Three, Two, One (321)

I swallow hard as he stares at me.

“OK?” he asks again.

“OK.”

My voice makes him smile again and Jesus, yes. That smile is even better up close.

He kisses me on the head again, and stands back up. “I’m gonna go change. The store is just a block down. So I’ll only be gone like ten minutes.” I turn my head to watch him as he walks away and I’m still looking in that direction when he comes back out of the bedroom dressed in a pair of jeans, a white t-shirt, and a black leather biker jacket that has zippers that jingle with each thud of his boots on the hardwood floors.

He looks a lot more dangerous in these clothes, my inner voice says. A lot more.

But that smile is still the same. “BRB,” he says with a straight face. And then he’s out the door and I’m left in this strange apartment. Alone. A state which has eluded me for the past year and a half, up until this very morning.

I sit there in the chair for a few minutes and take it all in. The penthouse. I do remember that from coming up here. Everything says masculine. The floors are dark gray concrete, but not the rough kind you see outside in driveways—the kind you see in malls, where they’re so smooth you can ice-skate on them. And the furniture is all made out of steel and glass. Cables are used as a design element, making the whole place look like a mix between futuristic and industrial revolution.

There’s a large sectional couch made of the light gray leather, accented with steel rivets on the arm seams. One end is just like a regular couch, but the opposite end is more like a lounger. The chairs are another shade of gray, overstuffed and accented with the same steel rivets as the couch.

There’s art on the walls. Black and white photographs of places I can only assume are in Colorado. They are of mountains and lakes. Snow and ice. Pine trees and aspens.

The kitchen has black cabinets and dark gray stone for countertops. It’s not something a woman would choose, of that I’m certain. The appliances are all high-end stainless steel and there is no clutter, other than JD’s in-progress mess, to indicate they use it often.

And then there’s the view. My eyes dart to the terrace. I get up and walk over to the massive sliding doors and open them up. It’s still wet out, but the rain has stopped, so I tentatively place one foot into a puddle and step outside.

The railing is some kind of clear Plexiglas and the city is wide open in front of me. They took pictures of me here. I was kissing JD, I think. And then I was on the ground and they were both there, arms around me, hands exploring, mouths hungry.

I walk over to the edge and look down and see JD with his hands in his jacket pockets, his head darting back and forth as he crosses the street and then, just like he said, he enters a store a block down and disappears.

“He’s not one of them,” I say out loud. “They’d never leave me alone like this.”

I stand there until he reappears, brown paper bag of fresh bread in his arms, and watch him walk. He lights up a cigarette and takes his time so he can enjoy it. They must not smoke inside. The apartment does not smell like smoke. His eyes flash up to the terrace and he waves. “Keeping an eye on me, Blue?” His yell is so loud I blush when every person on the street stops to stare at him. He picks up his pace and when he’s just across the street from the building, he yells, “I’m moments away, baby. Now go back inside and get warm. It’s too fucking cold for you to be standing out here.” He looks both ways, flicks his cigarette, lets a car pass, then crosses the street. “Go.”

He disappears before I turn around and go back inside. I’m still wiping my feet on the little mat in front of the terrace when he comes into the apartment and tosses his keys onto a small table near the door. “Spying on me now, Blue?” He grins as he shrugs off his jacket and hangs it on a hook, then walks into the kitchen. I love the way his black biker boots thud across the floor and I’m captivated by the muscles in his arms as he takes the bread out and cuts it in half. “Can you make garlic bread, Blue?”

I nod at him and walk over to the kitchen. I can smell the cigarette on him, but instead of making me sick, it smells good. Familiar.

No one in the basement was allowed to smoke. And I was not a real smoker before they took me, but I enjoyed one every now and then, when I was drinking.

JD’s smoke smells like the past. A long-ago past that was far better than yesterday.

“OK,” he says. “You do the bread and I’ll start the pasta.”

Twenty minutes later the food is done and we’re sitting at the table eating spaghetti and meatballs. But even though the scene seems normal, I feel anything but normal. And after a few minutes of silence, this is painfully obvious.

“So,” he says as our silverware clanks and I stare down at my food. “See any good movies lately?” I look up at the question, my mouth half full of pasta, and stare at him for a few seconds. “No?” he prods.

I shake my head no to end the questioning.

“Books?”

I don’t look up this time.

“Hmm,” he says after letting me stew for a minute. “What do you do for fun, Blue?”

I take a deep breath and on the exhale, I’m talking automatically. “I enjoy touring museums, traveling, and taking art classes.”

“Oh,” he says, surprised. And then he works out that I’m lying. Because a girl who looks like I do now does not do any of those things. “Hmmm,” he says again. “Maybe we can go to the art museum or something one day.”