Chrysalis, p.5
Chrysalis, page 5
“Am I that transparent?”
“No. But you’re not gonna tell me unless I ask.” I’m trying to fix that. And I’m about to tell her so when she repeats my words.
“When I was in Chicago, I always knew. All I had to do was look at your face.”
“What did my face tell you?”
“Whether you were fighting with yourself.”
“I’m always fighting with myself.” And it takes guts for me to admit.
“I wish it were easier to pick your battles,” she says.
We only talked about it once—my overactive brain. Not being able to control all the inputs I try to process. It’s at the crux of my anxiety.
“It’s not just at night, is it?”
And I think she may know me better than I’ve given her credit for. When I first told her about it, it was in the context of my insomnia. I haven’t told her about my sensory processing disorder, or how I have to manage my anxiety all day.
“No. It’s bigger than that.”
“How bad does it get?”
“I manage,” I say vaguely.
She sighs and I know she’s thinking about what I told her once before—that I don’t want her to be my doctor. I know I need to get over myself. It’s dumb luck on my part that I’ve fallen in love with a mental health professional. If she weren’t one, I think that by now I would have told her more.
“There’s nothing I can say right now that won’t make me sound like a shrink.”
“There’s nothing more I can tell you that won’t make me feel like a patient.”
“It’s worse when you don’t talk about it, babe.”
“I know.”
I have a routine. Treadmill first. A fast four miles of 1-2 intervals that take exactly thirty minutes to complete, and another five to cool down at a walk. For a full ten minutes, my feet never touch the floor as I work my abs. I go five, five and five on push-ups, chin-ups and dips. Even though I’m alone in my apartment, I prefer my earbuds to surround sound.
My showers are long. I spend half of them catching my breath and enjoying the ritual of water hitting my body. I went all out with the master bath remodel—a fully-installed rainfall ceiling with nine surrounding body jets. I’ve had a thermostatic mixing valve put in so that the spray comes out as a combination of hot and cold water. The temperature differentiation is rapid and distributed enough to give most people the sensation that the water is simply warm.
But I’m not most people. My hyper-sensitive skin feels both temperatures acutely, and I’m calmed by its dynamic delivery. It reminds me of when I was little—me and Bex sitting side by side in our ancient tub—feeling the water from both spigots hit the surface to swirl and blend.
When I need to relax, I use this with the soft rainfall, standing for minutes that slow to hours as I let myself enjoy the feeling of each water droplet hitting my body. The other new feature—the sprayers—will give me something different from the rainfall. Hard jets of water assaulting me from nine different angles will stimulate my senses in ways I have yet to fully explore.
I’ve long since gotten over my guilt over the colossal waste of water this is. When I discovered how much of a regulating effect the right shower could have on me, I started taking as many as I could. Darby thinks my fancy showers are just an obsession. But it’s more than a guilty pleasure for me. I need the sensory input. My body craves these routines to manage my anxiety.
I take my time soaping every crevice before massaging my scalp with a conditioning shampoo. As usual, my dick begs for attention. It’s been two weeks since I’ve jerked off and my cock is starting to ache. The act has been too fraught with emotion and I rarely let myself indulge. This time he isn’t taking no for an answer, so I cool the water temperature and soap my hands before wrapping them around my cock. It feels amazing and I fill my mind with luscious thoughts.
But this pales in comparison to what the real Darby feels like around me. Her pussy is so good. I had to sleep with a lot of women before I knew what that really meant. It’s not about how tight she is—it’s about how it feels when her excitement builds. The way she coils ever-tighter with every few strokes, the effort it takes close to the end to keep pushing inside her, the final thrust that triggers her release…I live for that moment—the moment when all she needs in this world is me to fill the tiny space inside her. It’s not my hand stroking myself desperately, but the memory of that, that catapults me over the wall.
Breakfast is an egg white omelet with plenty of butter, salt and sautéed onions. I pour a whole milk hot chocolate in a travel mug—I’ll drink it on my way to work. That’s when I have my call with Avi. I talk to him most mornings on my drive to the office. He’s my friend—the one who conducted the investigation that took down Huck. Officially, he’s a private investigator, but the truth is, he’s a fixer. The computer hacker kind of fixer, not the hit man kind of fixer. He’s helping me keep Frank in line and making sure Charlie Sweeney gets what he deserves.
I’ve known this man since I was in the second grade. He lived down the hall from us in the building where I grew up. His mom was a crack addict. When things got bad at his place, he came to hide out in mine. We’ve been there for each other through thick and thin. Apart from Bex and Randy, he’s my oldest friend.
He was always into computers. Knowing how to hack networks was his ticket out of our neighborhood. A string of lucrative Internet security jobs in his twenties found him making six figures a year. By thirty, he had graduated to seven. He still makes crazy money, but he traded corporate America for a job that lets him live out his spy fantasy.
Monitoring Frank Christensen isn’t as easy as it sounds. Now that he’s on the presidential ticket, there are scores of articles that mention him every day. A Google alert would have been useless. I need to know what he’s doing, what’s being done on his behalf, and what he’s doing that might mess with Darby.
