Page 24 of Mr. North
Denny chooses this exact moment to return. He strolls into dining room like he hasn’t got a care in the world. “Are you both ready for me to clear some dishes and bring out your mains?” he asks.
“Yes, thank you, Denny,” Raphael says, his voice cool. He doesn’t look at Denny; his gaze remains fixed solely on me, burning into my skin. My cheeks grow hotter and hotter with every passing second. No doubt Denny can feel the pressure in the air; you could slice through it with a knife. He’s doesn’t ask if everything’s okay, though. He simply clears our bowls, humming softly under his breath, taking our spoons and relieving us both of our napkins. Raphael’s gaze doesn’t waver. I’ve never felt so on the spot before—to have someone so blatantly staring at me in front of another person and obviously not giving a shit whether it makes me feel uncomfortable.
“I’ll be right back,” Denny says brightly. His eyes meet mine as he leaves, and he winks at me. As soon as he’s gone, Raphael rubs a hand at the back of his neck, and says, “I’m not satisfied, Beth, because now I want more .”
I’m on fire. My dress suddenly feels too tight, my ribcage unable to expand. It feels like there’s an elephant sitting on my chest. There’s no mistaking his tone right now. No way I can’t read between the lines, but I still find myself, saying,
“More? What more is there?”
“Don’t be obtuse, Beth. You’re a smart girl. You know perfectly well what I mean.” His eyes flash—a challenge there, daring me to deny that his words are true. I clear my throat, a cold, nervous chill racing down my spine. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone so direct before. His intensity is more than a little alarming; there’s some basic, animal part of me that’s telling me I should run from this situation. No other creature would look at another with such hunger in their eyes unless they intended on devouring it whole. And yet I can’t seem to make my body obey me. I’m rooted to my seat, every hair standing on end, prickling with some unknown sensation. I look away, making a move on the chessboard. A tactical, defensive move, as if my strategies in the game can protect me out here in the real world, too. I end up taking Raphael’s knight.
“You’ve been pretty hostile toward me,” I say softly. “Honestly, I didn’t think you even liked me.”
Raphael smirks. “I’m a hard person to get to know. I come across as difficult or rude sometimes. I know that. I assure you that I do like you, though.”
“You don’t know me,” I whisper. “You don’t know a single thing about me.”
Raphael, calm as ever, picks up the tablet and studies the game, considering his options. “When my parents died, everyone assumed I came into a fortune. The North Empire was vast, after all. My father was known internationally as a savvy, trustworthy banker. My mother’s entrepreneurial endeavors here in New York were also well known. But the truth of the matter was that when they died, they left me a mountain of crippling debt. They’d been living on credit for years.” Raphael takes a slow sip of his wine, makes a move on the tablet, then places it down on the table in front of me—a challenge. A gauntlet, thrown down. “Millions of dollars owed. Millions ,” he continues. “They lived to excess for so long that I don’t think they ever really admitted their situation even to themselves. I decided I wasn’t going to let their recklessness with money be the end of me. I vowed to repay the money owed and then some. And I did. It took me three years. Just three years. I invested what money I had myself. I created patents for technologies that were still waiting to meet their full potential. I broke my back to recoup what was lost, and I ended up making more money than my parents could ever have dreamed of accruing.” Another sip of his wine. Another pregnant pause. “Do you think I’d have managed that without doing my due diligence, Beth? I know plenty about you. You never asked me how I knew about what happened to your mother when you were a child.”
A shot of surprise races down my spine, between my shoulder blades. A chaser of anger follows right after it. “You promised you wouldn’t talk about that again.” I take another of his chess pieces, stabbing at the screen.
Raphael shrugs, running his index finger around the rim of his wine glass. “I did. I’m sorry to bring it up now, but I’m sure you must be curious.”
I was curious. I hate even thinking about that day, though. The mere mention of it makes me break out in hives, makes me feel panicked and sick inside my own skin for days, so I haven’t allowed myself the luxury of further curiosity. It would only have led me to dark places. I clear my throat, looking down at the table. “Just tell me.”
“When someone goes to the hospital for a work up after a sexual assault, records are made. Those records stay on file forever.”
