12. Elena
12
ELENA
I take a hot shower, sweaty from a night of deep, possibly drug-induced sleep in which I drifted through twisted dreams that mostly featured Atlas. The temptation to remember those dreams, and maybe touch myself in the shower while I do it, is almost overwhelming. Especially with the hint of Atlas’s cologne lingering in my room. Instead, I turn the faucet to freezing and punish myself with the icy spray until I’m no longer horny and my teeth are chattering.
I’m not going to cheat on my fiancé. Not even in my head. Not even with Atlas.
Wrapped in a towel, I pick through the meager selection in my suitcase. With few choices remaining, I settle on jeans and an oversized Dynamo Kyiv jersey that belonged to my father once upon a time. The bright blue and yellow makes me miss home and probably doesn’t fit in at all in Grimstone, but I’m feeling rebellious.
I’m not seeing Lorne until dinnertime, so he won’t know if I wear something that makes it obvious that I’m “not from around here.”
Heading downstairs, I pause at the fourth-floor landing. Following an impulse, I walk right past Lorne’s door and knock on Ivy’s.
“Who is it?” comes Mrs. Cross’s irritated voice before she wrenches open the door. She can’t hide the curl of her upper lip when she sees that it’s me.
“Good morning!” I make my greeting extra cheerful just to see if she’ll keep scowling. She does. And she also doesn’t invite me into the room. I step inside anyway, waving to Ivy, in her usual seat by the window. “Hi, Ivy.”
I’m pleased to see the sketchbook I gave her open on her lap. It looks like she might have even used some of the pages, though she’s not drawing at the moment.
Ivy doesn’t reply to my greeting or wave in response. But that could be because Mrs. Cross is roaming the room, aggressively straightening stray pillows and twitching the curtains back into place. Ivy flinches every time Mrs. Cross gets close. She sits stiffly in the window seat, her face anxious and unhappy and maybe paler than usual, though it’s hard to tell on someone with the complexion of Casper.
Scanning the room for anything else out of place, Mrs. Cross’s eyes fix on my bright blue and yellow jersey. Her nose wrinkles up. “What’s that ?”
“A sports costume,” I say, thinking that should be obvious even if she’s not familiar with the team.
“What’s a sports costume ?” Mrs. Cross demands, eyeing my Dynamo jersey like it might swing her around the room and make her dance the hopak.
“You know, jerseys, track suits…” Defensively I say, “I’ve seen Americans wear them, too.”
“Not like that, ” Mrs. Cross sneers.
If there was even a one percent chance of asking her to accompany me shopping, that fractional possibility evaporates.
And anyway, that’s not what I’m here for.
Carefully monitoring Mrs. Cross’s expression, I mention, “Someone broke into my room last night.”
Her head jerks up. “What?”
“Someone broke into my room,” I repeat, wondering if that was surprise or a nervous reaction, “and wrote ‘ get out’ on my wall.”
“Get out?” she repeats, like she’s turned into Toulouse, the parrot.
I can’t tell if she’s genuinely confused or only buying time.
I glance over at Ivy, who’s sitting very still, watching us. Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned any of this in front of her, but it’s too late to back off now.
“Have you told Mr. Ronson?” Mrs. Cross asks cautiously, folding scrawny arms over a narrow chest.
“I didn’t want to interrupt his work.”
“Good.” She gives a stiff nod. “You shouldn’t.”
That’s the first approving thing Mrs. Cross has said to me. It would be amusing, except for the fact that she’s Lorne’s employee and almost a part of the family. I really should figure out a way to make friends with her.
Especially if she’s not the one who wrote on my wall. From the suspicious look on her face, it’s almost like she thinks I did it myself. Like I’m trying to make trouble.
“I told Mr. Covett.” Calling him that feels odd, but Atlas seems too intimate. “He’s going to change the lock.”
I’m still waiting for a reaction—perhaps frustration or disappointment—but I forgot that I’m shit at reading faces. I never know when people are lying. Not even Mina, who used to tease me about my gullibility. “ You just believe whatever people tell you!”
What’s everyone else doing, reading minds?
I can’t read Mrs. Cross’s mind. She seems irritated at the mention of Atlas, but since most things seem to irritate Mrs. Cross in one way or another, I’m not sure that it means anything.
“Who still uses keys these days?” she sniffs.
I glance at Ivy, who seems to be shrinking into herself, curled up on the window seat, legs drawn up to her chest, large, round eyes peering over her knees.
Stung with sympathy, I say, “I was about to go shopping. Do you want to come with me, Ivy?”
I deliver the last sentence directly to Ivy. She glances nervously between me and Mrs. Cross, then gives a quick nod.
