Perfect Strangers

I’m so shocked to see them that I simply stand frozen in the doorway for a moment, staring.

The weirdest thing? Neither one turns to look at me.

I made plenty of noise opening the door, but I might as well be invisible for the lack of attention I get. James and Chris don’t break eye contact as they face off in silence on either side of the coffee table.

Chris is in a gorgeous bespoke gray suit, white dress shirt open at the collar, no tie. James is casual in head-to-toe black: a fitted crew neck T-shirt that showcases the astounding architecture of his upper body and a pair of jeans with combat boots. He’s wearing the leather cuff around his left wrist again, the one he had on the first time I saw him at the café, and an expression I can only describe as eerie.

Where Chris is all crackling tension and red-faced fury, his hands fisted and the muscles in his jaw twitching like mad, James appears relaxed. All the lines of his body are loose. His breathing is even. He seems quite calm…until you look at his eyes.

They’re as flat and unblinking as a cobra’s.

I’ve never seen a man look so lethal.

A scene from my dream flashes into my mind’s eye, the part where James is calmly smiling right before he pulls the trigger on his gun and shoots me. All the little hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

I say loudly, “What’s going on here?”

James remains motionless and completely focused on Chris when he speaks. His voice is a cool monotone. “Your husband didn’t appreciate it when I knocked on your door.”

“Ex-husband.” I step into the foyer but leave the door open behind me. My nerves are so frazzled, I’m shaking all over. My voice shakes, too, when I say, “Who wasn’t invited and so is about to leave.”

Chris slashes his furious gaze to mine. “Are you fucking him?”

I can tell James doesn’t like Chris’s disrespectful way of speaking to me by the way his hands flex slowly open, as if itching to curl around Chris’s neck. But otherwise he retains his strange stillness and unblinking intensity, gazing at Chris with the cold, calculated confidence of a predator who knows his next meal is only one lightning-fast strike away.

I drop my handbag on the floor and edge closer to them, feeling my pulse in every part of my body. I decide to sidestep Chris’s question because a) it’s none of his business and b) if I say yes, I have the distinct feeling that later I’ll be scrubbing a pool of blood off the carpet.

Instead, I ask a question of my own. “Why are you here?”

“I told you on the phone,” Chris snaps, eyes blazing. “I needed to know you were safe.” He turns his blistering gaze back to James. “And now I have my answer.”

James looks Chris up and down. The faintest hint of a smile plays at the corners of his mouth. “I think we both know she’s safer with me than with you.”

He says the words with something that sounds suspiciously like satisfaction, as if there’s a back story here I’m unaware of. An old bet that has been won.

Suddenly, I’m convinced of the impossible:

Chris and James have met before.

Looking back and forth between them with a growing sense of unreality, I demand, “One of you better tell me what the hell is going on. And I mean right now.”

Still with his faint, smug smile, James says to Chris, “Go ahead. Tell her.”

Chris is practically vibrating with rage. That he wants to kill James is patently obvious, but so much about this situation is a mystery that I’m having a hard time making sense of it at all.

Finally, Chris whirls away and starts to pace the length of the living room floor. One hand on his hip, scowling at the carpet, like I’ve seen him do a million times before.

“I didn’t like the way our call ended,” he says, not looking at James or me. “I wanted to talk to you in person, so I booked the next available flight out of Oman.”

He booked the next available flight. The man who hasn’t felt the need to speak to me in more than a year, who didn’t feel the need to speak to me during a good portion of our marriage, booked the next available flight from Western Asia to Paris because he didn’t like the way our call ended.

The out-of-the-blue, yet-to-be-explained phone call.

I watch him continue to pace, my sense of unreality taking a hard right turn toward fear.

I know James is now looking at me, because I can feel it. I feel his hot stare on my skin exactly as if it were a touch.

Screw this. Screw this entire weird scenario. I’m calling these assholes out.

I demand, “How do you two know each other?” and instantly feel James’s gaze intensify.

Chris pulls up short. Swallowing, he looks at James, then back at me. “We don’t.”

I glance at James. His expression is as inscrutable as a cat’s. His voice is tranquil. “We’ve never met.”

My intuition tells me both of them are lying.

Or is that my imagination, sculpting dragons out of passing clouds?

Either way, my mouth is dry and my palms are sweaty, and I find myself backing up a step in growing alarm, aware that I’ve left the door open and fighting the urge to turn and run through it. To where, I don’t know, but the irrational urge to flee is overpowering.

Very softly, James says my name. When I glance at him, he simply shakes his head no.

He’s reading my mind again. He knows I was about to bolt.

That doesn’t make me feel any better.

I exhale in an enormous gust. Then, my patience—never saintly in the first place—breaks. I holler at the top of my lungs, “What the fuck is going on?”

Chris says tightly, “Jesus, Livvie, calm down.”

