Madame X (Madame X #1) (23 page)

“Are you one of Caleb’s girls?” The question is unexpected, throws me off balance.

“I don’t know what you mean.” My voice is carefully modulated into cool neutrality.

“Of course you don’t.” He doesn’t sound surprised, and he also doesn’t sound as if he believes me. He sighs, rubs his face with both
hands. “You know what? Let’s forget that for the moment. I need food. Will you have lunch with me, Madame X?” He glances at his wrist, at the thick black rubber timepiece there. “Or dinner, I guess it would be, at this point.”

“I—” I am hungry. I’m also afraid of Logan’s many sharply pointed questions. Hunger wins out over caution. “Yes. I suppose I will.”

“Good. You need to get dressed, then, and I need to change.” A moment, then, in which neither of us seems willing to turn away first. Finally, Logan sighs. “I’m sorry, X. I didn’t mean to question you or make you mad. I just . . . there’s a lot I don’t know, and I want—I want to know you.”

I could weep again at the vulnerable sincerity in his voice. “You’re right, you know. I
am
complicated. But I’m also not. It’s just . . . hard for me to talk about myself. I am unaccustomed to trying, so you’ll have to be forgiving if I’m not always very . . . forthcoming.”

“I’ll do my best to be patient, but you should understand one thing about me: When I find something I want, I go after it, hard.”

I can only swallow hard and wonder how I’m supposed to respond to that. “Okay,” is all I can manage.

“Get dressed, X,” he says, his voice rougher than it’s ever been, “before you discover how much self-control it’s taking to not . . . ravish you senseless.”

“Ravish?” Once again, I sound faint. I am clearly not myself around this man.

“Ravish. You like old books, right? That’s an old-book sort of word. It means—”

“I know what it means.” A little sharper, a little more myself.

“Yet you’re still standing there, basically naked.” He takes a step toward me, and never has a man appeared so primal, so intimidatingly, sexually male as Logan in this moment, his hard, lean, lupine form filling the narrow hallway, naked but for jeans, hands fisted at
his sides, head tipped forward so all I can see are sharp cheekbones and fiery eyes. “I had you naked in my arms, X. I could have had you up against the wall. But I didn’t.”

“Why not?” I breathe the question, frozen in place like a deer that’s scented a predator.

“Because you’re not ready. Not for what I want.”

“And what do you want, Logan?”

Another step. Mere molecules separate us, yet again. A breath, and I’d be in his arms, and I know nothing would stop the inevitable, should our flesh touch again.

“
Everything
, Madame X. I want everything.” He towers over me, my head tipped back so I can look up at him, and our lips are nearly touching, but not quite. “Everything, and then some.”

He’s right.

I’m not ready.

He swivels out of my way, and I let out a shallow breath, one of something very like relief, and push past him. Now I am become Lot’s wife: I turn back, press my spine to the door, and my eyes lock on Logan’s. I fumble for the doorknob, never taking my eyes off Logan’s. Stepping through and shutting the door between us takes every ounce of will I possess, and he does not turn away, does not blink, does not so much as breathe as I put the door between us.

And even then, I sense him there, still, on the other
side.

H
e takes me to a tiny Italian place. We walk there, a half hour of walking hand in hand across town.

The streets are wet, the trees dripping scintillating droplets in the golden evening haze. The sun has returned, peeking between clouds and skyscrapers to illuminate everything with a sheen of decadent brilliant light, making everything seem romantic and beautiful and perfect.

I feel no panic at being outside, and it is incredible.

“I love this time of day,” Logan says, apropos of nothing. “Photographers call it the golden hour.”

“It is beautiful,” I say, my heart full of joy at the simple luxury of this moment.

He gestures at the sunlight streaming at us from between the buildings to our left as we cross an intersection. “You know, the Japanese have a word.
Komorebi.
It means the way sunlight filters through the trees in a forest. I’ve always thought there should be a similar word, something that captures this time of day, in this place. The way
the sun is such a perfect gold that you can almost but not quite look directly at it, the way it’s framed by the buildings, shines off the glass, turns everything beautiful.” He looks at me. “So beautiful.”