Mrs. Cross’s mouth purses. She’s torn again between her desire to be rid of Ivy and her dislike of capitulating to my requests. But I’m winning the war, because this time it only takes six seconds.
“Fine,” she snaps. “Put on your boots, Ivy.”
Ivy hurries into her bedroom. When she emerges a minute later, she’s wearing a pair of lace-up boots and her white wool coat. Her legs are bare beneath the hem of another fancy-looking dress.
“Do you want to put on pants instead?” I ask her. “It’s pretty chilly outside.”
Ivy just stares at me.
“No problem.” I let it drop. “I don’t think we’ll have to walk far.”
The shop’s address is on Main Street, and walking the entire road couldn’t take more than ten minutes. Ivy won’t freeze, even with bare knees.
As we cross the main floor of the hotel, I find myself looking for Atlas. Even when he’s not visible, his presence permeates. The hulking stone pillars, the cavernous spaces and smoke-scented velvet sofas seem as much a part of him as his old-world suits.
But Atlas is nowhere to be seen. Which is probably for the best.
The doorman tips his hat as he holds the door open for us. “Good morning, Ms. Zelenska.”
“Thank you.” I’m a little flustered at being recognized and remembered. Nobody holds the door for me in my normal, daily life. Nobody calls me Ms. Zelenska and tips their hat to me.
As soon as we’re out on the sidewalk, Ivy slips her hand into mine. I glance down at her, pleased and surprised. Her hand is so fragile, it makes me feel protective of her. I switch sides so that I’m walking on the edge closest to the road, even though there isn’t a single car driving up Main Street at the moment.
We stop to look in every window we pass. The display windows are one of the most charming aspects of Main Street, each a work of art. Some are traditional, like the arrangement of rainbow-colored candy in Sweetie’s or the autumn garlands that adorn Darkly Blooming. But some are delightfully odd, like the neon hearts and vintage tattoo guns in the window of Black Heart Ink or the hundreds of paper moths that flutter on near-invisible wires in Pen & Palette.
As on our visit to the bookstore, Ivy seems thrilled to be outside the hotel and away from Mrs. Cross. Her expression is animated and her stride is buoyant from the moment we step outside. She makes her happy chirping sound as she watches the toy train zipping around the adorable miniature model of Grimstone in the window of Toytopia.
The Dapper Dress is right next door. The mannequins in the window wear long white gowns and seem to be riding broomsticks, with carved jack-o’-lanterns in place of their heads. Ivy stares at them wide-eyed, hesitant to step inside.
I’m hesitant, too, because the dresses have an artsy, bohemian look to them, like they were hand-embroidered by a hippie, which means they’re probably expensive as hell.
Too late to back out now—the bell overhead jangles loudly, bringing a tiny, dark-haired woman bustling out from the back of the shop. She’s curvy and shrewd looking, her bright eyes flicking from my jersey to my sneakers to Ivy in an instant.
I’m hoping the fact that Ivy’s dressed like an American Girl doll will somewhat make up for the fact that I look like a football hooligan.
The woman breaks into a smile that crinkles up her face in the nicest sort of way, saying, “Hello, hello! You must be Elena. Atlas told me you were coming.”
Warmth spreads through my chest and my shoulders relax. I feel ridiculously grateful that Atlas called ahead, sparing me the awkwardness of having to beg for a discount. I know it should be a dream come true, shopping with someone else’s credit card, but I’m stressed.
“I’m Vivian,” the shopkeeper says, holding out her hand to shake. Though her hand is hardly any bigger than Ivy’s, her grip is strong.
“Elena Zelenska,” I say, though she already knows that. “I moved here recently, and I need some new clothes. Things that are good for the weather here, and for…fitting in.”
“That’s easy enough,” Vivian says. “Except maybe the ‘fitting in’ part. Everyone knows who’s local here, especially after Halloween when all the tourists clear out. It’s an insular place. But not unfriendly.”
“Oh,” I say, slightly crestfallen.
“Well, don’t lose heart.” She laughs. “You already made friends with Atlas, and he’s the grumpiest guy in town. Keep it up and you’ll be mayor by Christmas.” She looks me up and down once more, this time with an appraising expression. “Size twelve, are you?”
“Uh...” I have no idea what that means. At home, I’m a forty-six.
My eyes dart to the tag on the closest shirt. It says, “S.” What number is S? Also, the shirt is $59.99. Oj, this is so expensive…
This was a mistake.
“I…I’m sorry…” I’m backing toward the door.
Vivian steps forward, smoothly taking my arm, leading me deeper into the store. “Don’t worry,” she says, “I’ve got lots of things that will look lovely on you.” She winks. “And most of them are on sale.”