Hearing Chris call me my nickname, James shoots him a poisonous glare. Then his eyes focus back on mine, and they’re burning. He says, “I knocked on your door. He opened it. When I asked for you, he said you were his wife and demanded to know how I knew you. Apparently my answer didn’t satisfy him.”

“What was your answer?”

The faint smile again. “Go fuck yourself.”

I glance at Chris, who’s staring at James in livid silence. That makes no sense. Chris was never the jealous type before. “How did you get in my apartment?” I know for sure my door was locked, because I made sure to check it when I left.

Chris says, “I told the building manager I was your husband and that I was here to surprise you for your birthday. He let me in.”

I make a mental note to yell at Edmond later.

James says, “It’s your birthday?”

I send Chris a hard stare. “No. But my ex-husband thinks that anything is a fair means to whatever end he’s pursuing.”

He stares back at me, his eyes wild. In a throbbing voice, he says, “The one and only end I’ve ever pursued since the day we met is keeping you out of harms’ way, Olivia. You’ll never know all the sacrifices I made to ensure your safety.”

Before I can process how stunned I am by those words, James chides softly, “Maybe you should tell her. See what she thinks of the choices you made.”

Chris turns on him and roars, “Fuck you, you sanctimonious prick! One more word out of you and I’ll tear out your fucking heart with my bare hands!”

James replies evenly, “Pipe down before you get hurt, frat boy. You country club types are always big bleeders.”

The old fashioned. It must the old fashioned I had with dinner that’s messing with my head. I can’t be hearing what I’m hearing and intuiting what I’m intuiting, if that’s even a real goddamn word.

Here are the facts: James is an artist. He’s sensitive. He’s also dying of ALS. Somehow also freakishly strong despite it, but still, dying. This is an act he’s putting on in front of Chris, a macho, Hemingway-esque, I’m-a-scary-bullfighter act. The kind of posturing men—and apes—do in front of their competitors.

Right?

Right.

That settled, I turn my attention to Chris, reigning in my temper with an enormous effort of will. “We’ll have lunch tomorrow. We can talk then. Now, please leave.”

When he hesitates, his gaze darting back and forth between me and James, I say, “Christopher.”

He looks at me.

“It wasn’t a request.”

To his credit, James doesn’t smirk. He simply stands in silence, observing. He’s still calm and in control, but he’s watching Chris carefully, and I know he’s ready to take him down if he even so much as scowls in my direction.

I also know he could.

Though Chris is athletic and in great shape, his build is slim. He’s inches shorter and at least forty pounds lighter than James. He’s Mikhail Baryshnikov to James’s Muhammad Ali. It would be no contest…especially with the added cherry on top of James’s scary serial killer vibe.

Right now, he’d make a serial killer faint in fright.

Touchy Subject Land be damned, we’re going to have a nice, long talk as soon as my ex-husband is out of here.

Chris huffs out a frustrated breath and drags both hands through his hair. “Fine. I’ll come by at noon and pick you—”

“I’ll meet you at Café Blanc,” I interrupt, because I don’t know what this is, but it definitely isn’t a date. “Google it. Don’t get a table in Jean-Luc’s section.”

“Livvie—”

“For once in your life, Christopher, please listen to me.”

I say it through clenched teeth while a carousel of images plays in my head of all the times he dismissed me to do whatever the hell he wanted. All the times I asked him for something, only to be ignored.

Things like: love me. Hold me. Don’t leave me to survive this nightmare all alone.

Chris holds my gaze for a beat. I’m astonished to see tears shining in his eyes. For a moment his throat works and he seems as if he’s about to say something, but then he nods curtly and strides out of the apartment.

He doesn’t look back.

The first thing I do after he’s gone is retrieve the bottle of bourbon from the kitchen table and pour myself a drink. I gulp it down as James goes to the front door and closes it. He returns to the kitchen and stands across from me, his hands resting on the back of a chair.

He says calmly, “So that was your ex-husband. Interesting guy.”

I wag a finger at him. “Oh no. I’m starting. And you’re gonna talk. Sit.”This content © Nôv/elDr(a)m/a.Org.

When he arches his brows, I point at the chair in front of him and pretend he’s a misbehaving dog. “Sit.”

Amused, he says, “And you say I’m bossy.” But he lowers himself into the chair without further comment, then watches as I shoot the rest of my drink.

“James.”

“Yes?”

“If I ask you a few questions about what just happened, will you tell me the truth?”

“Yes.”

I search his face, but it’s open and guileless. All the weird murderous energy from when Chris was here has vanished. I remember how quickly he changed gears at the restaurant—molten lava to cool cucumber—and wonder what else he can turn on and off in the blink of an eye.

“Had you ever met Chris before?”

“No.”

He didn’t hesitate, but he also didn’t say, “Of course not!” or “Where the hell would I have met your ex-husband?” Just a simple no and that’s it. Which of course isn’t good enough.

