Chapter Thirty-Four
“You know he didn’t need to take you up to the suite, right?”
I glance up at Collin, who’s just unlocked the door to the New York flat, and I throw a backward glance to the glossy black Bentley driving away from the curb into the busy afternoon traffic.
Back in Spain, after the switch, Jaxon and I had to wait in the car outside until Yineris was done having her fill of Collin—which went on until about fifteen minutes before she was to meet her buyer.
It meant hours of car confinement for us, something Jaxon seemed accustomed to. I was not.
After talking him near to death about the world and everything in it, he found a way to shut me up: we played strip poker, with him losing on purpose so he could be naked, and I could conduct more experiments on him.
By the time Collin returned, we were all very, well, satisfied.
We waited for Yineris to leave, tailed her, witnessed the sale—neither party was aware the vase is a fake—then boarded a waiting jet and made our way back to New York.
An Escalade picked us up from the airport. And a black Bentley waited on the curb when we arrived at the flat.
For Jaxon, apparently.
He helped me out of the Escalade, reeled me into him and whispered, “Pack an overnight bag. I’ll be back to pick you up at seven. Sharp.” Then he kissed me something fierce and deep, ducked into the waiting Bentley, and was gone.
Turning my attention back to Collin, I mumble in answer to his question, “Yeah. I know.”
We enter the house, and the door clicks shut behind us. “That job, he could’ve done it himself. He just wanted you to see me like that. He’s a cold, calculating prick.”
“I know.”
Collin stops as we’re about to mount the stairs up to the main floor. “You know?”
“Yes,” I answer through a yawn. Even after having slept through the seven-hour flight, I feel a bit unrested. “And I called him out on it.”
“He admitted it?”
“He didn’t deny it.”
Collin’s eyebrows high five his hairline. “Huh. Dude must really have it bad for you.”
“He doesn’t.” I stump past him up the stairs, peeved and frustrated and confused. “He’s just…a muddler.”
“A what?” Collin chokes out a laugh. “What on God’s green earth is a muddler?”
“Jaxon,” I half-shout, throwing out an arm in frustration. “Jaxon King is a God’s green earth muddler. He gets inside my head and tangles all the wires and trips all my nerves, and muddles me!”
“You’re certifiably insane, Nerd Girl.” He eyes me as if I ought to be in the loony bin. Then he pops out a smug grin. “Although, I will say it’s a sweet boost to the confidence knowing the boss is jealous of me. Who would’ve thought iron man has real, actual feelings like a normal human being? All this time, I thought he was a chip-controlled super robot.”
I all but kick the door open. “Yeah, but it kind of sucks that jealousy and restrained anger are the only emotions we’re getting from him.”
Collin shrugs, closing the door behind us. “I’ll take whatever I get. Can’t imagine what he’s going to be like when you’re gone.” Collin heads for the stairs, taking them two at a time to his room.
I focus on those last three words. When you’re gone. It’s a reminder of what I’d almost forgotten. I’m not here to lock down a boyfriend, I’m here to find the music box.
When you’re gone.
Because I will be gone, and I cannot afford to let myself forget that. I cannot afford to let myself fall for the man, or become attached. I need to focus on finding the box and refrain from allowing Jaxon to derail my mission.
With renewed resolution, I march off to his room. I must stay focused on what’s important. And having sex with Jaxon is not what’s important.
In the bedroom, I dump my travel bag and collapse across the bed. Contemplate the ceiling. Get out my cell, check some emails, organize my inbox in the order of importance. Skim a few Flipboard suggested articles, then toss my phone aside and contemplate the ceiling some more.
Should I go ahead and pack an overnight bag for seven o’clock like Jaxon ordered? Or should I feign menstrual cramps and take some time to un-muddle myself? Should I—
Wait, overnight bag?
The whole mental pep talk about staying focused on what is important that I just had with myself less than five minutes ago? Christ, it didn’t even last an hour.
