Damaged

Sophia

I wake up warm under a heavy comforter. There’s a set of gigantic windows in front of me looking out into the woods. I’m in a large bedroom, alone, and outside it’s snowing softly.

I don’t feel the soreness in my shoulder and abdomen until I stand. There’s a dull ache in both, and I lift my T-shirt in two places to see a yellow bruise on my stomach and a far more ferocious one of black and blue on my shoulder. My shoulder pain must’ve been from when I was tackled to the ground.

Last night comes shuttling back to me. The attack. The gunshots. The muzzle flash. And I feel… okay. I stand still and search my brain for any sign of lasting trauma, but my heart doesn’t skip a beat when I recount the events. My skin doesn’t break out in a cold sweat.

But there is something disturbing about how twice in two weeks, my life has been in grave danger. Once-in-a-lifetime danger. And what was the change?

Being close with James.

I remember what Alessia told me on the beach chairs. “ Dangerous in more ways than one.”

Is this what she meant? That things like this follow him? Maybe I’ve been na?ve to think his fortune was made legally. What if James is a criminal?

These questions bug me more than anything else. I have no symptoms of lasting, heavy trauma. I see James’s sharp cheeks and bright eyes illuminated in the muzzle flash.

He killed a man last night. I wonder how he feels about that. I didn’t look at the body after he was shot the last time. I couldn’t. Even if it was just an anonymous corpse under a ski mask.

I don’t have much sympathy for an armed robber who kicked me in the gut. One who threatened my life. Who was content with me living in fear for the sake of a successful heist. Still, he was dead. Shot. And so casually that it was hard to imagine James hadn’t done that before.

But the last time he used a brick…

I’d known James was dangerous, but seeing it was another thing. Then again, his wrath seems reserved for the worst of society. He’s tender otherwise. Kind. Witty. But the second someone decides to hurt others, that all goes out the window.

When I picture his face in the muzzle flash, I see a man stopping at nothing to save me. Risking his own life to save me. He didn’t even go check on the artifacts. Once I was safe, he drove off.

But suddenly I feel my brow arch. How did he know I was in trouble?

The question only lingers for a moment. He must’ve had access to the security cameras.

He must’ve logged in to check on me and saw the intruders. But he was there so fast. Five minutes…

Less.

“Good morning.” I hear a knock, and James’s deep voice.

I turn to see him standing in the doorway. He’s wearing a dress shirt tucked into gray wool pants. The skin under his eyes is dark, and his hair is messy like he hasn’t slept. Still, he looks devilishly handsome, a little disheveled.

“Hi.”

“How are you feeling?” James asks, walking closer to me. There’s concern in his eyes. Genuine hurt at seeing me damaged.

“I’m a little dinged up,” I say, and my insides go watery and my breath stutters as James sets a hand on my belly. I try to meet his eye, but he won’t look at me. He gently lifts my shirt to see my stomach himself.

He stares for a moment, looking tortured.

“I’m fine.”

Our eyes meet, and he lowers my shirt gently. “I’m sorry.”

“You saved me, James. You have nothing to be sorry for.”

He goes quiet, and for just a moment, I wonder if he’s about to tell me the whole story. But his lips stay shut. I can’t keep silent for much longer. My questions burn. “Have you talked to the police?”

James nods. “Yes. And my lawyer. Practically all night. It’s all being taken care of. However, you’ll have to give a statement.”

“Of course… but where are we?”

“Lake George. Near the border with Vermont.”

“Oh. That was a long drive.”

“You slept through the whole thing. You were in shock.”

“And we’re safe here?”

“You’re always safe with me, okay? No one even knows I own this place. I had it purchased through an investor of Aquarius. It’s essentially a safe house.”

“Okay. I need someone to check on Steve.”

“My housekeeper, Annie, brought him up to my apartment. She got his things and everything. You should rest here for a few days. Try not to worry about a thing.”

That does make me feel quite a bit better. “Thank you.” I stretch and look out the door. “Can I see the rest of this place?”

“Sure. But…” James suddenly looks guilty. “I don’t have any women’s clothes here. So…” He points to a white T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants that have been set on the wooden dresser. “I cut the pant cuffs to length. I think they should fit if you tie the waistband extra tight. We can run to town later today.”

“Thank you,” I say and pat his chest. We’re practically face-to-face, and I tilt my chin up an inch in that tell-tale sign that says kiss me.

James hesitates, long enough to make me worry. But he eventually brings his lips down to mine. He kisses me so tenderly, it’s like he’s afraid I might break.

“I’m okay,” I whisper. “I’m not damaged. I promise.”

“I didn’t say you were.” He looks at me hungrily and moves in again and kisses me harder. It’s like a stab when he finally pulls back. “But you’ve got to heal up, snowflake.”

I hold on to his big hand and move my thumb across his fingers. “They’re just bruises.”

“I can’t see them,” he says, shaking his head, and touches my stomach and shoulder gently. “They make me too furious. I let you down…”

“You let me down? James, they got away with all the artifacts, didn’t they?”

He shrugs. “All that shit is insured.”

“Still.”

“I couldn’t give less of a damn about possessions right now. It’s you I care about. Now…get dressed. You should get some food in you.”

“And can you cook?” I ask.

“Whatever you like.”

“You’re not one of those guys who can’t even boil water?”

“I’m offended you think I am.”

“Okay, James. I’ll eat whatever you cook. I should probably shower.”

“Of course,” he says. His gaze lingers on my body a little longer before he pulls himself away. It looks like he has something else to say, but whatever it is, he keeps it to himself and leaves the room.

