Chapter Three: You first

“The Embrace” Ron Hicks

I decided to switch up our plans at the last minute.

Me: Want to go to the Met tonight before our stroll?

Him: Let’s :)

Before I joined The Agency, I was with Interpol on the Art Crime Team, investigating the possession of stolen antiquities. The trafficking of antiquities is big black market business. When the ultra wealthy hit the point of being able to buy anything they want, it gets boring. So they set their sights on acquiring items that they shouldn’t have. Which is healthier than starting a sex trafficking ring or brainwashing a nation, but also who the fuck do you think you are? Also you’re a psychotic freak. I cased and pursued this one Anti-Semitic piece of shit CEO guy in Chicago who had twelve paintings by the Expressionist Egon Schiele. The Schieles had been seized by the Nazis from an Austrian cabaret artist who was murdered because he was Jewish. And gay. I got in trouble because I “went beyond authorized torture memos” (I choked him with a jumprope in an Equinox steam room) but it was worth it. Those paintings are now on display at The Leopold Museum of Vienna.

Anyway I say that to say that I like museum dates. I like to perceive how someone takes in art and history and how they react to it.

Ivan showed up wearing jeans, a white crew neck tee, and a blazer that all fit so well they had to have been tailored. His shoes: Dior polished calfskin oxfords. What woman taught him how to dress immaculately? I was in a head to toe monochrome burgundy fit: leather pants, sheer turtleneck, satin bra, cropped leather jacket, heeled snakeskin boots with a pointed toe, my long black hair hanging like a velvet curtain. Cunt.

We had an hour before the museum was closing. “Let’s do the Egyptian Wing?” I suggested.

I did not expect Ivan to possess seasoned-docent-level knowledge of every single piece on exhibition. I was dripping.

He held the door open for me as we exited the museum. I love him?

As we walked down the Met steps I said, “how do you know so much about art?” How the fuck does he know more than I do?

“My parents took me to a ton of museums as a kid. Especially the Met. My mom worked on weekends so my Dad would take me here for hours. He was an archaeology professor at Columbia so, this was his thing.” Oh okay, Ivan is a fancy lad. We entered into Central Park, heading in the direction of a secret spot he knew on 72^nd and 5^th.

As we walked, Ivan told me more about his childhood and teen years in the city.

The late-night air in the park was cool against my skin, carrying the fresh scent of orange jasmine, honeysuckle, and damp earth. The lamplights flickered in the distance, casting shadows that wavered across the path. His descriptions painted a picture from another time. It was lovely.

In the distance I saw a couple with a cockapoo (CWC) walking in our direction. I told Ivan about Samuel, my childhood dog. Samuel was a miniature apricot poodle and my little cutie boy. I told Ivan I was somewhat of an animal whisperer. He didn’t seem impressed. As the couple approached, the dog bounded towards me, as animals usually do. As I said. I crouched down to accept the little angel baby’s kisses.

“Oh my Goodness! Hi! Hi little sweetie! Oh my gosh you are such a little baby!” I cooed to the bebe, who at this point was laying flat on her back for belly rubs. I looked to the parents and said, “Hi! Who is this heavenly creature?”

“This is Beatrice. Sorry for the jumping, she’s still a puppy. She’s six months” said the mommy. “Oh, please don’t apologize, this made my day!” Sorry Ivan. I live for these pure interactions. We chatted for a bit longer as I soaked up Beatrice and then they went on their way. Ivan had barely said a word during the whole interaction. Strange?

“Do you not like dogs?” I asked. I can understand if you were mauled by a German Shepherd, but a cockapoo? A cockapoo is basically a stuffed animal?

“I don’t dislike them, I just don’t feel moved by them.” Red flag? Is he a sociopath? Maybe he’s just desensitized from working in a lab?

“I hear that.” Are you capable of loving any living beings? “Did you have any pets growing up?” I asked.

“Not as a kid, no. But I had a cat once. In med school. I was walking home one night, really late. It was pouring rain. This tiny kitten popped out from an alleyway meowing like crazy. So much noise from such a tiny thing—the size of a soup can. I picked him up and waited for the mama to emerge. She never came so I took him home with me, thinking I’d keep him for the night, but he was so cute and I liked having him around, so I kept him. It was fun. But once he got older he started wanting to go out all the time, being really loud, non stop crying until I’d let him out. And then more crying to be let back in. It was so annoying. So annoying. One day I got really angry. How angry? Did you kick him, you sick bastard? Gretel, let him finish the story. Okay, fine. A few days later he went out, and just never came home. And that was that.” Never came home, or you never let him back in?

“Oh my God! Did you go looking for him? Were you so heartbroken?” I asked.

“No. Not at all. He was just going his own way.” Ivan said.

WHAT?!!!!! Okay wow. Okay. Okay, stop. Stop judging. Maybe it’s not the red flag you think it is. Be cool. Maybe we’re missing something. Be present.

I could sense he was ready to move onto something else so I let him, bookmarking catgate. One of the early signs of a Cluster B personality type is often cruelty to animals!? Stop. Be cool.