Disappointed in myself, I roll onto my side, facing Raphael, the unfriendly ninja turtle. His eyes can be so frigging judgmental at times.
Like now. He’s judging me for being weak and pathetic when it comes to Jaxon. I mean, I hate his muddling, but I do love his orgasms. I’m hooked and addicted. Yes, Timberly Day has succumbed to being enslaved by sexual pleasure.
I’m disgusted with myself.
“Don’t you look at me like that,” I snap at Raphael. “You have no idea what it’s like to be human.”
His mouth set in a perpetual grim line, he glares back through that stupid red mask of his.
I stick my tongue out at him, then sit up cross-legged, facing the mutant full-on. “So, tell me, how many women’s minds have you witnessed him blow? Twenty? Two?”
Raphael continues to stare, and I question my sanity for having a one-sided conversation with an inanimate object.
“Oh, come on, Raph. He said it himself—you hold all his secrets. So tell me, how many?”
Right on the tail of my own words, like a sledgehammer to the head, it hits me—
Raphael.
Raph holds all my secrets. So I gotta keep him close…
Raphael holds all his secrets.
Raphael is the key to getting behind that wall! He must be!
Hastily, I scoot off the bed and cross the room to him. I reach a hand out to touch him and pause to whisper, “I’m so sorry, but I’m going to molest you for a few minutes.”
He doesn’t object, so I take that as a “Yeah, baby!” and begin patting down the mutant.
I poke his eyes. Remove and replace his mask. I feel and prod and fondle. I examine the swordlike weapons on his hips. I undo all that can be undone and then redo them.
Nothing gives.
I check his shell—beautifully carved wood, high-polished. A thick brown belt straps around from the front and cuts across it. Undoing the strap again, I toggle the shell this way and that, that way and this. And then—
Click.
The shell unlatches from the right and swings open like a door, revealing a slim, rectangular touch screen.
The virtual keys that appear on this screen, however, are not numbers but letters. Which means the password is a phrase or a significant word.
Ugh! Of course, the bastard wouldn’t make it easy.
Impulsively, I punch in R-A-P-H-A-E-L. The screen beeps red with a warning that I have only three tries left.
Damn. It’s got every right to warn me, because I’ve clearly become stupid overnight. How can the password to Raphael be Raphael?
Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and count to ten, beckoning the smart, sensible Timberly. Not this lust-filled Timberly who’s allowing her brilliance and intelligence to be eroded by addictive orgasms.
Once I feel the original Timberly overthrow the dumb, impetuous one, I reopen my eyes, reactivate my brain, and jump into action.
First things first, I shut the bedroom door and jam a chair under the knob. Second, I get a laptop and research the crap out of the ninja turtles. Specifically, Raphael.
Half an hour later, I’ve not found much. No popular phrases or special words. It seems my only option is to read the comics. Except that would arouse suspicion. Jaxon knows I’m a nonfiction reader. My sudden interest in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle comics would definitely tip him off.
Tapping my fingertips absently against my lips, I frown at Raphael and think harder. He’s described as the bad boy of the group. Girls love bad boys, don’t they? Bad boys are usually the ones who get all the girls…or they fall tragically in love with one ill-fated girl. Right?
I do a search on Raphael’s girlfriends.
Apparently, Raph isn’t that much of a player. Either that, or Google is working against me. Because information comes up on only two girls—Ninjara and Mona Lisa.
Ninjara was a humanoid fox who used to steal and commit assassinations for a Japanese villain. She later changed for the better when she met and fell in love with Raphael, and subsequently became a powerful member of the team. But the relationship didn’t last.
Mona Lisa, a once-upon-a-time human focused on getting her college degree in biology, was rudely abducted and enslaved by a villainous pirate. Later, in an attempt to foil her abductor’s evil plans, she had an inauspicious encounter with radiation where she was turned into a mutant lizard. She was saved by the ninja turtles who showed up to rescue other hostages. Teaming up with them, she got revenge on her abductor, then followed them back to New York.
