2. Marisol
2
MARISOL
I think I’m going to throw up.
I shove away from the door and stumble toward the sidewalk. I need to stay moving. Get to the road.
Once the apartments are behind me, I take a moment to gather my bearings. Toward the left is the train station. Toward the right is the bar.
I storm off to the right.
By the time I leave the bar, it’s nighttime, and I’m in a foul mood.
For the small price of listening to an entire drunken speech about the purpose of life from an old guy with a mullet named Bill— it’s, like, human connection, you know? —I’m able to suck on a cheap cigarette as I weave down the sidewalk.
Several drinks ago, Grant’s fortieth text message came through to explain how he was helping Lilah with her anxiety but things just got out of hand and would you please not tell Jeremy?, so I sent Jeremy a detailed message of what I saw and powered off my phone.
I have no other reason to leave it on.
I could message my gamer friends, but I don’t want to overload them with more than two emotions at once. We pretty much just quote sci-fi movies at each other and talk trash about our latest matches. I don’t even know their real names.
I could call Mom. But she would let me talk for all of thirty seconds before she forced the conversation back to any new updates on Dad or complaining about her coworkers.
And Dad changed his number years ago without telling me.
I lurch onto a bench, banging my tailbone on the hard metal.
“ Fuck .”
The man sitting next to me takes one look in my direction and moves to the other side of the train station. He’s missing out. I could have told him the meaning of life.
I brace my elbows on my open knees in a very ladylike fashion and suck down one more drag of my cigarette before the train arrives.
To be completely honest, once the initial shock and blinding rage swirled down a toilet bowl’s amount of margaritas, I was a tiny bit relieved.
Grant and I only made it as long as we did because I was willing to do most of the work, and he liked blowjobs. We both knew I was really dating him for his mom anyway. And now that Kristin’s gone, this kind of ending for Grant and me was inevitable.
Still sucks though.
In front of me, the train glides to a stop.
I put out the cigarette underfoot, flick it into a trashcan, and step inside. God, I could use another drink now. Maybe I’ll stop at a second bar on the way home.
Riding a train in Chicago at night, drunk, is an enormously stupid decision, but two giant margaritas and three vending machine chocolate bars are not agreeing with me, and I’d rather throw up in the train than in some poor Uber driver’s car… wait… actually, four margaritas. I drank four giant margaritas.
Two men in hard hats and florescent yellow safety vests watch me from the opposite end of the train. I arrange myself into a straight line and try to look less sloshed, but blinking in coordination is tricky right now, so instead, I turn to watch the city pass by in a glowing neon blur. Clutching the safety pole with two hands, I sway with the movements of the train.
I love the city at night. Everything looks so cool and cyberpunk and infinite. When Mom moved us here more than fifteen years ago as a “surprise” for Dad, being in a city like Chicago gave me endless possibilities. I didn’t have to be the poor, fat girl with a crazy mom. I could be invisible, anonymous. I wasn’t greedy—that was enough for me.
Then in high school, I met Grant’s mom Kristin during a group study night at his house, and she saw something in me. She invited me over and celebrated my school grades and fed me spaghetti and tuna casserole and meatloaf and like any other stray dog, I fell head-over-heels in love with her.
Now that she’s gone, and Grant and I are over, I’ll have to ration out the scraps of her love more carefully. They’ll need to last me the rest of my life because no one is ever going to make me feel that special again.
After a stop, the train zips forward, and I catch myself on the bar at the last minute. The two construction workers burst into laughter at a video on the bigger guy’s phone. The smaller guy claps his friend’s back as they grin together. It’s kind of cute. I’m definitely not jealous.
I glance down and startle at the sight of an attractive man sitting near me. When did he get on?
Heat diffuses over my cheeks as I stare at him.
He’s dressed simply in boots, jeans, and a black hoodie. A hawk’s head tattoo covers the back of one hand. Long, elegant fingers interlace as he leans forward, elbows resting on muscular thighs. His dark hair falls in soft waves, framing bold eyebrows and a nose almost too big for his face.
I bet men and women throw themselves at him all day long. He looks like he’d refuse to wear a condom, jackrabbit you for all of thirty seconds, and not call you the next day. He’s probably a complete jerk because he’s hot enough to never have needed to develop a personality.
