Chapter 6 One Immutable Fact #2
"Sophia." It is spoken softly, gently, but somehow still manages to crackle with authority. "Things are changing. For all of us. You have spent the last several years merely existing. As have the men. As have I. Now is your turn to reach for more."
"I do not know how, Jakob," she whispers.
"I know. Believe me, dear friend, I know." He clears his throat. "Try. The man beside you knows all there is to know. Don't be afraid."
"I'll try," Inez says.
"That's all anyone can do," Jakob answers. "Ah, one of my sources is calling. I'll be in touch."
The line goes dead and Inez pulls it away, stares at it as if it holds some answers to life's questions.
She looks shaken.
"What?" I ask. "What is that look for?"
"Jakob, he…" she shakes her head. "He is behaving strangely. Revealing himself to you. The things he just said? It's all very strange."
"He cares about you," I answer.
"He called me dear friend," she whispers. "Twice. And Sophia—he called me Sophia. He has never done that before."
"Walls are tumbling down everywhere, it seems," I say.
"I was comfortable with my life," she whispers. "My job. The Arrows. The Club."
"A comfortable existence is not the same thing as a fulfilling life." I shut the doors, lock them. Toss the keycard on the narrow table near the doors, take her hand and lead her further into the room. "He wants more for you than that. So do I."
"And you are that more, I suppose?" She asks, her tone wry, looking at me with an arched eyebrow.
"Yes. I believe I am." I look down at her—her face is gray with dust from the explosion, dotted with gritty smears of pink and red.
He hair has come almost entirely out of the customary braided bun, now hanging loose and tangled and filthy around her shoulders.
"But if you were to decide you didn't want me in your life, I would honor and respect that.
It would break my heart all over again, I admit, but I would do it. "
Her eyes close, and her lips press together. “Lorenzo…I—I feel…" she shakes her head. "I don't know."
"Tell me how you feel, please. Whatever it is."
"Weak," she breathes. "Afraid. Emotional."
"Afraid of what?" I step closer to her, so less than a foot separates us.
She shakes her head again. "I don't know."
"Yes, you do."
She puts her hands up, palms out, so I can't draw any closer. "You."
"You are afraid of me?" I ask.
"You see me, Ren," she whispers, so quietly I must strain to hear.
"You know my every secret. You…I feel almost naked around you.
As if I have no armor. No walls. No protection.
You, more than anyone, can hurt me, Ren.
Rafael…he hurt my body. I can take that.
I know pain. I am comfortable with pain.
But you, Ren. You…you can hurt my soul."
"But I won't."
"I don't know who I am anymore." Her deep, dark eyes lift to mine, fraught and wet with emotion—shocking to see in the face of my indomitable, unshakeable warrior queen.
"Sophia, Inez…neither fits anymore. Sophia Bruna Santos de Silva Sousa…that part of who I am died in the cell, and then again in childbirth and the horror that followed. Inez? She was all that was left. I chose a name at random when I left everything else behind. Now, my past as Sophia has been resurrected and is haunting me. Inez was a shell, and that shell has cracked open. What is left of me, Ren?” She lets out a shaky sigh. "What is left of me?”
I don't have an answer for that. "We don't need to have all the answers right this second, meu amor," I tell her. "Let's get cleaned up and go from there. You take the first shower while I check on the others."
She nods, eyes distant, tired. "A shower sounds good. I don't remember the last time I was clean."
I cup the side of her face. "Take the longest, hottest shower of your life. I'll be here when you get out."
I watch her head for the bathroom and then go next door. The women have settled in front of the TV, watching some old rom-com on cable. The room phone rings—I hear Toro answer it, murmur quietly, and then he appears from one of the bedrooms.
"The doctor is here," he says. "We must greet him in the lobby and escort him up."
"On it," I answer.
I take the elevator to the lobby; Bradley is waiting with an older man dressed in a sleek, bespoke suit, salt-and-pepper hair in a short, neat, classic side-part, a large rolling suitcase at his side.
Nothing about him says doctor, which is a discretion I appreciate.
I accompany him up and bring him to Fonz.
No introductions are made—the man kneels at Fonz's side, unwraps the makeshift bandage, examines the wound, and nods once.
