Page 52 of Invisible Scars
“I’m not sure that’s a compliment.”
“I meant it as a compliment,” he says, grazing his nose against the shell of my ear, then brushing his lips over my cheek, hovering over my mouth. “Now, about the alternative moisturizing for my chapped lips…”
It’s hours later when I’m stirred awake by my phone pinging. Jonah’s fast asleep next to me, his chest rising and falling with gentle snores.
I trace the contours of his face with my gaze, and an overwhelming surge of affection spreads through my chest. His dark eyelashes rest against his cheeks, fluttering as a slight wrinkle that forms on his forehead. I wonder what he’s dreaming about. Have his nightmares followed him here? Or is his curious and analytical mind working overtime even in his sleep?
As quietly as possible, I get out of bed and get my phone. On the way to the kitchen, I unlock it to check my messages, freezing from the wave of nausea that hits me when I see the words on my screen.
You brought this on yourself, you dumb whore.
My hands shake as I put my phone down. I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself as the words echo in my mind. I put one foot in front of the other until I reach the kitchen, where I fill a glass with water. I take a big gulp, allowing the cool liquid to soothe my nerves, but a bitter taste lingers, both in my mouth and in my thoughts.
I have no doubt the message is from Abe, and there’s a significant part of me that wants to go wake up Jonah and tell him, knowing he won’t stop until Abe’s dead. But the last thing I need is to drag my messy past into my messy present.
I’m contemplating my next step when my phone rings. Cautiously, I lift it from the table and stare at the unknown number, letting it ring until the caller gives up. Not two seconds later, the same number flashes across my screen.
With a mixture of anger, hurt, and defiance, I click the red phone icon hanging up in their face. Two seconds later, they’re calling again.
“Oh, for crying out loud.”
I’m more irritated than scared at this point. There isn’t much Abe can do that I can’t handle. So, I answer the call.
“This is Effie Teitelbaum.”
“You’re a hard person to get a hold of, Effie Teitelbaum,” an Australian man with a voice hoarse from what sounds like years of smoking greets me.
“And you seem intent on speaking to me despite my best efforts to avoid the pleasure,” I answer with my driest tone. “So, let’s cut the small talk. What do you want?”
“They told me you were feisty,” he says with an amused tilt to his voice. “You know what I want, Miss Teitelbaum. I’ll send you directions on when and where to meet me, and we can have a proper discussion.”
“Can’t wait.”
The man chuckles. “I like you,” he says. “Come alone, or you and anyone who follows you will be dead on the spot. That goes especially for your boyfriend. I’d hate to have to kill a war hero.”
He hangs up, and I stare at my phone, contemplating what to do. Icouldtell Jonah, but he’ll go scorched earth and cause unnecessary violence. Still, I can’t go alone.
A thought crosses my mind, and I scroll through my contacts, then dial. Two ring tones later, Milly answers the phone.
“Sorry for the hour, but I need your help.”
14
EFFIE
“Are you sure about this, Effie?”Milly asks as she looks for a place to stop the car in the bustling Art District of Short North. We both look around at the lively scene of bars, taverns and lounges. “This is such an odd choice for a shakedown, even with the back-alley rendezvous point.”
I’ve been subjected to enough of those to know she’s right. Debt collectors prefer quiet and neutral, a place they can use a low and intimidating voice while surrounded by their gorillas.
“If I were sure about it, you wouldn’t be here.”
Milly stops the car, then asks without looking back, “Is your bug in place?”
“Yep. Thanks for the ride.” I exit the back of the vehicle, pretending to add a tip on my Uber app, then walk toward the alley I was instructed to enter.
“Miss Teitelbaum,” a familiar Australian-accented croaky voice greets me from a dark alcove, causing me to jump and seek him out. But all I see is the glimmer of a lit cigarette as he drags on it before puffing out a swirl of white smoke. “I have a message.”
“We can skip the ominous part.” I wave him off with a fake confidence I’ve adopted over the years. “What does Abe owe, what will it take to make it go away, and how much to make sure your boss never lets Abe back on his books again?”
