know he taught me to follow in his footsteps.

“That also means—don’t be happy, Axel,” she says, heavily.

“Dad’s motto,” I say heavily, then since I’ve unlocked this door, I kick it open. “Then he told me: Alexander, you have to remember to always be suspicious. Be wary. Question everything. Otherwise you’re a mark .”

There was nothing worse than being a mark. A mark was a fool.

“That’s a tough thing to hear,” she says, then she reaches for my bicep, squeezes it.

Fuck, that feels good.

I keep talking even when she lets go of me.

I can’t seem to stop. “He taught me how to pickpocket at Lincoln Center. Then he helped me refine the technique in Florida when I went to visit him. So many fountains in Boca, Palm Springs, Miami Beach. So many old people, so many marks. They’re either happy or lonely ,” I say, and even though I’m trying to strip the acid from my tone, I can hear it in my voice.

More so I can feel it in my throat as I speak of my father.

“What was that like? Growing up with that?” she asks, with no agenda other than concern, it seems. “You must have been so young.”

“Six, seven, eight,” I say, recounting. “See, I was more valuable to him then. I could play on people’s sympathies.

Prey on them, really. I was the kid lost from his parents, asking for help, for money.

He’d teach me the script, make me practice it, then send me out into the world of marks,” I say, letting the light shine on my whole damn story.

“You were in grade school and he made you grift?”

“He did,” I say, tightly.

“Axel,” she says, my name full of sympathy. But a new kind, one perhaps born from this new understanding she was so damn curious about.

I heave a sigh, then shrug. “What can you do? We all go through stuff. You just figure out what to do with it,” I say, since I can’t open the door any farther. It’s off its hinges.

“Is he still conning?”

“He lives in Florida. Land of the scam. He’s graduated to online scams for the most part. But they work well enough for him.”

“And now you rewrite fountains,” she says, shifting the topic as she gestures to the water.

“I’m sure if he read my books, he’d laugh at me. He’d see through me. He’d know what I’d done.”

She shakes her head. “Don’t give him so much credit,” she says, in a strangely protective tone. “What you did is clever. And cathartic. I don’t think anyone, especially a con artist, could see it. It takes someone who knows how to look, to really look, and to really want to know.”

Like you? I want to ask. Someone like you? And do you really want to know me? Is that your goal?

But I don’t ask any of that. That’s a recipe for rejection.

Instead, I reach into my pocket for another coin. Flip it in the water. Add to today’s Trevi Fountain haul. “Want to know what I wished for?”

“Tell me,” she says eagerly.

“Gelato.”

“Now it won’t come true.” She pouts.

“Oh, but it will.” My gaze drifts to a gelato cart on the other side of the fountain. “Want some?”

“Yes.”

I make my way to the cart as I keep my real wish private.

The same one I wished for earlier—to pull off the long con of this trip.

I make the wish again as we eat the gelato, then as we head to the hotel, and once more as we take the elevator to the third floor.

We step out together.

This is the moment when I have to bang that wish into my skull. Because everything— every single thing —about this moment reminds me of the things I once wanted.

When she reaches her room, she heaves a weary sigh, one that says that was a long day, but a good one . “Thanks for taking me to jet lag school. I guess you’re a smidge rugged after all.”

“And a smidge is more than a tidge,” I say.

“It is.” Her brow knits. She’s deep in thought for a few seconds. “You know, this is going to sound weird. I kind of can’t believe I’m about to say this,” she says, then takes a beat, gearing up, “But I had a good time today.”

I could do something with the compliment, return it with a legitimate one of my own like I did too. Instead, I say, “Don’t worry. I won’t tell a soul you had fun with me.”

I’m home safe like this. Just a few feet to my room and I can shut the door and escape from her for the night.

I turn to go, but she blindsides me.

Her arms are holy-fuck fast. They wrap around me. I tense. I don’t know what to do with my hands. I don’t know what to do with her.

“Thanks again. But you still owe me double lunch,” she says into my shoulder, her hair brushing against my neck, her breasts against my chest.

It’s like a dream.

And just like that, I know what to do with my hands. I wrap my arms around her waist, taking what I can get, even though it’s risky.

Even though it probably makes me a mark.

I close my eyes. Breathe her in. Imagine .

Picturing the rest of the night in her room.

Then I break the embrace, almost jumping away from her. “Night,” I say quickly. Then I wheel around, head down the hall, and unlock my room in record time so I don’t do something stupid, like tell her what I wished for—that she’d never know why I walked away from our partnership.

That I left because spending every day with the object of your unrequited love hurts like hell.