It feels like a knife is twisting deep in the pit of my stomach. I didn’t know Mom went to the hospital. She never told me. But then again, why would she? She’s been lecturing me about spending any significant time with men for years, but she’s never brought up what happened to her. It’s hung there between us, alluded to, a black fog that descends on us whenever she feels as if I’m being reckless, but never directly spoken about. And I was just a child back then. She probably didn’t want to scare me any more than I already had been.
I barely even notice Denny return once again with our main courses—the most perfect looking, perfect smelling steak I’ve ever seen in my entire life. Denny sets a razor sharp knife down next to my plate, and I find myself staring at it. In my head, I imagine picking it up and plunging it directly in Raphael’s knee. I can’t believe he did that. I just can’t fucking believe it. “So. You’ve been…researching me? My entire family?” I demand.
“I’ve merely taken note of the information already out there in the world,” he says. There’s an edge to his voice, like he knows how badly this conversation could go any second. “Your Instagram account’s public. So is your Facebook account. Your academic history is a matter of public record, too. Admittedly, hospital records aren’t just floating around in the ether. I did take liberties where they are concerned.”
What the hell? I don’t know what I should be feeling right now. Outraged that he’s been stalking my social media accounts? Flattered that he’s taken such an interest? Creeped out, or a little thrilled that he’d care enough to look? My initial response is to lean toward creeped out.
“You shouldn’t have done that. You could have asked me anything. I would have told you.”
Raphael has the common courtesy to look a little chastened. “Would you? Perhaps you’re right. I’m sorry. I have a very quiet existence here. I find it hard to invite people into my life without doing a little background search on them first. I need to know that they’re genuine. Not likely to sell information about me to the press.” He says this last sentence as if he knows all too well I was considering doing just that the day Thalia gave me his profile. “I’m very protective of this space. It’s been my haven for a long time now. I don’t like entertaining the possibility that someone may come here and jeopardize that.”
I can kind of understand where he’s coming from, but at the same time I feel like my privacy has been violated.
“Think about this before you decide that you hate me, Beth. If you want to know something about me, all you have to do is go on Google and there you have it. Everything about me from my eye color to my shoe size to my favorite color. My relationships. My successes, my mistakes, my glories and my fuck-ups. You know everything about me, because you’ve read all about me online. The accident, for example. You know all about that, don’t you? You read the police reports in the news. You stared at pictures of my written-off car. You checked out the images of me being arrested, then being driven off in the back of a police cruiser. You’ve seen my mug shots, maybe studied the look of horror on my face as you drank your morning coffee. True?”
Ah. Shit. I cast my eyes down at the steak on my plate. My appetite has evaporated into thin air, leaving behind it a hollow, empty sensation in the pit of my stomach. “Yes. That’s true.”
“I’m not saying any of that justifies the fact that I looked you up. But…maybe it’ll give you some context.”
I hate to admit it. It’s almost impossible to admit it, but it sure as hell has. I’ve been a voyeur, peering through a window into Raphael North’s life for years now. Years . He spent a couple of days doing the exact same thing to me and I just clambered up onto my high horse and started wagging my finger.
“I’m sorry if I’ve upset you,” he says. “I promise, I won’t look you up again. From here on out, whatever I learn about you will be information you give to me yourself. Deal?”
I consider this for a moment. There are plenty of reasons why I should call this whole thing a day, but there’s something so captivating about this man. I can’t seem to walk away. Can’t seem to clear my damn head of him. He makes me mad, fills me with a righteous fury one second, and then the next I feel like I’m being swallowed by his very presence, pulled unwilling toward him like a fish on a hook. It feels… god. I can’t even decipher what he makes me feel. It’s all so bewildering. “Okay,” I say eventually. “Fine. You have yourself a deal. But seriously…no more internet stalking. For either of us.”
“Good.” Raphael pours me another glass of wine, then one for himself. “And since you’re so set on me calling you by your first name, I think, from here on out, it would be better if you called me by mine, too.”
“You want me to call you Raphael?”
He shakes his head. “It would be better if you called me Raph .”
