Chapter 7
Electra
Malachi Hadez in athletic wear is a sight for sore eyes: head-to-toe navy that makes his irises pop, and dark-gold hair swept back with precision.
The antithesis of Cillian with his messy locks, juvenile sneakers, and heavy-framed glasses.
Yet as we run through the Commons, my lids keep getting assaulted by flashes of my fake boyfriend.
Of his irises that are a shade of gray-blue so cool it flirts with silver.
Of his ears that stick out, tipping through the tangle of brown.
Of his white skin that’s quick to color, and his fingers that are rough with calluses and small burn scars.
Since calluses come from hard manual labor, and burns from fire, I can’t stop myself from wondering what he does in his downtime. Weld pipelines? Fix cars? Build houses?
“Elle?” Malachi slows before stopping completely.
“Yeah?”
“I just asked you the same question three times.” He says this with a smile, even though I can tell he doesn’t love my distractedness.
“Fourth time’s the charm.”
Malachi hoists an eyebrow.
“I’m listening,” I say, grabbing my ankle and pinning it to my ass to stretch my quad before repeating the movement on the other side.
“You looked into him, right?”
“Diego ran a background check before Fiona invited him over for private sessions at the house.”
“And?”
“You think he’d be in our lives if he were some ill-intentioned asshole?”
“He’s a human.”
“So? Humans aren’t all bad.”
“I never said they were. Just be careful, all right?”
I cross my arms. Why did he have to say, be careful? Why couldn’t he have said, Don’t date him?
“Do you think my past ever slips my mind, Mal? Careful is my default setting. But by all means, you’re welcome to investigate him further.” Please do. Please take an interest in who I date.
Malachi snaps his phone out of his pocket and dials a number—Dorian’s.
“The guy your sister’s dating… Apparently, Diego has a file on him.
” Malachi’s eyes narrow. “What do you mean, which guy? The dance instructor.” His navy irises slit as he listens to whatever my brother has to say.
“Huh. So, you weren’t aware Elle was seeing him… ”
“That’s because Cillian asked me out last night,” I murmur. “Thanks for telling Dorian, though. I was really not looking forward to that conversation.”
“Yeah. Send me Diego’s findings.” A beat of silence. “Interesting. I’ll tell her…” A dark smile curls his mouth as he hangs up. “He wants you to call him after your run.”
“I bet,” I mumble. “So, what was so interesting?”
“The kid—”
“Cillian’s in his mid-twenties, Mal. Not exactly a kid. Or if you consider him a kid, then what do you consider me? An infant?” I roll my neck. “So, what did Diego find out?”
“He found out that the guy has no bank account, no credit score, and no employment records with the gym he supposedly gives lessons at. Lucky for you, Diego already did all the legwork. Apparently Cillian trades teaching time against use of the gym’s amenities and parking, because your boyfriend”—Malachi taps his cell phone against his hip—“lives in his car.”
I suppress my shock and affect nonchalance. “Good thing homeowner isn’t on my list of prerequisites.”
Malachi’s jawbone sharpens, pressing against his run-flushed skin. “He’s a fucking bum, Elle. The guy you’re hooking up with is unemployed and lives in a fucking car.”
I don’t know why I bristle from Malachi’s censure since I wanted him to care, and he obviously does.
I end up saying, “The sort of person I date is none of your fucking business, Mal.”
“Why would anyone choose to live in a car?” Malachi snaps, garnering attention from a group of power-walking, middle-aged women.
“Because they can’t afford a room to rent in this preposterously expensive city!” I gesture to the buildings belting in the Commons. “Because they enjoy the nomadic lifestyle! Why do his living arrangements bother you?”
“Because he’s probably dating you to get access to your money!”
Falling off the bridge all those years ago hurt less than Malachi’s retort.
I back up, moisture piling up in my eyes. “You’re right. Why else would anyone want to date a girl like me?”
“Elle, that’s not—”
I raise my palm to silence whatever excuse he’s trying to come up with. And then I run.
Malachi must sense he overstepped, because he doesn’t chase after me with another apology. Or maybe he doesn’t follow because he doesn’t care enough to catch me.
Guilt must eat at him, though, because the phone I’ve slipped into the thigh pocket of my leggings vibrates incessantly. I only learn it’s not Malachi when I step into my high-rise’s elevator and finally check my notifications.
DORIAN: You’re dating the Zumba coach? When did this happen?
DORIAN: Elle?