Ivan’s voice was smooth and steady as he wove a story about Sekhmet, the blood drinking Egyptian goddess sent by sun god Ra to punish humans for their disobedience. “She was said to be so fierce in battle that even the gods feared her. Bloodlust consumed her until Ra had to trick her with—”

I stopped listening. My instincts sharpened the moment I spotted a suspicious figure a hundred feet away. Hoodie draped low over his face, black backpack, about as tall as Ivan, wearing a balaclava that the temperature didn’t call for. He had that particular gait—calculated, measured, hungry. A walk that I knew so well. He veered off in another direction. Casual. Too casual.

My heart rate didn’t spike, but my senses went razor-sharp. I knew this motherfucker wasn’t leaving. He was circling. I mentally mapped the attack. Pivot to my right, strike the throat first cutting off his air, then a disabling blow to his knee we’ll just tell Ivan we took a self defense course in college he won’t press; if the assailant has a weapon I’ll—

“Did you know that Sekhmet is considered to be one of the oldest vampire tales?” Ivan asked. I heard footsteps behind us, about twenty feet away. Okay, there he is. Close. Tighten your core, ready.

“Yes, I did know that. I think the first mention of Sekhmet in English was in—”

Just as I twisted right—

CRACK, then the shocking boom of bone on concrete.

I had barely registered his body on the ground before I caught the blur of motion—Ivan. Standing with perfect ease, his fist recoiling. The would-be assailant sprawled out. How?

Ivan exhaled as if mildly inconvenienced, as if he just made it into his train the millisecond before the doors closed. He turned to me. “Are you okay?”

My pulse pounded in my ears. What just happened? How did he beat me? I had not seen him move. I had not even sensed him react. And yet—he struck before I did. My cover remains air-tight—that’s good. He should not know how to do that.

…how do I talk to him about what just happened without revealing myself—what I’m capable of? I thought I was the apex predator in this situation? Yet Ivan just moved in ways I can’t explain. Gretel get a hold of yourself. Stay in control. Breathe.

I steadied my breath while my instincts screamed at me—process, assess, act. Ivan stood waveless. Did I miscalculate? Was he aware of the threat before I was? Did I miss something? How had he moved so fast? Considering force, velocity, impact angle…it was more than impressive.

I crouched down to check on the man’s pulse. Low but within range. He was breathing. Is this a civilian or is he casing me? My hands went to the wallet at his side. Vladimir Petrov, 32, 114 Brighton Beach Ave, Apt 4L. Noted.

“Are you okay, Gretel?” Ivan asked again. “You—that was really fast.” I said.

“Was it?”

Something in the way he answered made the hairs on the back of my neck rise. Was it? Too smooth, too relaxed. I need more information. Proceed with caution Gretel—to Ivan, you are a tutor, remember?! Not a trained operative with combat experience! Wait, am I being crazy? Maybe I’m being crazy. Ivan is tall, rock solid—he must workout a fuckton. Maybe he was an athlete? Military background that he didn’t tell me about yet? This is only your second date. Of course he hasn’t told you anything yet! Special ops? Mossad? No. Highly unlikely. Here I go again, writing someone off because of my trust issues.

“I’m impressed,” I said, standing, dusting off my knees. “I did not have you pegged as the punch-first type.” He smiles, slightly. “I’m not.” Okay so what was that, babe?

“You weren’t even startled” I pressed, my voice light, as if I was curious, maybe even a little turned on. Certainly not examining every word, every shift in his posture.

“Well, when I saw you turning to look behind you, I looked too, and saw this asshole, hand in his pocket on what I assumed was a weapon, and I reacted. Should I not have?”

“No, no, you did the right thing. It’s just, violence really scares me. Lol I guess most men react that fast. With that kind of power.”

Ivan regarded me for a moment, his expression unreadable.

Finally, he said, “protecting you seems to come naturally.”

Wait that’s cute. I think I am being insane.

I moved towards him until I was an inch away. “Thank you for protecting me,” I said as I slipped my hands into his blazer, pressing myself against him as he wrapped his arms around me.

I looked up to find his smile returned, effortless.

“Of course. I wouldn’t let anything bad happen to my hot date,” he said as he gestured ahead. I hesitated for a fraction of a second before falling into step beside him, his arm around my waist, my hand in the back pocket of his jeans.

“What were we saying before? Oh, right. Sekhmet’s thirst for blood. Turns out…” He continued on, but my mind slithered back into calculating, assessing. I am the highly trained one, yet he reacted faster. Could Ivan be dangerous?

“Are you cold?” he asked. I told him I was fine. He stopped walking. I followed suit. He turned to me and cradled my face in his hands. “Hey. I can feel you shivering. I’m so sorry I scared you. I should have just grabbed him but I wasn’t thinking, I just reacted. I’m not proud of it. I’ve never even hit someone before so I am as shocked as you are that I knocked him out. Can you forgive me?”

God, his eyes kill me. And his lips. I melted. I think you blew this out of proportion, G. Maybe I think I’m stronger and faster than I actually am? Stop looking for reasons to demonize this gorgeous slab. Not every man is a monster. You’re the one living a double life. You’re the dangerous one. Gretel all I’m saying is, stop projecting, okay? Okay. Phew.

“Of course I can forgive you. Now kiss me like you’re in love with me.” He smiled.

With his hands still on my face, he bent down and kissed me with extraordinary, aching tenderness.

In this moment, I let the armor of my other self fall away. Here I was, pure.

“Turquoise” Michele Petrelli