Exasperated, I say, “Don’t you even think it’s weird that I’m asking?”

“You’re upset. The two of you have a contentious relationship. It’s not strange that you’d be shaken to find us both in your apartment when you came home.”

Narrowing my eyes, I ask, “How do you know we have a contentious relationship?”

His voice softens, as do his eyes. “Aside from what was said…your body language. Your face. Don’t forget, I’m very attuned to you.”

Oh. Yeah. That.

I drop into the chair across from him and study him in minute detail. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m missing something, but I take another tack.

“Okay, so here’s an observation. I’m just going to put it out there, and I’d like to get your feedback.” I wait until he nods to go on. “You were very…how do I put this? You seemed dangerous when you were interacting with him. Like you could’ve literally killed him.”

“He’s an asshole,” he says without heat. “A condescending, arrogant, narcissistic asshole who thinks his shit doesn’t stink. That kind of person always brings out the worst in me.”

When I simply stare at him, waiting for more, he says, “But you’re right: I could have literally killed him. I’m a fourth degree black belt in Krav Maga.”

“What is that?”

“A fighting system developed by the Israeli military that focuses on real world combat situations. It’s similar to other martial arts: judo, karate, and the like.” He smiles. “Only more badass.”

“Uh-huh.” I blink for a moment, picturing him grappling around barefoot on a mat on the floor with another guy in one of those belted cotton dude-kimono situations, trying to crack open each others’ heads. “And you practice this…”

“Krav Maga,” he supplies into my pause.

“Right. You practice it regularly?”

He nods.

“And I’m guessing a black belt is the most advanced?”

“Yes. And within the black belt level are five degrees, each more advanced than the last. One more and I’ll be considered a master.”

So that’s why he’s so freakishly strong. He’s the Caucasian Bruce Lee.

He sees my smile. “What’s funny?”

“Are your fists registered as lethal weapons?”

He snaps into one of those karate chop poses with his hands flat and his arms bent at an angle in front of his chest. Accompanied by a high-pitched, theatrical “Hiyah!” it makes me laugh.

“Better.” He reaches across the table and takes my hands, giving them a reassuring squeeze. “Now it’s my turn to ask a question: are you okay?”

I know he means because of the unexpected appearance of Chris. “To be completely honest…” I take a deep breath. “No. Seeing him brings back a lot of bad memories. A lot of…”

“Ghosts,” murmurs James, gazing at me.

He knows. He obviously knows. Whether Edmond told him or he looked me up himself, James knows about what happened to my family.

Emotion tries to claw its way up my throat, but I fight it back, refusing to give in to it. Holding his gaze, I say, “Don’t feel sorry for me. I don’t want your pity.”

His response is instant. “I could never pity you. You’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met.”

“You barely know me.”

“I know you.” He pauses for a beat. When he speaks again his voice is lower. “Better than your husband ever did.”

That statement causes such a riot of conflicting feelings, I’m tempted to call up my therapist of long ago who recommended breathing exercises for dealing with strong emotions and tell her she’s an idiot. Withdrawing my hands from his, I sit back in my chair and simply look at him.

He waits patiently in silence, his expression unreadable, until the sound of a guttural moan floating from across the courtyard makes him quirk a brow.

When it comes again, he says, “Is that..?”

“Yes, it is. Welcome to my world.”

The moans increase in volume. James says, “Who?”

“Oh, you haven’t seen the resident exhibitionists doing their thing?”

“No. I live on the other side of the building, facing the boulevard.”

“It’s Gaspard and Gigi.”

As if on cue, Gigi wails and Gaspard grunts. I make spokesmodel hands toward the windows. “Voilà. Morning and evening performances every day of the week, no reservations necessary, admission is free.”

“You can see them?”

“From the bedroom and living room windows, I can practically count all their teeth.”

James studies me with interest. “You’ve watched them.”

He says it as a statement, not a question, in response to which my cheeks grow hot. “Yes.”

His eyes sharpen, and his voice drops an octave. “You liked watching them.”

Another statement. Maybe he does know me.

Maybe he knows me quite well.

I have to moisten my lips before I answer, because my heartbeat is going haywire and my mouth is suddenly dry. “Yes.”

Before I have time to feel embarrassed about my admission, James stands. He takes my hand and pulls me to my feet, then leads me out of the kitchen and into the living room. He stops a few feet away from the windows, off to one side so we’re hidden behind the heavy velvet drapery but have a clear view to the outside and the lighted apartment across the way.

Gigi is naked on her hands and knees on her bed, head thrown back, bare breasts bouncing as Gaspard drives into her from behind, his hands gripped around her slender hips.

Pulling me in front of him, James wraps his arms around my body so my own arms are pinned at my sides. Then he lowers his mouth to my ear and whispers hotly, “You want me to fuck you while we watch them fuck, don’t you, sweetheart?”

There’s no need for my answer this time, because we both already know what it is.