“It’s a slow news day for politics,” Avi is saying. “Everyone’s talking about the game last night. The Patriots are going to the playoffs. Again.”
I only follow sports to the extent that knowing about them helps me make small talk in work situations, and nobody in Sydney cares about American football.
“How’s everything else?”
“We’re closer on Sweeney,” Avi continues. “That intern—Lisa Sherbourne—she’s agreed to talk.”
“Good,” I remark gravely. “How much more do we need?”
I don’t plan to ever give Darby the play-by-play on how I’ve conspired to take down Charlie Sweeney. It’s ugly business and disturbing as hell. But I do look forward to the day when I can tell her he’s behind bars and will never hurt another young girl again.
“Any news on the kingpin?” I ask.
Avi’s been in contact with Corliss. I’ve tapped my network and raised half the money she needs already. But the real problem won’t be solved until she attacks it at the source.
“She was right. It has all the markings of somebody big. Whoever it is, they want control over a big part of the South Side.”
“I don’t get it.” I’ve been thinking about this. “How can someone brand new, who nobody knows, just swoop right in?”
“My guess is that it’s white collar crime.”
I chew on this for a moment. “So you think it’s the drug companies?”
“It’s someone with access to them. From what I’ve been able to find out, the product is authentic.”
“What else?” I ask.
The fact that Avi pauses for a beat sets off alarm bells.
“She had a run-in with a pap.” Ari says it gravely. He’s talking about Darby, and the paparazzi.
“Got caught off-guard outside her house. It surprised her. I sent the video to your private account.”
“Thanks.” Nothing related to Darby and Frank comes through my work e-mail and I won’t even do so much as Google Charlie Sweeney on a company computer. Even now, I’m talking to Avi on my second, secret, cell phone.
I ask about his wife and two daughters after our briefing is done, and spend the last few minutes of our call making an effort not to be a dick. I know I haven’t been myself and that it hasn’t been pleasant for people around me. I’m still always an angel with Darby, but I need to chill the fuck out with everyone else.
The freak-out happens after I hang up the phone. Cursing loudly while hitting my steering wheel does nothing to appease my frustration. Biding my time until I figure out how to make it so that Darby and I can be together is one thing. Being halfway across the world when my woman is being assaulted by the paparazzi is another. This fucking sucks.
I look at my watch. It’s three in the afternoon there. She’ll be in the middle of her shift, and I have no idea what I would say. “I’ve been monitoring you and wanted to make sure you’re okay after your encounter with that reporter” would just be too creepy.
“Darby called,” Kat informs me apprehensively as I walk broodingly into my office.
I stop in my tracks and take a step backward to speak with her. “At what time?”
“You just missed her.”
I take the time to thank Kat and even muster a small smile before I close my door. I’m dialing before I sit down and am hanging my suit jacket in my closet when she picks up. My shaded glass wall office is enormous and I have to close the space between my closet and my phone if I want to respond to her greeting, even though I’m on speaker.
“Hey, cupcake. I just got into work. Are you in the middle of your shift?”
“I never made it to work today,” she admits. “I wasn’t in the mood.”
“That sounds like a good idea,” I praise her gently. “You’ve been working so hard you deserve a day off. You gonna watch some movies?”
“I dunno. I haven’t decided yet.”
She’s trying to keep her voice light, but I know what happened to her. Even if I hadn’t, I would’ve sensed the tension. I slip an earbud into one ear and navigate to my e-mail on my secret cell. I want to see the video Avi sent me of Darby.
She is clearly startled as she exits her house, not having expected anyone to be there. Immediately, they’re questioning her about the way Frank voted on a bill that would expand access to opioid drugs. With so many experts speaking out against the senator’s position, they’re trying to get Darby to oppose him. It would be a big story if his own daughter—herself an opioid expert—admitted that she didn’t support his stance.
Darby quickly puts her poker face on and politely declines to comment, but one persistent little fucker won’t leave her alone. He’s in her face and when she won’t say more, he baits her with offensive questions and comments, hoping to get a rise out of her. That way, even if she doesn’t say what they want her to, getting a rise out of her becomes its own story.
Darby’s a pro. She doesn’t bite, but when she realizes she can’t get past the wall of paparazzi, she retreats into her house. She makes her reaction look natural—carries herself with class and grace. To an outsider, she seems confident, but I can see beyond the mask. She’s surrounded where she lives. The vultures are circling and she’s all alone.
“You should go to my place,” I say casually. “My movie collection is better than yours. Plus, I have a waterbed.” She loves my apartment. It’s been her sanctuary many times and the paps will never get up there with the building’s security.
“You could take your car,” I say. Taking her car would let her leave through her garage and avoid the street in front of her house. Her back alley is gated, which makes it the perfect escape.
“Haven’t you closed up your apartment?”
“Bex and Alex use it sometimes. And the cleaning service still comes twice a month. I’ll call in some groceries for you. Use it today, baby. Use it any time you want.”
“Thanks,” she says softly.
She still hasn’t said why she called, and I won’t ask her. I know why she called. I hope she got what she needed.