I could kill a man right now to find out what he smells like.
Unfortunately, while my body is having a near-religious experience at the sight of this beautiful stranger, he doesn’t seem to have noticed me. For some reason, he’s ignoring the weird drunk lady and staring straight ahead through the window behind me.
The alcohol must’ve burned off what little shame I have because I’m seriously considering finding out what he thinks about my forty-nine-day dry spell.
I glance behind me and catch him staring at me through the reflection.
His gaze lingers on me for half a second longer than necessary, a frown slashed across his face. Is he… disappointed ? Before I can figure it out, he looks over to the side, bored. He’s probably written me off as a hot mess of a drunk. Which… fair .
I need to get home, pack my shit, and get a hotel for a few days while I think about my next steps. My roommate from college might still be living alone. I could check with her about moving in. And then I need to find a job, like, yesterday.
Thinking about my next steps sucks.
And it’s hard to focus when I’m still pissed.
I mean, I solved it. I found out who’s pulling Snap Close’s contracts out from under them, and now that secret’s going to die with me because I’m sure as hell not giving The Flash Drive to Grant now.
I guess I could bring it to the police, although that seems like a lot of work, and who knows if they’d even take me seriously.
I could bring it to Terrence .
The thought stokes desire through my body like a lover’s whisper.
What if I did? I know where Terrence lives. He’s only a few stops past my apartment. I could ride the train until I got close, hunt down some fast food to sober up, then catch an Uber to his house. Terrence always liked me—or at least pretended he did—during the company dinners and events where we’d crossed paths. And I liked the thrill of talking to him while his company secrets buzzed around my head like a swarm of honeybees.
The construction workers get off the train, and a dozen more people step on. Most of them are worn-out men and women in suits who disperse to their seats without talking, sliding earbuds into place.
I sneak another glance at the man in front of me. How long is he going to ride?
A few thick silver rings—one set with a square, black onyx—accent his fingers, but there’s no wedding band. For the first time in years, I’m single, and the perfect male specimen for rebound sex sits before me, but I don’t make a move. Even in my drunken state, alarm bells are ringing in my head. The man shifts to recline in his chair, lithe limbs spread out, but he’s not relaxed. He sits too still, like a coiled spring. This guy’s trouble—and not the fun kind.
The train stops, and I glance up at the map.
“Oh, shit,” I blurt out.
Fuck, I was so busy ogling that guy, I missed my stop. Whatever, I’ll get off here and eat the extra Uber cost.
The stranger lifts himself in one fluid movement as I step off the train. The back of my neck tingles with intense awareness as he follows me, close as a shadow.
On the platform, I whirl to tell him off, but he’s not even looking at me. He’s watching the train as the doors slide close, focused unblinkingly on another man inside.
The other man’s wearing jeans and boots too, but his hair’s shorn short. He looks so similar to the stranger next to me that they could be brothers or cousins.
In the seconds before the train departs, the man inside the train turns and spots us with a harsh scowl. Next to me, the stranger shifts his weight ever-so-slightly so that he stands between me and the train man.
The train man’s attention flits to me. I shrink behind the stranger’s back.
There’s something dangerous in the way the man on the train looks at me—like he’d love to sink his teeth into my soft belly just to hear me scream. As the train departs, the man inside wiggles his fingers toward us, a movement strangely reminiscent of a dying spider’s twitching legs.
“Do you know him?” the stranger asks, turning to face me. His rich, soft voice strokes between my legs with a featherlight touch.
“No, I thought you did!”
We both laugh. The tension fades from my body.
“I’m Salvatore.”
I look up at him, feeling shy and daring at the same time. Maybe he doesn’t think I’m a hot mess after all—or he doesn’t mind. His eyes are a curious shade of amber that reflects the warm glow of the streetlights.
“Natalie,” I say, giving my go-to name for strange men.
We stand there for a moment in silence while Salvatore watches me without expression, and I memorize his face to fantasize about later.
“Can I walk you where you’re headed?” he asks.
I hum thoughtfully. Normally, I’d say no, no matter how attractive he was, but the way train guy acted gave me the creeps. On the other hand, even though Salvatore says they didn’t know each other, my gut says they definitely did.
