TWENTY-NINE Playing with You
E LLIANA
I’m dragging my right thumb along the inside of my left palm so hard it’s making the flesh there turn red, but I can’t seem to stop. I’m a nervous fucking wreck. As awful as the break-in was and even though there’s so much less property damage this time, it somehow feels worse.
Way worse.
The sanctity of my private workspace has been violated, and we’re not even certain how. I always lock that door when I leave my workshop. Always. It’s an automatic step I take like buckling my seatbelt or making sure I have my purse. So, I know that room upstairs in Blingblang was secure. It had to be.
The only time I might leave it unlocked is when I’m in there.
It must’ve occurred when my staff and I had been knee-deep in customers on the salesfloor. Andre asked for the day off, and I’d willingly given it to him—no one works harder for me than he does—only to be too tied up when Jackson came by to go immediately.
He must’ve waited on me for a good twenty or so minutes holding a cute little brown paper bag with our deli sandwiches before I could finally break free. When I did, it was to discover that door unsecured.
I might’ve believed it to be something innocuous like me forgetting for once if we didn’t happen to see that card. That stupid motherfucking card just sitting there on my workbench like it belonged there. As if it didn’t mean anything.
But of course, it does mean something. At some point during this out-the-ass busy morning, someone entered my sacred space, placed the card so that it would stand up on its own, and exited undetected. Again, there was no theft, and again, it was that thick, fancy cardstock denoting a specific type of card. This time, the “thinking of you” variety.
That’s precisely what the slightly loopy font says over a blurred-out field of brown with one lonely stalk of greenish-yellow grass in the foreground.
Thinking of you .
Unlike on previous occasions, on the inside, this card has no writing or typing of any kind. Instead, there’s a generous spattering of blood. Bright crimson blood. And I have no clue who or what it might belong to.
I keep rubbing my palm with my thumb as all the vital people in my life surround me. I feel this deep chill, and it’s not just because of the twenty-degree temps. This is the kind of foreboding sensation that would go through me even at the height of summer. A bone-deep ache that tells me this problem and whoever’s causing it isn’t disappearing anytime soon.
Jackson has been here all along, and he must’ve contacted the others because Tristan and Andre show up shortly after our heinous discovery.
“But your plans,” I object, the moment I see my BFF, but he’s already shaking his head at me.
“You need your bad boy right now, girlie girl.”
And I can’t argue as I leave Tristan and Jackson for just long enough to embrace my bestie in thanks. Noah arrives within a half hour of the others, right around the same time that Diego and his police investigation team appear, but it doesn’t help me feel any more comfortable.
I’m not sure if I’ll ever feel comfortable here again.
All I want to do is get away from my shop, and that makes me both sad and outraged. This has been my creative getaway, my refuge, my safe harbor. And now all I see when I look at it is that spray of blood.
Even though it was relegated to the card itself, it’s still like a horror movie. I can’t get it out of my mind.
No one comes up here except me, Jackson—only when I’m here—and occasionally Andre. Due to the delicate nature, miniature size, and expense of the precious stones and other materials I work with, no one else is ever allowed inside this inner sanctum of mine.
Now as Diego interrogates the three members of my staff who were on the clock today, I feel unhinged. Not only have we had to shut down the shop early on one of the most lucrative days of the fiscal year, I can’t seem to keep my terror at bay.
Whereas the break-in demonstrated a total disregard for my business, this method of disturbing nothing is even more unsettling. Why purposely destroy so much last time and not this time? Is it the same person? Could it be someone else or perhaps a different member of the same team?
What does all this mean?
While I’ve had an alarm system installed since the beginning, that didn’t include cameras until the break-in. Yet even then, I only had one installed on the outside facing the fa?ade, and one on the inside aimed at the front door. When I explained this to Diego, the detective threw me a disapproving look.
“I would recommend upgrading to a higher-end security company. Someone who knows to situate cameras at integral angles in every single part of your store, both customer and staff areas. Legally, you can put them almost everywhere but the bathroom.”
We go through the rigamarole of more crime scene investigators dusting for prints and taking official photographs. Again, we take inventory to double-check that nothing was taken, and sure enough, nothing has been. Even the safe where I keep the priciest of my precious metals and gems doesn’t seem to have been tampered with.
Andre is sending the files of today’s recordings to the police department’s tech division, hoping that the guilty party has been captured on video. It’s possible, and I hold out hope for a hasty capture.
I need this stalker person to be found.
I need all this to end.
After closing the shop for the weekend, Andre opens it without me on Monday. When the detective contacts me, I wait with bated breath for some good news.
“Did you capture anyone on camera?” I ask him. “Did you see who the culprit might be?”
“We’re not able to determine anything definitive,” Diego replies, crushing all my hopes of an easy solution. I haven’t been able to catch any Z’s ever since this transpired, and I feel stretched out too far and exhausted. “Stay on your guard, Elle, no matter what else you do. Whoever is behind this is playing with you, and I don’t like it.”
