Love Beyond Words (City Lights: San Francisco Book 1) (26 page)

Por favor.
She knew that, of course. And
esposa
…It sounded familiar. A word similar to its English counterpart.
Mi esposa
…
Some voice in her mind, distant and faint, screamed at her to wake up and listen.
Yes! Yes!
it cried.

“Yes,” Natalie murmured, and then she slipped under completely.

David Thompson was having a shitty week. First, Julian had decided to keep that insipid Natalie in his life after all. He’d had three days of bliss watching Julian shuffle around the apartment in misery, waiting for her to reply to some letter he’d sent her. David thought no one mourned as beautifully.

These were the times David cherished, when Julian’s heart was bruised and he was susceptible to ministrations of comfort. David was certain that a little more pain, and then a little more of his own shoulder to cry on, and Julian would discover that the one constant in his life, the one person who never hurt but always helped, was David.

But when he came into the apartment on Monday morning, Julian was nowhere to be found and the cloying scent of Natalie’s perfume was all over his bed sheets.

David cursed and locked himself in his office. The charity donation statements were almost done. He’d spent his entire weekend making them from scratch: copying the logos and making false headers from three different charities he thought Julian would approve of. Then he’d had to create false declarations of donations with painstaking care for authenticity. Julian wouldn’t look too closely but Natalie would. She would know too, that no one handed over huge amounts of cash, not even for charity. He’d have to somehow work it out that Julian alone would see the donation statements and put an end to the mess.
But how can you keep taking the money now to pay Cliff? They’ll be watching you, Julian and Natalie both.
And despite all, he still
had to deposit the newest dividend check—the one Julian had intercepted—in order to make the April payment.

When he got in trouble a child, his mother used to warn him he was treading on thin ice.
I have to get out of this mess with Cliff. I have to.

A little after ten o’clock he heard the security console beep and then rummaging in the kitchen; Julian coming in from his morning jog, David guessed. Natalie had class during the day. Julian was alone. His heart thudding dully, David gathered up the false statements and headed out.

The tinny sound of Len Gordon’s voice over the speakerphone stopped him. He peeked around the corner to watch Julian make some breakfast and talk to his editor. He looked invigorated from his run, and content, at ease with the world. David’s hands grew cold and the papers rustled like fall leaves as they slipped out of his hands.

“That is fantastic news, Julian. I can’t tell you how happy I am to hear it.”

Julian smiled wryly. “I’ll bet you are.”

“Oh, come on now. You know I only want what’s best for you.”

“Yes, Len, I know. You’ve been great.”

“What made you change your mind? After all this time?”

David leaned in, his heart in his throat.

“There are several reasons. But foremost, it would make my girlfriend happy to have the writing appreciated by someone other than her.” Julian smiled to himself. “Just don’t tell her I said that.”

“Your girlfriend is my hero and you
can
tell her I said that. Now, what do you envision?”

Julian sliced bell peppers as he spoke, casually, and completely unaware that he was destroying David with every successive word.

“I don’t want a lot of press,” he said, “but I suppose that would be unavoidable to a certain extent.”

“Completely unavoidable.”

“Then here’s what I want: I want to get it all done at one time. No more than one press statement, or whatever you need, to go along with the book’s release and promotion.”

There was a gurgling sound on the other end. David imagined Len sitting in his posh office in a Manhattan sky rise, choking on his lunch at his good fortune.

“Are you saying you’re willing to promote the book?”

“If I have to.” Julian cracked two eggs into a skillet. “I’d like to have its publicity coincide with the so-called ‘big reveal’ and then I’m done. One book tour, one round of interviews, and nothing else.”

There was silence on the other end and then, almost tearfully, “You’ll do a book tour?”

“
One
book tour,” Julian said. “No more. Not for any other book. It’s a one-time deal. If I have to suffer the curiosity, I’d rather just do it all it once and then go about my life, honestly and openly, but not in the public eye. I can’t imagine there’d be much of a fuss about me anyway, so don’t get it into your head to create one.”

“Of course not,” Len said.

Of course not,
David sneered.
Not Len Gordon…the man who implores Julian to give up his secret at every available opportunity. Not Mr. Discretion…

“And not yet,” Julian said. “Our deal is still on. The book isn’t finished. I haven’t even begun transcribing it into the computer. When it’s done, we’ll go from there.”

“You’re the boss,” Len said but David could hear his ear-to-ear smile.

Julian must have too. “Nothing crazy, Len. I mean it.”

“It is what it is, Julian.”

“I’m not a movie star.” Julian neatly folded his omelet and slid it onto a plate.

“In the literary world you are.”

“Toni Morrison is a star,” Julian said. “Gabriel García Márquez was a star,
Dios tenga en su Gloria
.
” He crossed himself. “Cormac McCarthy, J.K. Rowling...”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Your humility is giving me a headache,” Len chuckled. “So what’s the ETA on the book? One month? Two?”

“I’m not sure,” Julian said. “Maybe a month before I can send you anything, at least.”

Len’s sigh sounded like a small hiss. “You torture me, Julian. You really do.”             

“Cry it out on the yacht
Coronation
bought you.”

The two men laughed. David felt as though it was at his expense. They said their good-byes and Julian sat down to eat his omelet and read the newspaper—the newspaper David had thoughtfully left on his desk that morning. Because he cared.