I lift my gaze from the computer screen and eyeball the life-size ninja turtle. “Which of these two women is the key to your heart, Raph?”
Setting the laptop aside, I cross the room to him again, and type in n-i-n-j-a-r-a.
Wrong.
Of course it’s not her. Their love wasn’t tragic enough.
Two tries left.
Inhaling a deep breath, praying that tragic love wins out, I type in m-o-n-a-l-i-s-a.
Wrong again.
Crap. Crap. Crap! Out of pure and utter frustration, I kick his calf, and wince, because, ouch!
Only one more try. One more try and I’ll be blocked, and Jaxon will know I tried to break in, and that would be the end.
Holy. Hell.
I need to find that password.
Back to Google again. I scour the internet, scribbling down all the possible answers, knowing I’ll have to choose only one.
Just when I’m about to give in and purchase the comics—and somehow hide them from Jaxon—I come across a more detailed piece on Mona Lisa.
Turns out the Mona Lisa I read up on earlier was from the 1980s comics. Mona Lisa has since returned to the animated TV series with an entirely different story. Now she’s a Salamandrian warrior, aka, an alien. While she’s still referred to as Mona Lisa—a name given to her by Raphael due to his difficulty pronouncing her Salamandrian name—her real name is Lieutenant Y’Gythgba.
Gee, that’s some name. Which is precisely why Jaxon would choose it. Who the hell, no matter how smart they are, could guess that?
Without a second thought, I rush over to Raphael and, with nervous fingers, punch in y-’-g-y-t-h-g-b-a.
I bite my lip, step back…and wait.
Should I have punched in “Lieutenant” also?
The monitor glows green.
Access granted.
Nonetheless, I keep still, waiting for a booby trap or a gotcha! Or maybe something would come apart from Raphael, revealing the music box.
But nothing happens.
A full minute later, I hear noises from the closet. I rush over and fling the door open.
It looks the same.
I go to the back, where four wheeled clothes racks are lined up along the wall, and shove them to the side. And what do you know, the brick wall has been a door all along.
It swings inward, every other brick jutting out, causing it to resemble the last piece of a Tetris game.
I press a hand to the door to push it wider, but it’s so heavy I have to use my other hand just to get the opening wide enough for me to slip through.
Once inside, I stop breathing, because this is not what I was expecting.
Before me spreads a vast room with green-painted walls, covered with shelf upon shelf of comics and superhero mementos. Posters and action figures are everywhere. A life-size, musclebound superman stands in one corner.
Sweet Mary and Joseph. Jaxon King is a full-blown nerd!
It smells like Jaxon in here. Bold and mysterious.
Wandering deeper into comic land, I look, I touch, I snoop. A long desk runs across the back wall, an office chair at the center of it.
Walking over, I peer down at the sheets of papers scattered across the desk, and upon closer inspection, I realize they’re comic drawings.
Unfinished comic drawings.
Which means, Jaxon’s a—
Holy crap, he writes comics? That’s what this secret room is all about?
My eyes are drawn to the wall, where a huge framed poster hangs. A woman is levitating in the air, one leg bent. Bright, dramatic, colorful stars burst behind her while lightning crackles from her palms.
Xxendra, the Virgin Warrior, the poster reads.
Yet, it’s not the title that takes me aback. It’s the familiarity of the woman on the poster. Her hair billows around her in wild curls—blond curls—full bangs down her forehead, big gray eyes and—
Oh my God. She looks like…
Me.
I back away, shaking my head. This is just too damn creepy.
My gaze falls to the author’s name—J. K. Justice.
I can bet my virginity that J and K are short for Jaxon King.
Ace.
Ace that he draws comics. But why does his superhero not only look like me, but also has my middle name? Is it just sheer coincidence?
I whirl around and begin searching the shelves for copies of Xxendra, the Virgin Warrior. Takes me a while to locate them, but I do. Selecting one of the first editions, I check the publication date.
Almost a decade ago.
A decade.
At which point he would’ve been doing his time in prison…and I would’ve been twelve.
