On Demon Wings Part 35

Joe sighs. Loudly. Enough that the grey coffee wavers in the cup.

"Whatever, whatever," he says with a wave, and then rests his head in his hands. He doesn't move or make another sound. For a brief instant I wonder if he's been a robot this entire time and he's finally ran out of batteries. A robot in the Witness Protection Program now that's a story.

"Sir?" I ask, and step a smidge closer to him. I can see the liver spots on the top of his balding head and I instinctively run my hand through my own dark, thick hair. At least I have that still going for me.

Finally, a tired little sigh falls out of him like a fluttering leaf.

"What am I going to do with you, Chris?" he says, his voice low and m.u.f.fled.

This isn't an unusual question but I never seem to have the right answer. Fact is, I don't know.

"What are we going to do?" he continues, his pitch rising. I can almost hear a pinch in his words. This is a new question. New questions scare me.

"I'm not sure what you mean, Sir," I tell him honestly. I look down at my cufflinks and make sure they are evenly polished. There is a weird tension in the room that makes me feel awkward, like I should be adjusting my clothing.

Another sigh and Joe looks up, his cheeks smooshed up by his hands like a droopy-faced dog. His eyes avoid mine and stare straight forward into grey s.p.a.ce.

"When are we going to have to write an article about the fall of The London Herald?" he asks in a weary, dreamy way. "Or will we read it on the Sun's website?"

Sun's website, naturally, via everyone's iPad or iPhone. But I keep my mouth shut. When Joe admits fears and failure, you know something is seriously wrong.

His eyes flit to me briefly before he straightens up in his chair and his "harrumph" expression returns to his face. It's almost a relief to see it.

"I hope you realize how much is riding on your trip tomorrow," he says, clearing his throat dramatically. "This isn't about you and your girlfriend."

"I know, Sir."

"Do you? You need to interview that Cooper woman. You need to convince her to write for us. If we don't get some fresh blood soon, we're all out of a job. You especially. And I don't care what your mother says."

I sniff and tug at my hair again. Seems to be what I do whenever my mother is mentioned. And Joe mentions her a lot. She's really the whole reason I still have a job.

And, yes, the real reason for the trip to Gibraltar isn't because I wanted to take Alexa on a romantic escapade. OK, it is. But saving up for a ring can leave you broke, especially on my salary, so when Joe ordered me to interview this travel writer down in Gibraltar, I jumped at the chance. At first, I thought he just wanted a story but over the past few days, I learned that not only am I supposed to write up a big piece about this woman, but I was to convince her to write for the Herald. Not exactly a small order.

In fact, the whole ordeal makes me feel uneasy. I don't really understand why I have to go to Gibraltar to interview Jamie Cooper (wouldn't a phone call with Human Resources suffice?) and I don't understand why she's needed so badly. I looked at a few samples of her writing. It's fun and a bit kooky, but without sounding immodest, I'm a far more talented writer than she is. But I don't want to a.n.a.lyze it too much. This is a free trip to the Mediterranean and the one thing I've been looking forward to for a very long time. Alexa and I need it.

"What do the other papers have that we don't?" Joe asks, interrupting my thoughts before I started brooding about my relationship.

"Online versions? A friendly boss? Better coffee?"

"They have s.e.x appeal. They have the youthful slant. No offense, Chris, but you're not exactly a spring chicken."

"I'm thirty-five and girls tell me I look like David Tennant," I reply. "I'm a big hit with the tardis set."

"Re-tardis set, if you ask me," he scoffs and leans forward. "Listen, this woman has a large following and she has yet to commit to a regular column anywhere. I think if we got a contract with her, she would help us out a lot. People don't want to read about the economy anymore. They don't want the doom and gloom. They want to escape from their problems. They want to travel but can't afford it. That is where travel writing comes in. Armchair travel for the broke and despondent."

A newspaper that wants to focus on the good news? I think I've heard it all.

"Get that interview first. Then convince her that writing for the London Herald would be the best thing for her career. Emphasize stability. Everyone likes that in this climate, especially an American like her. Do that first and then you can go relax...or whatever it is that you do when you're not here."

I give him a weary smile and then hustle myself out of the office as quickly as possible, blowing Marilyn a kiss, which she pretends not to notice. Outside, the air is strangely cold for a June night and peppered with exhaust and grime. I walk to the tube dreaming of the Mediterranean shining bold and blue before me. First I'll get the travel writer out of my way I'll try my best, or maybe I won't. Then it's just me and Alexa, sunshine and ignorance as far as the eye can see.

3.

JAMIE.

June 20th.

I'm behind my deadline again. Hildy has been calling the hotel nonstop, threatening me with the same old "Your book will never get published at this rate" and "You're making me look like a bad agent." WELL I'M SORRY, HILDY. YOU ARE A BAD AGENT! There, I said it. And one day I'll say it to her face. I know that publishers are under the gun these day,s especially with the advent of those e-books and all (horrible things, should be abolished along with cell phones) but COME THE f.u.c.k ON, a $5000 advance on a book? What happened to authors making money? Or does that not happen anymore? I almost make that much after a few months of freelancing. WHAT THE h.e.l.l ARE THEY THINKING?!

