25. Phae
Phae
“H ey, did you see this?”
Dice walked into the kitchen, wearing a snake as a necklace. Thankfully, not a venomous one, but Tulsa still moved hurriedly to the other end of the room.
“See what?”
“Marc’s ‘goodbye’ note.”
“What?”
I snatched the iPad out of her hand, and the snake hissed at me.
Yes, I’d figured Marc would be upset after I left again, but suicidal?
No. No way, he couldn’t be. Two days ago, he’d gone on Talk!
With Reba Miller for what he claimed would be his one and only interview on the kidnapping debacle, and he’d seemed stoic but okay.
Although he was an actor. What if he’d been putting on a show, hiding the pain with?—
Oh, phew, he wasn’t about to off himself.
To my dearest #Gregorias,
I wanted you to hear the news from me rather than waiting for rumours to circulate as they always do. The events of the past month have affected me deeply, and I’ve spent the past week reevaluating my life.
I’ve made mistakes, many of them. I’ve been trapped in a world of my own creation rather than seeing the one I live in, and now it’s time to make that right.
What does that mean?
It means that after my current projects wrap up, I’ll be moving away from acting and focusing on nature.
On conservation. On reconnecting with things I left behind.
We all need to take care of the planet around us, one small step at a time, and I’ll be putting my social media accounts on hiatus until I have something worthwhile to say.
Goodbye for now,
Marc
Well, damn.
Marc was quitting showbiz?
“That man is gone for you.”
“What? No, he isn’t. He’s just realigning his priorities.”
Exactly as he’d said he’d do in the interview with Reba Miller, and as for the Stockholm syndrome, it hadn’t worn off—he’d merely put it on hold for a night.
I knew he’d visited with Kamryn Delacort in jail after I left Indonesia, and she’d broken her “no comment” vow to say that between the confusion and the concussion, she didn’t remember anything that happened in the forest. Priest had pulled strings as I’d begged him to, and Marc’s wish had been granted—the members of Wild Roots would get their slap on the wrist, three months in a reasonably comfortable prison instead of the life sentences they’d been facing.
The charges had been downgraded from abduction to coercion, and the authorities had successfully blamed most of the trouble on the West Papua Freedom Army.
Included in the three-month deal were Umar and Rain, who’d also been jailed for Malati-related crimes, and Caroline Fortier, who’d broken down and confessed to punching herself in the face after one of the bruises turned out to be the exact size and shape of her carat-and-a-half diamond engagement ring, with a smaller mark underneath that matched her wedding band.
Funny how she’d been allowed to keep those and not her iPad, wasn’t it?
Plus she’d turned off iCloud, and although the prosecutor offered her immunity if she identified the six missing “backpackers,” she’d turned him down and opted to serve her time instead.
Ditto for Kamryn, Frank, Ricky, and their surviving colleague from the stilt house.
In a strange way, I had to admire their loyalty.
The downside of the deal? As part of the negotiations, I’d gotten co-opted into giving a hostage rescue seminar with Emmy, so I’d been forced to fly back to Indonesia for two days, and my insect bites had only just stopped itching. Don’t even talk to me about the jet lag.
“‘Realigning his priorities’ means installing solar panels and recycling more,” Dice said as I yawned, “not abandoning his multimillion-dollar career.”
“He’s doing that for the environment, not for me.”
“Oh, please.” Dice moved in closer and jabbed at the screen. “‘Reconnecting with the things I left behind’? That means you.”
“I’m not a ‘thing.’” The snake slithered across my shoulders, and I shuddered. “Get that creature away from me.”
“She has a name, you know.”
“Fine. Get Marigold away from me.”
I reached for the cookie jar, but of course it was empty.
I knew now why Marcel had stopped whining about Drumstick and Butterball—the turkeys had discovered my pot plants, and they were stoned.
Off their fucking heads. My lovingly tended weed garden had been decimated when I needed it most, and now we were having lentil stromboli for Thanksgiving dinner.
“You should call him. Or better yet, go home for Thanksgiving.”
“I am going home for Thanksgiving.”
“I meant actual Thanksgiving, not your made-up version a week later.”
“Three days later, and we’ve always done it this way. It’s tradition.”
“You’re talking bullshit, as usual.”
“Leave her alone,” Tulsa said, and it must have been a rough night if she was wearing sunglasses indoors. “All men are assholes.”