I walk to the window and look out. I can see the frozen lakeshore in the distance. Ice as black as night interrupts the forest’s carpet of snow. I’m glad we’re away from the city. Any city.

I check my phone before getting in the shower. It’s a mistake. I have about a hundred notifications. How does the world know about this already? It doesn’t take me long to find out.

A picture from last night has gone viral.

I’m in James’s arms while he’s walking to the back of the Mercedes. The robber he shot dead can be seen in the background. His legs limp, a puddle of blood, black in the dark, spreading into the shattered glass.

James’s face is steadfast and serious, while I look like I’m half-asleep with shock. It’s an incredible photo, I admit. Although seeing it and knowing the world is staring at it as well makes me sick with anxiety.

I have DMs and texts from friends I haven’t talked to in years, asking if I’m okay.

The news behind the photo is what’s made it famous. It’s broken already—it’s estimated more than a hundred million dollars’ worth of artifacts were stolen. It’s one of the largest heists in decades, and the picture of James and me is under every headline.

I wonder if he knows. Of course he does. He just wouldn’t mention something like a viral photograph. It probably pisses him off.

I message my closest friends back. Hailee was planning to come to New York next week but wants to change her plans and come now. I assure her I’m alright.

I even have texts from my mom. Which is strange, in that she doesn’t closely follow the news. Someone else must’ve told her. I tell her I’m okay and will call when I get the chance.

I don’t like being worried over. I prefer to be the one worrying.

I shower, change into James’s large T-shirt that makes me look like a girl in her dad’s clothes, and find him in the kitchen. The house is huge and modern. The floors are blond wood, and the walls are clean and white.

The kitchen is the size of my entire apartment, and James already has French toast plated and steaming in the breakfast nook. He smiles at my clothes.

The sweatpants are cut perfectly around the ankle so they’re not too long, but the T-shirt looks ridiculously large. It nearly stretches to my knees.

“Nice outfit, snowflake. Breakfast is served.”

He washes the cast iron pan while I sit and eat, and I think he’s keeping his distance to be polite.

I’m starving and don’t care about being lady-like about how I eat. I drench it all in way too much maple syrup and scarf down the fluffy French toast. I take gulps of my coffee in between bites.

I don’t know if it was the near-death experience or the shock or what, but I’m famished and start to feel even more normal and less nervous once I’ve eaten and have some coffee in me.

I search my brain for trauma again. Am I damaged? Will I shoot to the ceiling when the doorbell rings and I just don’t know it yet?

But after some contemplation, I feel… normal. A little sore where I was hit, sure, but nothing else. I even start to have other thoughts. Thoughts I’m not sure I should be having because of the circumstances.

I watch James’s muscles moving under his dress shirt. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, and his veiny forearms flex as he scrubs a pan. Somehow, he makes doing the dishes look masculine. Like he’s a mountain man who just finished frying his flapjacks in bear fat. If it weren’t for those damn thieves, I would’ve seen a lot more than just James’s naked forearms in the last twenty-four hours.

Last night was heading towards sex. I wonder if such a thing is even still possible.

James is hanging the pan on a hook over the center island when I speak.

“Have you seen that we’re viral?”

He scoffs and shakes his head. “Yeah. As if there wasn’t real news the media could be covering.”

“Well… a truckload of priceless artifacts did get stolen. A man was killed.”

“Whatever. I prefer to stay out of the limelight. I don’t appreciate having my picture on every single major media outlet’s front page.”

Is this story really that widespread? I wonder, my heart drumming with a new kind of anxiety—fame. I have to force myself to speak. “But it is a good picture,” I tease. I tilt my head and grin and manage to steal a smile out of James.

“Yeah. It’s a good picture.”

“Apart from the dead guy in the background.”

“Really? I thought the corpse kind of emphasized the chaos.”

“You’re a sicko.”

James walks closer to me. “If a man kicks you like a dog and ties you up with duct tape, consider him very, very lucky if all he gets is a quick bullet to the head.”

I don’t know what to say. I’m speechless. I know he’s serious. He’d do far more for me than shoot an armed robber. “Thank you, James.”

“Stop doing that,” he says.

“What?”

“Thanking me. I don’t like it. This is all the bare minimum.”

“I’m pretty sure you could’ve dropped me off at the ER doors and told me to send you the bill.”

“Fine. Bare minimum by my standards.”

“So, are you in trouble?”

“For what? shooting a man who’d tied you up as a hostage and then pulled a knife on me in my auction house?”

“When you put it that way…”

“That is the way. There’s nothing else to it. The police want a statement from you because they want to try to catch the rest of these guys, but I figured you didn’t know much.”

I shake my head. “No. I only saw the one. I heard another voice. They were all… American. Men. Middle-aged. That’s all I can say.”

James nods. “We’ve got an entire team on this. We’ll catch them.”

There’s something unconvincing in his tone. There’s a little too much enthusiasm. It feels fake. Like he doesn’t really believe what he’s saying. He’s just trying to make me feel better.

I don’t believe him, and my face must give me away, because suddenly his hand is resting on the top of mine.

“.”

I meet his eyes.

“I’m never going to let anything bad happen to you again. This is not an empty promise or words to help you sleep at night. It’s the truth. My life isn’t madness like this. It’s just… a couple cases of very bad luck.”

I nod, like I believe him. In a way I do.

And I know he must like me to do what he did last night. But I wonder how those feelings will hold up. The way he looked at me under the lights at the ice rink could have me thinking happily ever after thoughts. But maybe that’s just how James looks at what he wants.

I want to ask him what I’m doing here. What we’re doing here. Are we dating? Coworkers?

Attempted friends with benefits?

I have absolutely no idea, and I don’t have the guts to ask.