Page 16 of A Spy is Born
My gaze finds the mirror and my reflection.Crap on toast.I took a shower before collapsing into bed last night, too tired and wiped out to dry my hair. I just left it. And now there is a price to pay for that laziness. My long pitch black hair—inherited from my grandmother’s Roma roots—is a tangled mess. The contrast of my dark hair and violet eyes often gets me compared to Elizabeth Taylor.
A flash of Jack's still body—the pale curve of his hip in the darkened room—crosses my vision, blocking out my rat’s nest of a hair do and forcing me to grab the marble counter and breathe. I need to lock that thought down and wipe that image away.
It was just a dream,I lie to myself.No, not a lie. It. Was. Just. A. Dream. Forget it.
Taking a deep breath, I look back at myself and firm my jaw. I have an hour and a half before I need to leave. There is no time for this weakness.This wallowing.
I flick on the radio, tuned to the news, and grab my brush off the marble counter, beginning to work through the knots, the pull bringing tears to my eyes. Yes, that's why I'm crying. It's the pull of knots against my scalp. I'm not crying because of a stupid dream. I wouldn't do that. I'm stronger thanthat.
The news anchor drones on about the upcoming election, and I concentrate on his words, using them to blot out the memories trying to surface. “Reginald Grand and Natalie Stone will debate tonight in the first contest between the two presidential candidates. A billionaire business tycoon and television personality, Mr. Grand brings no political experience to the presidency but his strong, nationalist rhetoric and hard-right politics have fired up the base…”
Hair brushed and pulled into a tight ponytail, I pull off my pajamas and inspect the bruises I found last night. They've blossomed. Handprints on my hips, fingertips on my bicep. Turning my back to the mirror, I see the rug burn on my back, the long shallow cut that runs across one shoulder blade—darker and scabbier this morning.
Last night in the shower it stung—burned right through my exhaustion and dragged me back onto the floor…dragged me across it.
No.
Just. A. Dream.
I shake my head and try a smile, something sweet and gentle. A little tired.Up late last night, got banged up in a fender bender. No big deal. I'm fine.
The news anchor’s voice cuts through my act. “Jack Axelrod, Oscar winning director and actor, died unexpectedly last night at his home…” A buzzing fills my ears as the fake story plays out just the way it’s supposed to. No mention of me, of our violent struggle. A heart attack. Natural causes. Tragic but not scandalous.Because last night was just a dream.
Pulling on a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved, high-necked black shirt, I grab boots from my closet—ones that I'm steady in. Last night turned me off high heels for a while.
When I open Archie's crate, he leaps out, standing up to place his small paws on my shin, just above the boots. "Good morning, cutie," I say.
He jumps a couple of times, and I pick him up, putting him into his black leather bag with the mesh sides.
Outside the apartment complex, I set him down in the "pet relief area" and pull my sunglasses on. It's a gorgeous LA day: high sixties, the sun blasting through the haze of the city and making everything sparkle.
"Good morning," a deep voice says behind me, sending a chill up my spine, sending me back to that iceberg I stood on last night.
I turn and smile at Temperance.
He wears a baseball cap, pulled low over his eyes. He's got on mirrored sunglasses—like a cop. But he moves with an air to him, something that is different than regular police. This is not a man who follows the rules of society or enforces them. This is a warrior, who wakes up each morning and battles forces unseen by most. A sorcerer or a wizard—that's how he moves, like he's got some special knowledge the rest of us don’t, like he can bend time and reality to his liking.
Will I learn enough secrets to give me that power? A thrill brushes over me as he approaches, two cups of coffee in his hands.
He holds one out, and I take it, smiling behind my own shades—dark brown so that no one can see my eyes. I'm a celebrity, after all.
Temperance is wearing a short-sleeved white T-shirt, and his arms, dusted in dark hair, are glistening in the sun. The aroma of coconut wafts off him…he's wearing sunscreen.We all need protection from Mother Nature.
I scan down, my eye catching on the waistband of his dark jeans, then continuing to his fashionable sneakers. He does not appear to have a gun on him.
But that does not mean he is helpless. The guy looks like he could kill with his bare hands.Of course he can.He's a freaking secret agent.
"So." Temperance sips his coffee. "How are you feeling?"
I bring my gaze back up to his face. Hidden behind my sunglasses, I stare at myself in the reflection of his aviators. "Fine," I say.It was just a dream.
"Good," he nods. "Ready to head into work?"
I nod, my eyes flicking down to my watch. It's a platinum Rolex, each hour marked with a diamond—a gift from Mary when I got this role. The joy it brought me that day whispers at the back of my mind.A starring role, in a famous, respected director’s film.The arrival of my stardom. The moment I'd been working toward and dreaming of...
"I'm leaving in a few. Just letting Archie do his business."
"Good, the police report about the fender bender is in place; your car, with appropriate dents, is in the garage." I hadn't even thought of that. I'd left my car at Jack's house, not even considering how I’d get to the studio this morning.
