Ten Below Zero(36)

“Do these nice plans include clothing, or not?”

“Well, I had nice plans for both. You game?”

“I guess.”



Two hours later, I was standing in front of the mirror in my en-suite bathroom. Everett had picked out a dress for me. It was a column of gold, starting above my breasts and ending halfway to my knee. It was modest in cut, but the color screamed flash. I wore my hair over my left shoulder, feeling the inexplicable need to conceal my scar as much as possible. I went heavy with makeup on eyes and slipped into the gold heels Everett had picked out for me as well.

“It’ll be harder for you to run away in these,” he’d said as he handed me the box. I’d shoved him away and then spent the next several minutes running my fingers over the heels, being reminded of a time when I’d have killed for heels like these.

I emerged from the bathroom and found Everett sitting in one of the sitting chairs, wearing a crisp white button up shirt, tucked into gray slacks. He had one leg bent over the other and was writing in his notebook as I approached. His eyes lifted up and lit up.

“Hi,” he said, keeping his eyes on me as he set his journal down and stood up. “You look…nice.”

I laughed at his use of the word. “Okay, you’ve given me a compliment. You can revert to being the * you truly are for the rest of the night.”

“Phew, thanks,” he said, blowing out a breath of exaggerated relief. “Ready?” He put a hand out, taking mine and leading me out of the hotel room. On the elevator ride, he squeezed my hand, sending shivers up my spine. “Hungry?”

I nodded, not trusting my voice. Why did he affect me so much? Only our hands were touching and yet it was as intimate as when he’d been inside of me, just hours before. The thought burned bright, low in my belly.

“How are you at poker?” he asked.

“Shit at it.”

“Good. Let’s lose some of your money.”



Hours later and with a wallet short $200, Everett took me to dinner. “I’ll pay,” he offered. “Since I helped you fail spectacularly in there.”

My eyes were pointed. “How gracious of you.” I opened the menu and scanned the items, noticing each of the prices. I tried to keep my eyes from popping out of my head when I saw the prices listed under each entrée.

After the waiter took our orders, I sipped the water he’d poured. “What does your tattoo mean?” I asked. Everett had asked the waiter to remove the wine glasses. I’d wondered if it was a way to avoid temptation or if he simply thought they were in the way.

“You’re just as straight forward as I am, Parker,” he said, swallowing a gulp of water. “Which tattoo?”

“This world has only one sweet moment set aside for us,” I said. I couldn’t forget the words.

“What do you think it means?”

I shook my head. “It sounds slightly morbid,” I admitted.

“It could be interpreted that way,” he agreed, playing with the rim of his ice water. “That’s partially why I chose it. Because it was open to interpretation. Right now, I’m taking it in a very literal sense.” He drank some of his water before setting his glass down and clasping his hands on the table. “Why do you think I’m taking this trip?”

“Bucket list?” I asked.

He pursed his lips. “Sure, in some ways. But I’ve yet to find my one sweet moment. I couldn’t find it in California. Too much heat, sand. Too many people.”

“So you thought you’d find it somewhere along the way?”

He nodded. “Yes. I want a moment to live for.”

“But you’re dying.” He cocked his head to the side at my response.

“I thought that topic was off-limits,” he said.

“We haven’t signed the rules yet. But what do you mean, live for?”

“I want one sweet moment, one moment in my memory to hold on to when my soul leaves this earth.” It was the answer he’d wanted to say before, I could tell. But it was also an answer that made me feel a little sick to my stomach.

I looked down at the white tablecloth and smoothed it with my fingers. “I hope you find it.” The words barreled from my mouth and I couldn’t stop them. I recovered quickly. “I like your other tattoos.”

“I’ve got a lot of them,” he said.

“And scars. You have lots of scars too.”

“I do.” He drank his water and then set it down, his fingers making shapes in the condensation that had formed on the glass. “You do too.”

“I don’t have lots,” I disagreed.

“You do,” he insisted. “I’m not talking about the scars that separate your skin, Parker. I’m not blind; I can see those. I’m talking about the scars much deeper than that. The scars that exist within you. The ones you actually try to hide.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I didn’t think I did.” He drank water. “Turns out I do. Why are you so scarred, Parker?”

“I’ve told you-Morris Jen-”

“I’m not talking about the surface scars, and you know I’m not,” he interrupted. He was right. I’d tried to avoid this question. “Anyone can see those. I’m more interested in the scars unearth the skin. Tell me, Parker. Tell me your story.”