Is he referring to me? Or to the sunlight, the moment?

We walk on, and I memorize this. His hand in mine, his fingers tangled between my fingers, his thumb rubbing in small circles on the web of skin between my thumb and forefinger. The beauty of the city, the air warm and lush and smelling of fresh rain, the familiar cacophony of New York, freedom, the man beside me.

“There’s another word,” he says, once again breaking the silence. “This one is Sanskrit.
Muditaˉ
”—he says it
moo-dee-tah
—“and it means . . . how do I put it? To take joy in the happiness of someone else. Vicarious happiness.”

I watch him, and wait for him to elaborate.

He glances at me, a smile lighting up his beautiful face. “I’m experiencing
muditaˉ
right now, watching you.”

“Really?” I ask.

He nods. “Oh yeah. You’re looking at everything like it’s just the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.”

I wish I could explain it to him. “Everything
is
beautiful, Logan.”

“And I just . . . I love that innocence, I guess. I tend to be jaded, a lot of the time. I’ve seen a lot, you know? A lot of nasty shit, and it’s easy to forget the beautiful.” He pauses. “I like odd words, because they capture things in ways English doesn’t. They capture the beauty of little moments. Words like
komorebi
remind me to put aside my general disillusionment and just enjoy the now.”

“What kinds of things have you seen, Logan?” I ask, although I’m not sure why, or if the answer will be something I can stomach.

He doesn’t answer, just directs me with a nudge to my elbow through a low doorway into a dark restaurant, accordion music playing, garlic scent strong in the air.

He waves at an old man wiping down a red-and-white checkered tablecloth. “Got a table out back for me, Gino?”

“Yeah, yeah, course I do. Go on, go on. Sit, I’ll bring wine and bread for you and your pretty friend.” Gino smiles and hustles off into the kitchen, hunched over but moving faster than I’d have thought possible.

Logan leads me through a back door and into a tiny open-air courtyard. I could probably touch both walls if I lay down, but there are four tables crowded into the space, three of them occupied by other couples. White lights on a string are draped around the perimeter of the wall over our heads, hanging on nails driven into old crumbling brick.

We’ve barely had time to sit, Logan with his back facing the wall, when Gino returns, a wicker basket full of garlic bread in one hand, a bottle of wine and two goblets in the other. He sets the basket of bread between us and then pours the wine, a dark ruby liquid.

“This is a good Malbec,” Gino says. “From Argentina, ’cause no good Malbec ever came from anywhere else. It’s good, very good. You like it, I think.”

“Is there wine I don’t like, Gino? Answer me that.”

“Shitty wine, that’s what,” Gino says, setting a glass in front of me. He and Logan both laugh, but if there’s a joke, I’ve missed it.

Both men stare at me, expectant. Apparently I’m supposed to try it first? Another new experience. Tentatively, remembering the last time I tried red wine, I take a sip.

This is different. Smoother, not biting at my taste buds quite as hard. Flavorful, but not overpowering. I nod. “I like it. But I’m not a wine expert.”

“Who’s a wine expert? Not me,” Gino says, “certainly not this joker. No sommeliers here,
mia bella
, just good wine and good food.”

“
Mia bella?
” I ask.

“It just means ‘my beautiful,’” Logan answers.

“Hey, who’s Italian around here, buddy? Not you, that’s for damn sure. You wouldn’t know
bella
from
bolla
. Leave the language of love to me, heh?”

“I thought French was the language of love?” Logan laughs.

“Nah, nah. Italiano.
Italiano é molto più bella.
” Gino waves a hand. “Bah. French. Sounds like a duck blowing its nose. But to speak Italiano is to sing, my friend. Now. What you have to eat?”

“Surprise us, Gino. But be warned, we’re both very hungry.”

“Mama’s in the back, and you know how she is. You’ll need a crane to get you out of here before she finishes with you. You’ll be so stuffed you’ll beg for mercy. And then she’ll make you dessert!” He laughs, an uproarious belly laugh that, although I once again have missed the humor, is nonetheless catching.