DORIAN: Can you please pick up the phone?
DORIAN: If you don’t call me back, I’m sending Diego to check on you.
As the elevator ascends to my family’s eighty-fifth-floor Penthouse, my thoughts spiral like a siren light.
ME: I was out running. I’m fine. Hope Diego isn’t on his way.
DORIAN: He was just about to get in the car.
ME: Tell him I’m home safe.
DORIAN: Since when have you been seeing Lowry?
ME: Since he asked me out last night.
DORIAN: And you just said yes?
ME: Why would I say no?
He doesn’t reply immediately. I’ve evidently stumped him, unless… What if he’s trying to find the right words to tell me he knows about my crush on Malachi?
DORIAN: Because you don’t date.
ME: I do. I just don’t broadcast it.
DORIAN: Who?
ME: Some guys in college.
DORIAN: I want names.
Lying makes my blood prickle, yet I pursue my charade because Dorian will have a lot to say about the truth, which is that I’ve never dated anyone because my fucking heart has always been set on Malachi.
Perhaps I should’ve dated other men.
Perhaps I should date a real guy instead of fake-date Cillian Lowry.
ME: Don’t you have some Holy Hunter to gut or something?
DORIAN: We’re not done with this conversation, but yeah, I have to go.
After my very long and very hot shower, new messages pop onto my phone screen. None from Malachi.
CALLIE: Why did Dorian cross-examine me about your dating history?
CALLIE: Call me back. I need to tell you something.
Since I don’t feel like discussing Cillian or my love life, I don’t call her back. Instead, I order two hearty sandwiches from my favorite Italian place for lunch and flop down in bed with a book.
I try to get into the story but no matter how many pages I flip, my mind keeps drifting to what Malachi said: Because he’s probably dating you to get access to your money.
I toss my book aside, don black leggings and a black sports bra, then head to the bedroom I’ve converted into a home gym.
I punch the sandbag until fresh sweat dribbles down the runnel of my spine, and Liz—my doorwoman or doorbabe as she likes to call herself—phones me up to tell me my food has arrived. Instead of having her send it up, I grab a windbreaker and head down to the lobby.
ME: Which gym does Cillian work at?
DIEGO: The Studio in Cambridge.
“Here you go, Miss Elle,” Liz plops a paper bag on the counter.
I pop open the staple and root inside, removing the extra sandwich I purchased for her. “I got two for the price of one again, Liz. Here.”
“Are you sure?” Liz stares with envy at the butcher paper-wrapped sandwich.
“Absolutely. See you later!” I call out before stepping outside and hailing a cab.
I hate city driving with such a passion that I’ve never bought a car and am plenty happy funding taxi companies.
Fifteen minutes later, my ride pulls up in front of an ivy-and-brick building with large tinted windows. I tuck my sunglasses into my windbreaker pocket and amble to the front desk to ask where I can find Cillian Lowry.
The receptionist mentions he just finished teaching a class, so he’s probably in the employee locker room. After she points me in the right direction, I compel her to forget our chat.
My paper bag crinkles as I push into the locker room. The air is muggy and rings with the sound of water hitting tiles. I walk past the rows of lockers, finding two coaches gossiping about their personal training sessions and how handsy one of their clients was.
When I breeze by, they gape, and then one of them says, “You’re in the wrong locker room.”
“I’m looking for Cillian.”
“Why?” he asks.
I squint at his nametag—Carlos—and jiggle the paper bag. “To give him his lunch.”
“Are you a delivery girl?” Carlos asks.
His buddy, whose nametag is blocked off by his long, black ponytail, looks me up and down in a way that makes me wish I’d grabbed a regular windbreaker, and not the sheer one Calanthe bought me to spice up my dark and boring—according to her—athletic wardrobe.
“We should start giving dance lessons,” he says.
I grimace at his leap in logic but don’t bother setting him straight. “Cillian? Where is he?”
Carlos nods toward the back, his bald head gleaming like it’s been buffed with baby oil. “In the shower.”
I set my irises aglow and compel both men to forget they saw me, leave, and guard the locker room door until I walk out. Once they’re gone, I make my way toward the shower stalls, then take a seat on the bench beneath a red neon that reads: Love the burn.
I’ve just set down the paper bag when the water stops. I hear cloth whisper over skin, followed by the clink of a latch. And then Cillian is standing before me, hair so waterlogged it shines like teak, and skin so damp the indent between each ab glistens like a river bed.