“Michael?”
“Yes, cupcake?”
“Why would I want to take my car? It’s a ten minute Uber ride away.”
She knows I won’t admit that I know. Just like she won’t admit that it even happened.
“Sometimes it’s nice to go for a little drive.”
Later that day, I send her a drawing of my Chicago apartment building. I’ve added subtle detail to the basic construction that replaces the reflective windows with imposed blockades that make it look like a medieval fortress. Instead of city streets at the base of the building, I’ve drawn a moat and a drawbridge is being lowered. It’s ready to let in the old Range Rover that awaits.
Darby’s still at my house after yesterday’s fiasco with the reporter. When I found out his name and who he was with, I gave Ben a call. The New Yorker is owned by Condé Nast, which is also the parent company of Ben’s magazine, Vanity Fair. I showed Ben the video and he was livid. He sent me a text this morning to let me know that all of the Condé Nast publications will leave her alone, and that the reporter had been fired.
She and I have been on the phone for an hour and I’m relieved that I’ve convinced her to spend the whole weekend at my place. She surprised the hell out of me by actually mentioning what happened the day before, and admitting how much it had rattled her. However, I’ve had zero success in convincing her to move some place more secure.
“I’m not moving out of my house, Michael.”
“Just ‘til the end of the election,” I say.
“The election’s not for another year.”
“Exactly.” What doesn’t she understand about this?
“I said I was rattled—I didn’t say I couldn’t handle it,” she says.
“Sure you can. But why would you want to?”
When she doesn’t say anything, I know that my objections are trying her patience. At the moment, I don’t care. Darby has cried on my shoulder about this. She’s been stalked, had death threats and survived a kidnapping attempt. Why she’s acting like this is an annoyance rather than a risk to take seriously is beyond me. But she presses on.
“Finding a new apartment is not easier than dealing with what happened today a few more times.”
“You don’t need to find a new apartment. You can move into my place.”
It’s a sensible suggestion. She’s comfortable there. I’m not using it. And my building houses enough of the Chicago elite that security won’t be an issue. Still, it feels strange to say it because I have ulterior motives. If Darby agrees to move into my apartment under any circumstances, I’ll do everything I can to make sure she never leaves.
“It was just a reporter, Michael.”
Yeah, this time, I think but don’t say. “If something else happens, will you at least consider it?” I know that I’ve been beaten—at least for now. And there’s no reason to push her if she won’t be swayed.
“If I’m in any real danger, yes.”
“Alright,” I relent. “Let’s talk about something else.
Not thirty seconds later, my phone makes a flat beeping sound.
“Shit…My battery’s dying. Wanna switch to Skype?”
“Yeah. Lemme get my computer. Hang on…”
I hear her footsteps against a hard floor, and I know she was in my bedroom. I hear the scrape of the barstool where she always left her purse as she drags it away from the island. I’m opening my own laptop by the time she walks back into my room. It’s taking her a long time, and instead of initiating our video call, she tells me to hold on again. When the Skype call finally comes through, she’s still moving around. My headboard comes into view and I and see the moment she pulls her laptop onto her legs. Her hair is over one shoulder, the snapdragon is around her neck, and she’s wearing one of my button down shirts.
“What took you so long?” It’s a miracle I manage to say anything. Because I already know the answer. Darby’s in my bed looking hot as hell in my clothes.
“I wanted to put on something decent.”
I might be gaping.
“What? I’m completely covered up.” She looks down at herself.
I swipe my hand over my face as I let out a pained chuckle. “You’re killing me, cupcake.”
She shakes her head a little and rolls her eyes. Reaching her hand toward the bedside table, she picks up a glass of red wine. “Where were we?”
“We were about to agree on a dress code for video calls.”
She laughs in that cute way of hers. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. You’re gonna have to wear something about ten times frumpier than that. Like, turtlenecks and corduroys frumpy, and put on a Snuggie on top of that.”
“Don’t you think I’d be too hot?”
You’re already too hot.
“I’ll pay your air conditioning bill.”
She rolls her eyes again.
“I’m serious,” I say.
“Alright. I’ll dust off my granny panties.”
I adjust myself discreetly as she takes a sip of her wine.
“It’s weird being here without you, you know. This morning I woke up in your bed and, for a second, I forgot that you were gone. I rolled over to look in toward the bathroom. I figured you were taking a shower or something. I used to spy on you, you know. I always loved to watch you dress.”
I hate the sadness I see in her eyes, but I’ve come to crave these tiny morsels of validation. They’re few and far between, but I survive on these tiny gifts for days.
“I miss waking up with you,” I confess quietly. “When I go to sleep, I start out on my side of the bed, but, by morning, I’ve migrated over to yours.”
“Your place looks like it’s missing something without the painting. It’s strange…how perfect it looks hanging in both places.”
Her voice is wistful, and her comment is innocent enough. She still thinks it’s just a painting we both like.
“I painted it when I was fifteen.”
I suppose that now is as good a time as any to bring this up.
“It’s so good, Michael. Like, museum good. Did you ever show it or consider selling it?”