She nods, pulling items off the racks with scary speed and draping them over her arm. “This will suit your coloring… You might like this one… Oh, this just came in…”
She leads me back to the dressing room, pulling still more items along the way.
Ivy remains at the front of the store, enthralled by a display of birthstone necklaces. She examines them one by one, leaning close without actually touching anything.
“Thanks for helping me,” I say.
Vivian waves off my gratitude with a flap of her hand. “Anything for Atlas.”
“Is he…a close friend?” I hate myself for the insinuating question and for the twist of jealousy in my gut as I sneak a sideways glance at Vivian’s pretty features and compact curves. Does Atlas prefer petite women? His receptionist is tiny, too…
But Vivian only snorts. “He’s my cousin.”
That’s a data point that shouldn’t matter but absolutely does.
I’m scanning her now for signs of resemblance. The beetle-black eyes could have tipped me off, but the difference in height was distracting. “I saw the photos of your family inside the hotel.”
“Did you see the portrait of dear old Grannie on the fifth floor? She poisoned Pop Pop, you know,” Vivian says, like she’s relaying a perfectly normal piece of family trivia.
Amused, I shake my head. “Atlas didn’t mention that on the tour.”
“Pop Pop should have known better,” Vivan sniffs with very little sympathy. “She’d been married three times before, and all three bit the biscuit in suspicious ways. But men are fools in love.” After a moment, she adds, as if it proves that women can be fools in love, too, “Grannie was married to Pop Pop longer than any of the others—fourteen years.”
I’d like to ask her what Atlas’s grandfather finally did to piss her off, but we’ve reached the dressing room.
“Come out and show me so I can see how it all fits,” Vivian demands.
Obediently, I start working my way through the pile.
I’ve only had a chance to try on a couple of items before the bell jingles once more, signaling that someone else has entered the shop.
Vivian says, half-amused and half-annoyed, “Don’t you trust me? I told you I’d take care of her.”
My heart kicks into double speed even before I hear Atlas’s deep growl. “I’m not here to check up on you—I’m here to see the results.”
I don’t want to examine my suspicion that Atlas only let me walk over here alone so no one would see us together.
I also don’t examine the impulse that governs what I do next.
I was midway through pulling on a pair of boring wool slacks, but I shuck those off and grab something sleek and silky off the hanger.
My heart races as I zip it up—or at least zip it as far as I can on my own. I step out of the dressing room, pretending I want to take a look at myself in the three-way mirror.
As soon as I emerge, there’s no pretending. Atlas turns to look at me, and I clearly and deliberately present myself to him in the dark teal gown that clings to my curves like no dress has done before.
“Fucking Jesus” is his eloquent response.
Vivian says, “I knew it,” with deep satisfaction.
The dress drapes off my body, cool and sleek and impossibly luxurious. I don’t know where I’d wear something this nice, and I don’t even dare peek at the price tag. Because when I see the hunger on Atlas’s face, the way his dark eyes glue to my curves, I already know I’m going to buy it.
Ivy’s still on the other side of the shop, examining the jewelry.
With a sneaking sense of how utterly inappropriate this is, I turn to show Atlas the low back of the dress, and the even lower zipper I couldn’t quite reach on my own.
“Will you finish zipping me up?” I lift my hair in my hands, exposing more skin.
Atlas steps close behind me, in the exact position we first met. I feel his mass and his heat before those huge hands find the delicate zipper resting just above my ass. He pulls it up the last few inches, the backs of his fingers brushing the bare skin of my lower back.
The dress cinches a little tighter around my waist. The brush of Atlas’s fingers has made my nipples stand out in hard points against the thin silk.
I turn around anyway, letting my hair fall down around my shoulders once more, looking up into his face. “Better?”
His throat rolls as he swallows. He bends his head until it’s close to my ear, saying so quietly that not even Vivan can hear, “I would have thought it was impossible, but yeah…you look even better now.”
Pleasure rushes in like a breath of air. I turn my head, not realizing how close it would bring our mouths. Gazing at him from the distance of a kiss, I experience the kind of madness that might compel me to throw myself into the arms of another man with my fiancé’s daughter standing ten feet away.
What the fuck am I doing?
I take a step backward instead, face hot, eyes fixed on the floor like that will obliterate the overwhelming presence of Atlas, impossible to ignore no matter how much I refuse to look at him.
“Thanks,” I mutter, turning to flee back into the dressing room.
Atlas seizes my wrist, dragging me back effortlessly until his lips press against my ear once more. His huge hand rests on the small of my back, palm burning against my bare skin as he growls, “ Don’t you dare wear that dress for anyone but me.”