OK, enough ranty rants from moi. I know I shouldn't complain and I don't normally ... much... other than here. But it seriously demotivates me and I'm having enough writer's block as it is. I mean, Morrocco. What is there to say about it that hasn't already been said? I said it all myself when I was here three years ago. Where's the story? There is no story. I got hit by a rickshaw, that's really the only story I'm limping away from. Speaking of, I'm dying for a drink once I hit Gibraltar. These pain meds just don't cut it anymore and are making the right half of my face twitch. I'm a limping, frazzle-haired twitching writer and I don't like it. I miss Greece. I miss Crete. I miss Nico and his pecs and his d.i.c.k and his p.r.o.nunciation of the word avocado. I miss happy, smiling, s.e.xy Jamie, part-time writer, part-time huntress of foreign men who are dumber than they look. The frazzle-hair never leaves me but I know I look better when my eyes are twinkling.

Maybe it's Northern Africa, though. Maybe it's that you can't let your guard down here (not that I do anyway), and that being a female isn't exactly embraced. Maybe Gibraltar will be better. Aside from the drinks and the British charm, there's the interview. Maybe having some dopey newspaper reporter ask me questions will make me feel better about myself. Motivate me. Get my a.s.s in gear for Lisbon (or Gra.s.se, France, I haven't decided yet) and when the d.a.m.n jaunt is over, I can sort out this diary and get a ma.n.u.script in order. Then maybe, just maybe I'll finally see my name on a book and I'll make back that $5000.

And maybe I'll find a new victim too. Did I say victim? I meant Nico. Same difference.

4.

CHRIS.

Hot.

Hot.

I'm so d.a.m.n hot.

And tired. My brain feels like a wad of chewing gum. And the glare off the water and whitewashed buildings is so strong that my imitation Ray-Bans can't handle the UV rays.

This is my impression of Tangier and I can't wait to leave.

Granted, we aren't here for very long. The cheapest way to Gibraltar was actually to fly out of Gatwick to Tangier and then take the ferry across to Gibraltar. I originally didn't mind that Joe booked this more exotic route, thinking Alexa might find it alluring (and it was one of the few places she hadn't been to).

But she's glaring at me and it's not because of the sunshine (no, her Gucci shades are real).

I loosen my collar, feeling the beads of sweat evaporate, wondering why I didn't dress for the occasion and give her an innocent smile.

"Something wrong, sweetie?" I ask her.

She doesn't seem to sweat at all. Alexa might be a cyborg (if Joe's a robot, then it's completely possible). She's tall but not as tall as I am (I'm 6'2", so that's a good thing), and slender thanks to daily sessions on something that looks like a torture chamber (Pilates, I'm told) but still has the nicest set of b.r.e.a.s.t.s I've ever been privileged enough to get a hold of and a round bottom, which she calls the bane of her existence yet I love very dearly. She's also stunning. Dark complexion, black lashes, mahogany eyes and matching hair that runs down to the small of her back in one straight sheet. She's the s.e.xiest banker you've ever seen.

She's also so put together that being seen next to her makes me feel like I did something right in my life. I'm fairly confident that I did when I snagged her two years ago. But then again, she does glare at me more than a happy person should.

She looks away from me and up at the tall, rusting ferry we are about to board. The terminal is packed with chaos and people, both things that already have me on edge, but Alexa seems more concerned about the ship.

"Is this seriously the ferry?" she asks? Her voice is smooth and clear, allowing the nuances of her annoyance to slip out.

"This be the ship, says I," I growl in my best pirate's impression.

She raises her brow at me. Apparently, it's not a very good impression. "It's nothing more than a glorified bathtub. The n.a.z.is probably built this thing."

"I'm sure Morocco has advanced since then, Alexa."

"Advanced backward," she mumbles. I almost tell her she's not making sense but I think better of it. I know she's tired, too, since we had to wake up so early and to go from a chilly, damp London morning to a sweltering hot (and loud and colorful and foreign) Tangier afternoon is a big leap. I don't want to rock the boat with Alexa, pun not intended.

A little while later and Alexa and I are sitting near the front of the ferry as the vessel pulls away from the dock and starts making its slow way toward the distant, hazy sh.o.r.eline that is Gibraltar and the continent of Europe. It's actually quite a remarkable journey when you think about it, having two continents, giant landma.s.ses of opposing cultures and civilizations, separated only by a narrow and boisterous straight. Only I can't really think about it because Alexa is sitting next to me, clicking her fingernails across the front of an unread magazine. I know that sound all too well. It means I shouldn't make any sudden movements.

I slowly reach down into my laptop bag...easy...easy...and bring out my laptop, hoping to lose myself in some work (not b.l.o.o.d.y likely) or look busy (more likely).

My finger is poised to hit the power b.u.t.ton when Alexa lets out a long sigh. Enough with the sighs, why can't the people in my life actually say the things they want to say instead of making me ask WHAT?