I find myself grinning, and sipping the wine, which is, as he said, very, very good.

Alone once more, Logan leans forward, his forearms on the table. “Gino’s an old friend. And he wasn’t kidding about Maria. She’ll keep sending food out until we can’t eat any more.”

I take a sip of wine. “This is perfect, Logan. Thank you.”

He glances at me, and his eyes narrow, his brow furrows. “Am I allowed to ask you questions, X?”

“If you answer them yourself, sure.”

“It’s a deal,” he says. “And you drive a hard bargain. I’m not much for talking about myself, either.”

“So we’re quite the closed-mouth pair, aren’t we?”

He nods, laughing, and tears a piece of garlic bread off the loaf. “Guess we are.” He chews, swallows, and his smile fades. “I guess I’ll start with the obvious first: How is it you know so little about yourself?”

I sigh, a long breath of resignation. “I can answer that in four words: acute global retrograde amnesia.”

Logan blinks as if trying to process what he’s hearing. “Amnesia.”

“Right.” I attempt to cover my discomfort with a large mouthful of Malbec.

“Acute global retrograde amnesia,” he repeats, and leans back in his chair as Gino arrives with a large bowl of salad and two plates, dishing a generous portion to each of us before vanishing once more without a word. When he’s gone, Logan picks at the salad with his fork, spearing some romaine and a chunk of fresh mozzarella, his eyes on me as he does so. “Can you unpack that a bit for me?”

I take a few bites, sorting out my thoughts. “It just means I have no clue who I used to be. I suffered a severe cranial trauma, which affected my ability to recall anything about myself whatsoever. I have no memories prior to waking up in the hospital. None. That was six years ago, and I haven’t recalled anything either, so the doctors say it is unlikely I ever will. Many amnesia patients experience what is called temporally graded amnesia, meaning they won’t remember events nearer the trauma, but will remember pertinent information about themselves and their past farther back, childhood memories and the like. Most patients can and will experience spontaneous recovery, wherein they recall most of the forgotten information, although events immediately prior to the trauma will often still be absent. The severity of the trauma and damage to the neural pathways determines the severity and permanence of the loss of memory. In my case, the trauma was extremely severe. That I survived at all, that I woke from the coma at all, much less was able to function on anything like a normal level? It is considered an unexplainable miracle. That I escaped the accident with
only
amnesia, however severe, is a cause for celebration. Or so I was told. But the
fact remains, I woke up with no memories. No knowledge of myself whatsoever.”

Logan seems shaken. “Damn, X. What
happened
?”

“No one is entirely sure. I was . . . found by—by someone.” I don’t dare even think the name. “I was nearly dead. A mugging gone horribly wrong, it is thought. I should have died. And, I’m told, I
did
die on the operating table. But they brought me back, and I survived. I had a family, but they died and I did not. They were murdered, and I escaped, somehow. Or . . . so I’m told.”

“And no one could identify you?”

I shake my head. “It seems not. I had no identification on me, and my family was dead. There was no one to identify me.”

“So you woke up alone, with no knowledge of who you are?”

“Not . . . alone, no.”

“We’ll come back to that, as I have my suspicions.” Another pause as Gino removes the half-finished bowl of salad and our plates, replacing them with small squares of lasagna. We both dig in, and after a few bites, Logan speaks again. “So you can form new memories, though, right?”

“Yes. That’s the other kind of amnesia, the inability to form new memories. It’s called anterograde amnesia.” The lasagna is incredible, and I don’t want to ruin the experience by talking, so we lapse into silence as we both eat.

“So—” Logan starts again, after we’ve both finished.

I speak over him. “I think it’s my turn.”

He shrugs. “Fair enough.”

“Tell me about your childhood.”