“Oh no, did you accidentally sleep with your pet mafioso again?” Dice asked, her voice overflowing with fake sympathy. “Or did you hook up with a different douchebag?”
“I tried to hook up with a different douchebag, but he stuttered an apology and left, and then Romeo appeared out of nowhere.”
“Smooth.”
“It’s like this vicious circle. Every time we fuck, I hate him more, which makes the sex crazier—like, the good kind of crazy—so I can’t resist doing it again. Someday, I’m gonna toss him into the Grand Canyon and be done with it.”
“Well, make sure you do it from the North Rim. Too many tourists at the South. And we’re talking about Dusk’s disastrous love life here, not yours.”
“Do not mention Romeo Serafini and love in the same conversation.”
Dice rolled her eyes. “Whatever. But it’s obvious Dusk is still hung up on Marc.”
Jez meandered in. “That didn’t stop her from breaking his heart again.”
For fuck’s sake. “Don’t you start. Marc and I are fine, okay? I bought him a Thanksgiving gift, and I said I’d email him from time to time.”
“What gift?” she asked suspiciously.
“A year’s subscription to a password vault.”
“That’s a joke, right?”
“No? Echo says it’s the best one available, and he needs to upgrade his security.”
“Just throw yourself in the trash, girl. Good grief.”
“I got him a card as well.”
“Are you planning to deliver the card in person, wearing nothing but lingerie?”
“I put it in the mail already.”
Jez turned to Dice. “There’s no hope.”
“None,” she agreed.
“Just because you found a man willing to put up with your job doesn’t mean everyone can. Cole’s a fucking unicorn.”
“Marc’s your Cole; don’t you get it?”
“I saw the way he looked at me as I was dispatching hostiles at the stilt house.”
“And I saw the way he looked at you afterward. He’ll cope.”
“You don’t know Marc the way I do. He has a good heart, and shit like that will wear him down.”
“You think Cole doesn’t have a good heart?”
“Okay, he does, but Cole isn’t a global megastar. What if someone spots us together? I can see the headlines now… ‘Marc’s new mystery woman—is he cheating on Serena with a country girl?’”
“They think he’s back with Serena?”
“Apparently. Because Owen didn’t hotfoot it to Indonesia, it means they broke up.”
Never mind that Owen was recovering from ankle surgery after tripping over his dog, or that he’d promised to stay in London to support an anxious Edie. Heath had explained the situation.
“So you’re telling me that despite the two of us managing to finesse our way into a terrorist compound in Afghanistan and masquerade as servants for several days, then eliminate the hostiles, rescue two hostages, and successfully get one of them out of the country, you can’t sneak into Marc’s house for a quick fuck? ”
I remembered that week well—it was the first time I’d met Heath in his ghillie suit.
We’d handed the British hostage off to his team, and his look of shock when he realised we’d spotted him had been the highlight of the trip.
He might have been able to hide from eyes on the ground, but there wasn’t much he could do about his heat signature when our drone was overhead.
And much as I hated to admit it, Jez did have a point.
“What if sneaking around isn’t enough for Marc?”
“What if it is? I get it; you’re scared. Scared that you’ll fall too hard and shatter if it all goes wrong. I’ve been there, remember? If you witches hadn’t interfered, I’d still be single and miserable too.”
“I’m not…” I started, but I couldn’t finish. Jez’s words were a punch to the gut because they were all true. “I’ll think about it, okay?”
* * *
I did think about it.
I thought about it as I jumped out of an airplane the next day.
I thought about it as I sparred with Spider in the gym.
I thought about it as I stalked a supposedly untouchable drug dealer through the streets of New York and put a bullet in his head. What do you know? Even his crew of thugs and his army of high-priced lawyers couldn’t save him in the end. His cocky bravado was all an act. He’d died begging.
But I wasn’t a coward. I was a strong, independent bitch.
And I’d damn well face Marc again and see where life took us.
But not at Thanksgiving. If things failed to go as I hoped, I didn’t want to ruin Huck and Kitty’s day, plus I always spent Thanksgiving with my team.
No, I’d go quietly to LA next week, let myself into Marc’s mansion, and give him a taste of what he’d be in for if he was determined to give us a try.
Either that, or I’d catch him reneging on his “no more starlets” promise and dodge a fifty-cal bullet.
I had a plan.
I always had a plan.
Unfortunately, so did the rest of the Choir.