"Deep, but I don't think it has done any significant damage. It is good you didn't remove it, however."
"None of us are rookies, Doc," Fonz says. "But I'd be happy if you could get the fuckin' thing outta me. And if you got any happy pills to take the edge off, I'd be grateful."
"Certainly. Give me a few minutes to get set up."
I watch him lay down and unzip his suitcase, revealing a precise, orderly array of medical supplies. He begins preparing what he'll need to remove the shrapnel and close the wound.
I feel a soft tap on my shoulder. "Mr. Lorenzo?" The voice is delicate, shy.
"Naomi," I say, smiling down at her. "Call me Lorenzo, or just Ren. We're all friends here."
"Is Inez alright?" Naomi asks, her eyes full of concern.
"I think so. Or, she will be. She's strong."
Naomi frowns. "She…I don't mean to speak out of turn, but she went through quite a breakdown, and then a gunfight and an explosion."
"She's taking a shower right now," I tell her. "I'm headed back over once I'm sure things are settled here." I lead her away a few feet and speak in low tones. "I am glad you ladies were there. She needed that breakdown—it was a very long time coming."
"It seemed that way to me. I just…I know from experience that such breakdowns can leave one feeling empty and exhausted. She will need support."
"And she will have it." I give her shoulder a gentle pat. "I appreciate your concern, and I know she does as well."
"Inez, she…the first time I ever spoke to her, I was being pursued by people who wished to kill me. She talked me through it. I wouldn't be here if not for her." Naomi's eyes are misty. "I've felt a connection to her ever since. She hides a beautiful soul behind all that toughness and coldness.”
"She does, doesn't she?" I smile at her again. "We just have to convince her it's safe to let the rest of the world see what we do."
"Only you can do that, I think," Naomi says.
"I guess we'll see, won't we?"
I watch the doctor for a few more minutes, assessing his work with the experienced eye of someone who has seen more than my fair share of battlefield triage.
He works carefully, efficiently, and skillfully.
Satisfied that the man is a qualified medical professional and not a secret assassin, I turn to leave.
I lean close to Taj, who leans a shoulder against the wall near the door, watching the room silently and attentively.
"Watch him, yes? I trust no one, at this stage. "
Taj searches my face, then returns his attention to the doctor. "Of course."
I head back to the other room, locking it behind me.
For the first time in I don't know how long, I feel safe to set my firearms aside and remove my boots—I have had them on for nearly a week, at this point, I believe, though the days and nights of endless travel have warped my perception of the passage of time.
My socks smell abysmal, as do the boots, so I leave them by the door. I curl my toes into the thick pile of the rug under the couch and sigh at the glorious sensation of simply not wearing boots and socks.
I flop onto the couch, groaning—now that I have a moment to tune into myself, I realize I am exhausted beyond all comprehension, and the various injuries I’ve sustained in the course of this mad, wild adventure ache something fierce.
I stretch my legs out, let my head sink back into the couch, close my eyes…
It's a scent that wakes me. Shampoo, soap, wet hair, and lotion; the unmistakable, indelible scent of a freshly showered woman.
I open my eyes to see her perched on the edge of the couch beside me, a thick, fluffy white towel wrapped around her torso.
Her hair is loose and wet, slicked back over her scalp to hang down her neck, sticking to her shoulders.
The towel hem is hitched up and bunched beneath her buttocks, leaving the curve of one leg bare from toe to hip, an alluring expanse of flesh.
She has a complimentary bottle of lotion balanced on the arm of the couch beside her and she's rubbing it onto her leg. I watch for a few moments.
She doesn't look up from what she's doing when she speaks to me. "I used all the hot water, I believe. I'm sorry."
"Don't be. How are you feeling?" I ask, unable to tear my gaze away from the lovely view of her long, bare leg.
"Better," she says, still not looking at me. "Being clean is a wonderful luxury."
I lift one foot and wiggle my toes. "That's how I felt when I took off my boots and socks."
She wrinkles her nose. "Is that what I'm smelling?"
I laugh. "Could just be me."
Her skin beckons me. Smooth, caramel, and olive, warm. I swallow hard as a visceral memory of the first time I saw her naked sledgehammers through my brain.