Author: Cassia Leo

Heading for the bathroom, the sound of knocking at the door stops me. ‘Yeah?’

‘Can I come in?’

Fuck. ‘Uh, yeah. Give me a minute.’

Thinking quickly, I scurry into the bathroom and grab the bathrobe off the hook and slip it on, hastily tying it closed. I open the bedroom door and she looks me up and down for a second before she speaks.

‘What are you doing in here? Getting a mani-pedi?’ she asks with a grin.

She looks beautiful with no makeup and damp hair.

‘Very funny. I was just going to take a shower. What’s up?’

Her hands are clasped behind her back as she looks off to the side. ‘I came to apologize. I didn’t mean to yell at you. You just kind of startled me. And . . . thanks for the flight info . . . and for letting me stay here with you until the flight.’

‘How about the muffins?’ She looks up so she can glare at me, but her eyes glance over my chest. I smile at her as I attempt to pull the robe tightly closed, but this thing must be made for women or scrawny, old dudes. ‘Well, since you’re in a grateful mood, do you think you can thank me by giving me your phone number?’

She scrunches up her eyebrows. ‘Why do you need my number? We’re staying in the same room.’

‘Yeah, but I was thinking it might be easier to avoid running into each other naked if we can send a text before barging into each other’s rooms.’

‘You think of everything, don’t you?’

I shrug as I open the bedroom door wider and head for the nightstand where I set down my phone earlier. ‘What’s your number? I’ll text you right now so you can save my mine in your phone.’ She shoots off the ten digits quickly, probably trying to see if my fingers can keep up. I fire away a text message then smile at her as I look up from the screen. ‘You might want to go check your phone. I think you just got a text message from a really hot guy.’

She rolls her eyes as she turns to leave. ‘Goodnight, Crush.’

‘Goodnight, Mikki.’

She closes the door and I take my phone with me into the bathroom. The hot water is running and I’m about to step into the shower when I hear the buzzing noise of my phone vibrating on the counter. I scoop it up and smile at her reply.

Me: Want to stay in tomorrow and watch movies and order room service all day?

Mikki: Only if we watch Pretty in Pink and you change the ending so Andie ends up with Fuckie.

I laugh out loud at the typo and she instantly sends another text through.

Mikki: Duckie! Duckie! Not Fuckie!

Me: Are you sure you’re not talking about Pretty in Kink? I think that’s the one with Fuckie.

Mikki: Stupid phone.

Me: Of course we can watch that and if Duckie doesn’t get the girl this time, I’ll hunt down John Hughes and demand a re-make.

Mikki: John Hughes is dear.

Mikki: Dead! John Hughes is DEAD! Ugh.

Me: Killed by all those Fuckie fans, I’m sure.

Mikki: SMH

Me: Getting in the shower now. Feel free to wake me up later if you need anything.

Mikki: Goodnight.

Me: Sweet dreams.

Chapter 20: MIKKI – January 4th

The moment I close my messaging app, I see the little red icon telling me I have fourteen voicemail messages. I turn the screen off and the darkness swallows me. I want to slide out of bed, slip into the bathroom, and end it all right now: all the voicemails, the obsessive thoughts, the awkward moments, the memories. But I swore I wouldn’t do it in a place where I could be found. And I don’t think I can do that to Crush after what he saw in that parking lot.

I have to let my cell phone battery die. Pretty soon it will be twenty-four hours since I went missing. The police will be able to track my phone if it’s powered on. Letting the battery die means I won’t have to listen to those voicemails, but it also means no more cute text messages from Crush.

Laying the phone on the nightstand, I lie back and gaze into the darkness. Then I force myself to remember everything. I’ve stayed pretty high and drunk for the past three years, but sometimes when I’m sober I force myself to remember. I never want to forget that the world can go black in a split second.

The first time I did this was the night before my appointment with the detective who handled my case: Detective Mills. I didn’t sleep the night before that appointment. I was up the whole night, forcing myself to remember every detail as I scrawled it down on a million pieces of paper. And somewhere around four in the morning, while crouched on my bedroom floor, sobbing over a pile of messy notes, I realized that I needed to change the facts to make sure the investigation never went to trial. I finally understood why so many rapes go unreported. I didn’t want to face my attackers in a courtroom. I didn’t want to know what they thought of me. I didn’t want to see even a trace of satisfaction in their eyes. I didn’t want to deal with questions about what I was wearing or whether I was a virgin or what it felt like to have my soul ripped to shreds.

These are the facts: On the night of April fourteenth, an unknown number of young men brutally raped me over the course of approximately three hours. Then they dumped me in a parking lot, beat me within an inch of my life, and left me for dead. I wasn’t going to let the justice system rape me again.

*****

I step out of the bedroom the next morning, freshly showered with my makeup and hair in place. When I enter the dining area, I can see him in the kitchen, standing next to the sink with his shirt off, guzzling a glass of water. As soon as he sets the glass in the sink, he spots me and the smile he casts in my direction is just too fucking cute.

‘Good morning. You look like you’re ready for a day at the library.’

I look down at my clothes, confused by his remark. I’m wearing a pair of skinny jeans Rina and I drew on with clothing markers, a baby-blue Cubs T-shirt – because the sight of it drives my dad crazy – and a black hoodie.