The other passengers have all walked away already, leaving the station completely empty. I cross my arms over my chest to ward off the night chill. My instincts stagger, faceplant, and finally kick in. This guy’s trouble, remember?
“No, thank you,” I say politely. Better not piss off the strange man. My heart rate picks up. “My boyfriend’s picking me up.”
I turn and strike toward the street, already feeling a little silly for my worrying.
“I’ll walk you there,” Salvatore says from behind.
Panic shoots up my spine at his silent presence beside my elbow. He’s going to get mad when he sees the Uber and not my “boyfriend”. That’s if he doesn’t force me into an alley on the way there first and steal my wallet… or worse. I drop my purse from my shoulder to my hand. Maybe I can buy myself time if I throw it at him.
“Actually, I just remembered, I’m meeting him one stop down. I have to get back on the train.”
I turn again, and he’s there .
The illusion of civility drops like a guillotine.
“You’re not getting back on that train,” Salvatore says in a low voice. His arms hang loose at his side, and his hard, yellow eyes pierce me with cold indifference.
My lungs seize. Why is there not a single other soul in this damn station?
I take a step back, and he takes one perfectly spaced step forward, and then I spin and burst into a sprint, screaming at the top of my lungs.
My scream sticks in my throat as Salvatore hauls me against his solid chest, knocking the air out of me. He clamps a rough hand over my mouth and pins me against his body as I thrash desperately against him.
He leans down to grunt in my ear, “I can’t knock you out, you’re drunk. I’m going to set you down, and then you’re going to walk with me to my hotel.”
Fuck no!
Images of my face plastered across lost posters flash in my mind. Fight! Fight, you idiot!
I flail even more recklessly, doing whatever I can to escape or hurt him. My arm slips free enough to elbow him sharply in the ribs, and I scrape his shin with my heel.
“Marisol!” he shouts and squeezes my arm so hard that I freeze and whimper into his palm.
How does he know my real name?
I inhale raggedly through my nostrils, willing myself not to throw up. He knows my name. This is bad. Really, really bad.
“I’m going to let you go now. And you are not going to scream. You are not going to run. Do we have an understanding?”
I nod against his hand. First chance I get, I’m absolutely screaming and running.
Salvatore sets me down but grips my hand in his own like a vice. I shut my eyes for a moment, my belly churning with dread and nausea, and swallow the saliva pooling in the back of my mouth. I can’t throw up. I need to focus.
“I’m going to take you to my hotel,” he says, and I wince. Hotels are where girls get taken off the street and don’t come back. “That other man on the train? He’s going to hurt you if he catches you alone. And right now he’s on the first train back.”
He doesn’t wait for a response, and I stumble and nearly eat shit as he begins to tow me down the sidewalk at a brisk clip. He hauls me upright and, instead of slowing down, he steadies me with a flat palm to my back that makes my skin crawl.
“Why are you doing this?” I demand, my anger undercut by how out of breath I sound. If I get out of this alive, I swear I’ll go running every day of my life.
Salvatore ignores me. I try a few more times and then resign myself to observing our surroundings. Maybe something will come in handy later.
This time of night, only a few cars whisper down the street beside us. We pass a few closed fashion boutiques, the headless display mannequins forced into poses in the darkness. One older couple is out on a stroll, but they’re deep in conversation and don’t notice my wide, panicked eyes. Down the street, a group of young men starts our way but veer down a side street before they get close. With each step, my breathing cuts shorter and shorter until I feel like I’m sucking air through a straw.
When we stop in front of a hotel, I blink dumbly at the gold-lettered sign in front.
“The Coquatrix?” I ask, voice pitching high.
“ Coquatrix ,” he murmurs, pronouncing it correctly. Snob . I shoot a glare at him, and he meets my gaze evenly. “Don’t make a face like you did with that couple back there. Don’t mistake my calm for kindness. If you make a scene when we go inside, I will hurt you.”
I meet his eyes for as long as I can before dropping my gaze. He nods to himself and then arranges us so he’s clutching my limp hand.
Together, we enter the most expensive hotel this side of Chicago.