I relax. Coincidence, it is. The timing just doesn’t work. He must’ve drawn these in jail.
Also, I do recall being told I have a striking resemblance to that famous actress. Maybe she was his muse?
After putting the comic back in line so nothing appears out of place, I do a 360 spin. Okay, so I’ve discovered Jaxon’s biggest, darkest secret—he writes comics. O-oh, I’m scared.
Now, where the hell is the music box, if not in here? Ugh. All that angst and effort for nothing. Indubitably, the music box is being kept elsewhere. Better get out of here before someone catches me.
As I’m about to leave, I notice the office chair is a little skewed, possibly from when I was examining the drawings. Worried Jaxon might smell a rat, because, well, he’s Jaxon, I start across the room to right the chair, only to stub my toe over something and almost lose balance. I stop to catch my equilibrium.
The floor is hardwood, but a large area rug spreads out in the middle of the room, covering a portion of the floor.
Stepping back, I stick out my foot and feel around the area where I stubbed my toe.
Yep, something is definitely there.
Crouching down, I peel away the rug.
And find a keyhole. One of those Victorian antique brass keyholes. Easiest ever lock to pick.
I jump to my feet and rush out to the bedroom to fetch a nail file and a paper clip. Back into comic land, and the lock is open in under a minute.
Lifting the wooden trapdoor, I peer down. The space below is roomy but not deep, so I can see all the contents.
I remove item number one. It’s the knife I loaned Jaxon in Paris that he never bothered to give back.
Item number two is a long gold necklace with a large, oval emerald set in a diamond-studded frame. Very medieval and breathtaking, and obviously worth a fortune. I wonder what’s the story behind it…?
Item number three is—
The. Music. Box.
It’s in my hand.
I’m holding the music box. And it’s a bloody masterpiece. Oval in shape, it’s made of gold, with remarkably detailed calligraphy carvings underscored by brilliantly positioned diamonds and pearls. Although not big in size—it sits snugly in the palm of my hand—it’s heavy, even for gold, which tells me something’s inside.
Eying the crescent indention at the top, I ponder the key that I have and Markus doesn’t. How does he plan on getting inside?
Not my problem. I intend to use it to peek and see what’s inside, but I don’t plan to hand over the key with the box.
I take a minute, along with a deep breath.
This is it. The charade can be over. Right now.
I can walk right out of here and never look back.
With my virginity intact.
As if on a cue, a bang, bang, bang on the bedroom door has me jumping out of my skin. “Tim? Why is this locked?”
Mel.
It’s almost as if she smelled our victory, our breakthrough, our ticket to success.
The very obvious and logical thing to do here is quite simple—replace the items except for the box, pack my bag, and walk right out of here with Melanie.
Bang, bang, bang! “Tim, open up! We need to talk. What the bloody hell are you doing in there?”
“Be there in a minute!” I yell.
Take the box and go, my brain tells me.
Always listen to the brain. The brain is smart.
Not yet, my heart tells me. You need more Jaxon. More of him. More.
Never listen to the heart. The heart is a moron.
Setting the box aside, I pick up the knife and put it back. He can keep it. I like knowing he’s holding onto something of mine.
The necklace goes in next…as I wonder if it’s a memento of some other woman.
I replace the trapdoor.
I roll back the rug.
I clutch the music box to my side.
I start out of comic land.
But once I go back into the closet, I’m unable to take another step.
Would it be so bad if I spend just one more night with Jaxon?
Truth is, I’m curious about tonight. What he has planned. More than likely, it’s another job. But it would mean I get to kiss him one last time, maybe see one of his rare grins, feel his hands on me, his fingers inside me…
My stomach tightens. My heart does, too. It feels almost as if he’s right here with me, breathing his dragon breath on me, setting me on fire.
Go! Keep moving, my brain urges.
One more night, my heart—the moron—whispers.
“Timber!” Bang, bang, bang!
For the first time ever, I turn my back on my brain.