Like an actor doing a second take, he snuck back down the hall, opened and closed his office door loudly, and came into the living room.

“Good morning,” Julian beamed but if faded as David approached. “Are you feeling all right? You look a little gray.”

“It’s nothing,” David muttered. “Or maybe something,” he said, thinking of what he needed to do. “Maybe I should go home so as not get you sick too.”

“Go home so you can
get better
. Don’t worry about me,” Julian said. He wasn’t afraid of illness, never had been.
He never gets sick. Ever.
David’s blood curdled at the unfairness of it all.

“Here are the charity donation statements you asked for,” he said dully, holding out the papers. “I found three months’ worth, but I can get more if you want to see them.”

A pained look flitted over Julian’s face. He hardly glanced at the papers, let alone made a move to take them out of David’s hand. “Go home, David. Get some rest. If there’s anything you need, please call me.”

Magnanimous this morning, aren’t we?
David sneered. Julian could afford to be. He was successful, wealthy, loved and in love, and about to become famous to those who cared about such literary things. But a shard of fear cut through David’s self-pity when he thought of what would happen to Julian should he reveal himself.
The danger…
He instantly felt terrible for mocking him.

“Yes, maybe I’ll do that. I’ll go home and rest.” He hoped the sweat that had broken out on his forehead appeared symptomatic.

“Thank you, David,” Julian said, “for all your hard work. And for forgiving me for not going to you directly over this whole thing. You’re a better friend to me than I have been to you.”

David muttered something noncommittal, and moved as quickly as he thought plausible for someone coming down with the flu. Outside, he revved his Audi and tore down the streets. He felt like vomiting. The irony made him want to cry.

David slowed his car down long before arriving at Orbit, the dread taking the urgency out of him. He rolled into the small parking lot behind the club, mindful of the glittering puddles of shattered glass that menaced his tires every time.

Cliff’s third-in-command, Jesse—his cousin or nephew or some such—answered his knock at the back door.

David had always thought Jesse should have been a cop or firefighter, someone in uniform. A blond, good-looking man in his mid-twenties; he had the appearance and charisma of someone competent and sharp, who watched the world through weary-beyond-his-years blue eyes, as if there were too much to fix and not enough time to fix it all.

“What do you want?” Jesse asked. “Is it delivery day already?”

“No,” David said, drawing himself up. “Is Cliff here? I need to speak with him.”

Jesse peered over David’s shoulder, nodded once, and opened the door. “Make it quick. I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be seen hanging around here.”

“I agree.” David followed Jesse along the dimly lit hallway, their footsteps clapping on cheap linoleum. “If you three would leave me and Rafael alone, you wouldn’t have to see me here ever again.”

Jesse didn’t say anything.

The hallway was short and dingy, with scuffed white-walled paneling and fluorescent lighting that cast a greenish tinge to everything. Three doors opened on tiny offices and a storage space on side. On the left, there was one door and that led, after a longer corridor, to the public restrooms and then the club. At the end of this hallway, was Cliff’s office. The door was closed. Before Jesse could knock, David took his arm.

“Help me, Jesse,” he pleaded. “You’ve always seemed like a good guy. Help me convince Cliff to end this. It’s getting bad. I’m afraid…”

“Let go of my arm.”

“Please. This is getting dangerous and you know it.”

Jesse seemed to hesitate.

“It can’t go on forever,” David prodded. “You know that. You’re the only one who knows that, I think.”

The other man looked up at him and pity flashed behind his eyes. But then he said, “It’s not my decision to make. Talk to Cliff.” He knocked on the door while David sagged.

From inside: “What?”             

Jesse opened the door. “David Thompson’s here to see you.”

Cliff glanced up from the pile of papers on his cluttered, detritus-strewn desk, his expression sharp. “The fuck, Jesse? You bring him in here?”

“He said he needed to talk.”

Cliff swore again and tilted back in his chair, making it creak under his girth. He looked David over with ugly blue eyes—pig’s eyes, folded in flesh—and laced meaty fingers behind his head of straw-colored blond hair.

He straightened to his full height and said, “It’s over, Cliff. No more.”

Cliff raised his bushy blond eyebrows. “Is that so?” He nodded at Jesse. “Shut the door. And stay.”

Jesse obeyed.

“What’s got your panties in a twist now, Dave?”

“Ju—Rafael Mendón is going to go public. You can’t blackmail him anymore. It’s over,” he repeated, hoping the simple voicing of those words would make them true.

“Is that a fact?”

“You can’t blackmail someone for a secret they’re no longer keeping…”

“That is true.” Cliff held out his hands. “I guess that means I’m now blackmailing you.”

“What?” David screeched. “What…what do you mean?”

“You said it yourself. You can’t blackmail a person for a secret they’re not keeping. I couldn’t give two shits what the writer does. So he blows his cover?” Cliff shrugged. “Big deal. But it’s
you
who has the secret now, Dave. You’ve been stealing from Mendón for almost a year. Two hundred grand. That’s a big, expensive secret, Dave, and if you want to make sure Mendón doesn’t find out about it, you’ll keep making your deposits here. To me.”

David swallowed hard. “No. I won’t do it. I can’t.”

Cliff settled back into his chair. “Oh, I think you can find a way.” He nodded at Jesse, indicating that this meeting was over.