I don’t like it either, needless to say. But my feelings on the matter don’t appear to be the point. Mechanizations are going on behind the scenes, and I can’t predict what this person’s next move will be. Most upsetting of all is how I can’t stop pondering two vital questions.
Who is doing this to me?
And why ?
––––––––
O NCE HOME, THE FOUR of us crash on the soft lounger. I flip on some old re-runs of 227 , a sitcom my parents both loved, and the humor takes me out of my mind for a bit. Yet it’s not too much after that when I notice Jackson and Noah dozing off on either side of me. Nearby, Tristan situates himself on the opposite end.
He’s the only one alert enough to stay here with me.
“Guys,” I shake my musician and firefighter. “I know you’re tired. Why don’t you go on up to bed?”
“You sure?” Noah asks, yawning and looking beat.
“I’m awake,” Jackson protests, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and index finger as if they’re gritty.
“Go,” I order them, then glance at my chef. “I’ll be good here with Tristan.”
Although Jackson hesitates until I make a shooing motion at him, he and Noah eventually shuffle off upstairs.
I expect my chef to take this opportunity to nestle up against me, but instead, he pushes to his feet.
“I’ll make you something to drink. I have this great hot milk toddy recipe. It’ll help you to settle and get some sleep.”
“All right,” I agree, but rather than merely laying there, I join him in the kitchen.
I’m still emotionally ragged out and unwilling to be alone, so accompanying him feels like a requirement. It’s only as I watch him prepare the toddy in a saucepan on the stove—his hands trembling a little—that I remember his recent refusal to come out of his room. His claim about being ill despite my suspicions to the contrary.
“Are you okay, Tristan?”
“Fine,” he grunts, facing away from me and sounding about as credible as a thief caught red-handed.
I come up behind him, placing a palm on his elbow. He flinches and whirls away from me, spilling the milk from the carton in his grasp. I jerk my hands up in surrender, even as I call him on it.
“Uh, that reaction isn’t fine. Nothing about that is fine.”
“Sorry,” he murmurs, standing in front of my fridge without opening it, his eyes cast downward.
I decide I’ve had enough of this.
“Talk to me, Tristan.” He peers over at me, and those features that I’ve come to know quite well, the ones that are in turns curmudgeonly, sarcastic, or blissed out are full of trepidation, shame, and guilt. “Is all this about that bloody card?”
“Yeah,” he nods, but drags his gaze to the side again.
“Then why don’t I believe you? Why have you been staying away from all of us recently?”
He squinches his eyes shut and shakes his head, murmuring, “I... I can’t.”
My chef is not a man who minces words.
“Can’t what? Be around us?” Around me ?
“Can’t... tell you.”
Never once have I heard him stumble over what he’s trying to say like this. I approach him slowly, like I might a wounded animal. Normally, his olive skin is a darker tone than the others, but right now, his face is nearly as pale as Noah’s. His dark eyes meet mine, and there’s turmoil there.
I come to stand directly before him, cautiously bringing my hands up to frame his face. When my fingers brush his cheeks, he releases a warm breath and embraces me. I realize it’s the first time he’s done so all night. It’s the first time he’s made physical contact with me in days .
Questions burst into my head like kernels of popcorn, but I subdue them. As much as I’ve needed my men’s comfort tonight, it hits me that maybe Tristan is just as much in need of mine. We hold one another for long moments until his body lurches suddenly toward the stove.
“Can’t let it boil. It’ll ruin it,” he explains, whisking the pan from the burner.
He sounds more like himself, and I remain silent as he retrieves a couple of coffee mugs and pours the contents from the pan into them. He next sprinkles some cinnamon on top and hands me one by the bottom, allowing me to collect it by the cooler handle. My chef has always done thoughtful things like this. Despite his often-gruff demeanor, he frequently puts others first.
Especially me.
Without saying anything more, he leads me into the living room and grabs the remote.
“ Bridgerton or more 227 ?”
“Let’s switch to Bridgerton now that the others aren’t here.”
He summons up the show, sitting next to me, our thighs gently nudging against one another’s. Quietly we keep our attention on the television and on sipping our toddies. Like everything else he makes, the drink is fantastic. Rich, soothing, and flavorful, the alcohol in my belly relieving my tension.
After finishing the drink, I rest my back into one corner of the cushions and invite him over. He reclines against me, and I wrap my arms around him, snuggling his body to mine. Tristan lays his head on my chest and releases an audible exhale, relaxing.
Though we’re each fully dressed, this feels more intimate than anything I’ve ever shared with him, especially when he clings to me like I’m a prize, like I’m something precious to him.
Although it’s been a terrible few hours, and I’m no further in understanding what’s been transpiring with him, I feel better.
I just hope he does, too.