"What?" I ask, my finger paused in mid air. A drop of sweat rolls out from under my sleeve, down my finger and onto the computer. I wince.

"Why are you so spineless?" she asks in a tone so simple that I feel I've misheard her. Did she just call me spineless?

"Uh, I'm sorry. What?"

She doesn't look at me but the nails keep tapping away.

"You knew that when I said I wanted to go on holiday, that I wanted to holiday somewhere nice."

"But Morocco is-" I begin.

"And I wanted to go on a real holiday, not some work a.s.signment to interview some American woman." She adds special biting emphasis to the word "woman," as if she were jealous. I'd be thrilled at that, honestly, but I know Alexa doesn't get jealous.

I want to tug at my collar again. Did it just get hotter in here?

"I just thought-"

"No," she spits out and finally looks at me, raising her sunnies to her forehead. She does look tired; no wonder she's wearing them inside. "You didn't think, Chris. That's your problem. You never think."

She turns away from me with pursed lips, flips open the magazine and becomes magically engrossed in the pages. I watch her for a few beats, trying to suss out the situation. Alexa is always cool and calm. Often eerily so. Like the time I almost burned down the flat trying to make French toast. She just strolled in the kitchen with the fire extinguisher, as if she stores it in her back pocket, and sprayed the drapes like some special ops agent.

So, an outburst like this isn't normal. But her job is stressful and her father is overbearing and it is hot in here and she seems really tired so...perhaps it's nothing.

Yes. I decide it's nothing.

I resume pressing the on b.u.t.ton on the laptop and soon I'm happily typing away questions to ask Ms. Cooper tomorrow. Maybe not "happily" but I look happy, making sure my eyes are bright in case Alexa shoots me another glare.

Even though I already know what I'm going to ask the travel writer and there's no real need to write it down (I have a memory that borders on being photographic), I keep myself busy, maintaining the feeling that this trip is doomed. I keep at it, keep at it, keep at it...

"Do you have to do that now?" Alexa snarls.

I look around to make sure she's indeed speaking to me. The only people nearby are a young blonde woman with Cousin It hair and a wrinkled old Germans in knee-high socks. And I thought I was inappropriately dressed.

I slowly meet Alexa's eyes. Something has changed in them. They are annoyed, most definitely, but there is a current of something I rarely see in them. A current of pain. I do not like this at all.

"I'm sorry," I say, tilting the computer toward her. "Did you want to write something?"

She doesn't laugh at my wit. "You don't get it, do you?"

No. I obviously do not get it. I open my mouth to say something, I don't know what, when my computer makes a strange gurgling noise and then shuts itself off.

"b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l!" I exclaim, smacking it lightly.

I peer at it closely and press the on b.u.t.ton again. Nothing. No sign of life. It just...died on me. Alexa's phone goes off and I hope it distracts her from whatever she was about to bombard me with. She pulls it out of her purse and holds it in her hands before lowering it.

Yet her phone keeps ringing. I eye the buzzing contraption on her lap. She stares down at it, at the flashing image of her father's face on the screen.

"You know you're supposed to answer it when it makes that sound," I say gently.

It rings again. As if she's in slow motion, her head turns toward me. Her eyes are sad and tired. Dead eyes. I feel it in my heart. That current of pain will reveal itself and I will feel it too.

"It's over," she says in a quiet but calm voice.

She takes the phone, still ringing, and plunks it in her purse. "I can't do this anymore."

I blink hard at her, and I ask the things I already know.

"Do what? What's over?"

"This. Us. I can't put up with...this anymore. We're over, Chris. This has been over for a long time."

She gets out of her seat and stands in front of me, hovering like some Goliath. I feel just like David. And not David Tennant. Dr. Who wouldn't be dumped on a ferry to Gibraltar.

"I don't get it." Though I do, I just don't get why she's trying to break up with me at the start of our holiday. I find myself focusing on the logistics of that.

"I know you don't," she says with a small smile and places her hand on the side of my face. Her palm is warm and slightly damp. She smells familiar, like home, which makes my heart throb violently. The whole thing is all too surreal.

She takes her hand back and exhales. "Maybe it's not over. Maybe I just need a break..."

"A break from what?"

She throws her hands up in the air, the fire returning. "From us, Chris! G.o.d! Look, whether you realize it or not I have been doing nothing but giving you second chances."

My vision starts to throb along with my heart. My peripheral vision begins to blur and I find myself focusing on random items on the ferry. The sticky, old linoleum floor. The chair in front of me, which has stuffing spilling out of it like furry guts. The blonde girl across the way who is looking straight into my eyes with a brusque clarity. I hold her gaze, seeing her and her faded Pink Floyd shirt, her sparkling light eyes and the pencil she's holding in her left hand. She holds it like she's about to stab someone with it. I see all of this but I don't really see it. Because all I can think about is that the love of my life, the gorgeous Alexandra DeWinter, is breaking up with me on our romantic holiday. My entire life has come undone in the last few minutes and I have no idea what to do or say to put it back on track.

Luckily, Alexa knows what to do. She continues to yell at me.