‘Do I look like a book nerd or something?’

He rounds the breakfast bar and my breath catches in my throat when I see his gray boxer briefs. I quickly reach for one of the dining chairs and pull it out to take a seat, so I can stare at the table instead.

‘I thought of something last night and I—’ His voice cuts off and I look up to see what’s wrong. ‘Never mind. You said you wanted to stay in. I’ll go get dressed. Go ahead and order us some breakfast.’ He takes off toward his bedroom and I seize the opportunity to watch him as he leaves. ‘Order me a steak.’

‘With or without blood?’

‘The more blood, the better.’

I’ve never ordered room service before, and I’m certain the guy taking my order knows. He sighs audibly when I don’t immediately know what cut of steak I want to order or what I want to drink. A few minutes later, I hang up the hotel phone and Crush walks out of his bedroom looking like the lead character in a blockbuster movie about demon hunters. I press my lips together as I head for the sofa in the living room to keep from smiling.

We both sit down and he begins fiddling with the remote as he searches for something to watch. ‘If I can’t find Pretty in Kink, are you going to be upset? Like, will you start crying or force-feeding me muffin tops until I burst, or something?’

‘No, but I might nuke your steak in the microwave and force you to eat that.’

‘Fair enough.’ He continues flipping through the various apps on the TV, searching for somewhere he can purchase a movie and I pull my feet up on the sofa to hug my knees. ‘Maybe we should just read,’ he says after a few minutes of fruitless searching.

I turn to him and I can’t help but smile, even though I’m so tired from not having slept all night. Reading will probably put me to sleep. Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

‘I’ll get the book.’ I spring up from the sofa, practically skipping as I make my way to my bedroom to retrieve the book from on top of the armchair where I left it yesterday.

When I come out of the room, Crush is letting in the room service guy. The guy sets all our dishes on the dining table and pours us each a cup of fresh-squeezed orange juice and ice water while Crush signs the check. I sit down at the table again, laying the book in my lap as I wait for Crush to take a seat.

‘I don’t know what’s what, so go ahead and start unveiling,’ he says, lifting the lid on one of the plates.

He gets lucky and finds his steak on the first try. I lift the lid closest to me and find the warm croissants I ordered. Setting aside the lid, I pour myself a cup of coffee – black – then pull my legs up on the chair to sit cross-legged. I hand the book to Crush so he can place it on the other side of the table, away from all the food and drink, but he opens it up instead.

‘Can we start in the middle so we have time to finish it before the flight?’ he asks, thumbing through the pages until he finds the first page of chapter twenty-three. I know that chapter. So does he.

‘We can start wherever you want. It’s your book and you haven’t read it in way longer than I have.’ I tear off a chunk of the croissant and pop it in my mouth, letting out a soft moan. ‘This is fucking delicious. Have you tried these?’

He nods as he pulls the ribbon bookmark down the center of the book and closes it. ‘When was the last time you read Black Box?’

I wash down my croissant with some equally delicious black coffee before I respond. ‘Last week.’

He chuckles softly as he cuts off a piece of steak. The blood runs from the steak and all I can think is that I hope it doesn’t run into his scrambled eggs. That would be disgusting. Scrambled eggs should be eaten with ketchup. Not blood.

He swallows his food and gulps down some orange juice before he turns to me. ‘Black Box is my grandfather’s story. It’s the only book he ever wrote and he never got it published.’

‘You gave me the one copy of the only book your grandfather ever wrote?’ He nods and continues eating, as if this is no big deal. ‘Are you fucking crazy?’

He doesn’t flinch at my question. He finishes chewing his eggs then he slowly sets down his fork and turns to me. ‘You would have done the same thing.’

‘But . . . if that’s your grandfather’s story, that means . . . The black box exists?’ He nods and I feel as if I can’t breathe. ‘Can we start reading now?’ He hands me the book and I push my plate of croissants aside so I can lay the book on the table. I open the book to the page he marked and begin to read aloud.

‘Herman’s plane landed in Boston airport at seven in the evening. His relief to finally be home after eight months away could only be matched by his utter elation at finally being able to see Leah and June.’

I quickly close the book and cover my face as the tears begin. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t do it. You have to read it.’

I know why he picked this chapter to start with and I’m almost angry with him. Though I’ve relived it a million times over the past three years, it still kills me when Herman returns from the war to find his seven-year-old daughter, June, has died. Now, knowing it’s his grandfather’s story only makes it worse.

‘Are you okay?’ he asks as he takes the book from me and sets it on the seat of the chair next to him.

‘I’m sorry,’ I blubber into my hands. ‘I just hate that she died. I really wanted him to read her letters.’

I can’t stop the tears. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I cry. Suddenly, I feel movement in my hair. I pull my hands away from my face and Crush is touching my hair.

‘This isn’t your real hair color,’ he says, mesmerized as he rubs a lock of black hair between his fingers.

‘I’ve dyed my hair a dozen different colors since that night, but black is my favorite. I’ll never go back to my natural color. I don’t want to see . . . I don’t want to even know what I used to look like.’