He smiles, and it seems a bit sad, to me. “Fairly typical story, really. Single mom, dad left when I was a baby. Mom worked two, sometimes three jobs just to provide a roof and something like three squares a day. She was a good woman, loved me, took care of me the
best she could. Got no complaints, there. She just . . . was working a lot. Couldn’t keep me under her thumb the way I needed. I skipped a lot of school. My buddy’s dad ran a surf shop outside the city, right? He knew we were skipping, but he’d never graduated either, so I guess he didn’t care. I don’t know. He’d lend us boards and we’d surf all day. We’d only come to shore to eat a sandwich and then go back out, stay out on the waves till we were too exhausted to swim. This was how it was for Miguel and me, from like fifth grade onward. Skip school, go surf. Eventually his dad just gave us our boards, and we’d run the beaches hunting for the best waves. Sounds great, right? It was. Right up until we hit high school age. Miguel had a cousin, Javier, and he got us into smoking dope. And he also got us into helping him sell dope. Which led to being in a gang, of sorts. Me, Miguel, his cousin, a few other dudes. Lots of trouble. Quit even pretending I gave a shit about school. Mom pretended she didn’t know, as long as I didn’t get arrested and let her know I was alive every couple days. Just how it was, you know?”

He trails off again as Gino appears yet again, this time with plates of chicken parmesan with a side of pasta topped with a dollop of red sauce.

“So, things were . . . not good, but nothing crazy, I guess. Nobody went to jail, nobody got hurt. We smoked dope and surfed and sold a few dimes here and there. Nothing big, not enough to really call the attention of the more serious dealers, right? But then the summer before I’d have been a senior, I was seventeen, I think. Almost eighteen. Miguel’s cousin got approached by a big-time dealer from down by the border, dude called himself Cervantes. Wanted Miguel and Javier to be his mules, run some product south. Big cuts, big risk. I wasn’t in on it, ’cause I was white, you know? Most of the time, that didn’t matter, but for this, it did. So he approached them when I wasn’t around. They went with it. Ran the
product, got paid out big time, figured they’d hit the jackpot, right? Yeah, that went fine for a few months, until Javier got in trouble. Got caught by a DEA border guard sting op. Javi turned snitch. Set Miguel up to take the fall. And Cervantes . . . he figured it was Miguel that was the snitch when a big shipment got intercepted and cost him a couple hundred grand. Miguel and I were surfing, like we always did early in the morning. Best waves, you know, when it’s just past dawn.” He ducks his head, gently swirling the dregs of his wine. “Cervantes and three of his soldiers were on shore, waiting for us. Didn’t say a word, just—just lit him up. A dozen slugs to the chest. Right in front of me. That was it. No threats, no warnings, no interrogation. Didn’t say shit to me, either. Like, obviously if I said anything to the cops, I’d be next. Miguel was my best friend, man. He was like family, you know? We’d been friends since third grade.
Blam-blam-blam
, dead. Right in front of me.”

“My God, Logan.”

He bobbles his head side-to-side. “What was I supposed to do? I knew I’d be next. Either I’d be his mule—which would land me in jail, eventually—or I’d wind up dead. Well, one day I happened to walk past an armed forces recruitment office, and this guy was standing outside smoking a cigarette, wearing a badass uniform, badges and a real medal and shit. Stopped me, asked me what I was up to. Made the army sound like a good gig. A good way out of the shit I’d found myself tangled up in. So I joined the army. And honestly, it was the best thing for me. Got shipped to Kuwait. Turned out I had a knack for engines, and they needed mechanics to fix up the trucks and tanks and shit. Ended up getting my diploma and a set of skills and some money in the bank. But then, like I told you before, when my four years were out, I ended up stuck in St. Louis, met Philip, the Blackwater guy . . . got my ass recruited again. This time, I got combat training. They put a gun in my hands, sent me
to Iraq, and paid me huge amounts of money to hang my ass out the side of a helicopter. Had as much of a knack for nailing insurgents from a hundred yards away out the side of a moving helicopter as I did for cleaning sand out of piston chambers. Did that for . . . too long. Felt like a badass, you know? The regular army and Marine guys hated us, but that was just because we got paid quadruple what they made to do the same thing.”