Page 45 of A Deal with the Devil

He starts spraying something up Trace’s nose, with a tube. “More lidocaine,” he explains quietly. “And now we wait for it to kick in.” He begins wiping blood off the boy’s face, as gently as he might his own child’s.

I’ve never seen him like this before—acting like he cares. Acting like something matters. I want to look away and I can’t.

“Is he going to be okay?” his mother asks behind us, her voice tremulous. I hadn’t even realized she was there, and it’s hard not to glare at her, not to assume the worst. Would Hayes cover up abuse? I can’t imagine he would, yet he does all sorts of things for money I would not. He drives out to houses where women proposition him and let dogs jump on his back. Do I really know where he’d hit bottom? Do you ever know, with anyone?

“It’s a basic fracture,” says Hayes. “I had them several times myself as a kid. I’m about to push the bones into place, and he’ll be good as new.”

He gets a tool out of his bag and glances at me. “You probably want to shut your eyes again,” he says.

I do, feeling too confused to be angry. I don’t understand how he can be so gentle and sympathetic, yet not intervene. These people might be claiming the kid is simply clumsy, frequently hurt...but Hayes wouldn’t know if that was the case. That’s why they should be forced to go through the hospital, where it will be documented. Where someone who knows the signs of abuse will catch them. And Hayes must realize this too.

I swallow hard. I really thought he was different. I thought he was better than he appeared. Now it seems possible he’s worse.

The rest of the work is done quickly. Nasal packs go into his nostrils to support the bones and Hayes splints the bridge. He quietly gives the mother instructions and then pats her shoulder before taking his leave. I follow on wobbly legs and lean against the hood of my car, watching as Hayes throws the bag I brought in his trunk.

“What happened to him? If he’s getting hurt a lot…” I feel jittery and out of control. Tears spring to my eyes. “I don’t know why you’re helping that family the way you are. This should all be getting documented.”

He shuts the trunk and turns toward me. “Tali,” he says softly, “he’s got a heart valve defect. It decreases blood flow to the brain, and he blacks out. Did you really think I’d help someone cover up child abuse?”

I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but the dam breaks. I press my face to my hands as tears begin to fall. “Can they fix it?”

He comes over and wraps an arm around me, pressing my head to his chest. He smells like soap and starch and home. “I wish they could, but no.” His voice is so kind it makes me cry harder. “I think you’re in shock. It’s okay. It happens.”

I shake my head. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions. I just thought…”

“You thought what?”

I struggle to find the right words. I’m glad my face is pressed to his shirt so I don’t have to make eye contact. “That I am probably a terrible judge of character,” I whisper. “I was with Matt for ten years…”

My voice breaks, and I stop talking. It’s ridiculous what I thought. It’s ridiculous my experience with one human being out of thousands could make me distrustful of everyone, including myself.

He pulls me closer. “I know,” he says quietly. His heart beats faster, just beneath my cheek. “I know exactly how you feel.”

I guess he must. He gave up his inheritance for Ella, and she left him for his dad. It would be enough to ruin your faith in people forever, if you let it.

“Is it going to always be like this?” I ask. “Am I always going to feel like I can’t trust anyone?”

I feel his slow, weary exhale. “A guy who hasn’t been in a relationship for seven years is probably not the person to ask.”

I spent so much time looking down on him for the way he lives, but are his threesomes and foursomes any worse than me revenge fucking Matt’s closest friend in LA? Are they any different than my long runs at night on the bike path? It’s all just a way to drum out the emptiness.

He’s me, only with a lot more money and slightly less self-control.

I don’t want to still be this version of myself in seven years. I don’t want him to be this version either.

24

Drew texts the day of the luncheon to see if I want to meet up. She’s just back from Spain, where she was visiting Six. I know from her sporadic messages he was both wonderful and terrible. That he alternated between telling her he can see a future with her and then commenting on the size of her thighs. I don’t know why she doesn’t see through him when she’s so clever about everything else.

I tell her I need to take a rain check because the luncheon is consuming every waking minute. And today, when I have to be at my sharpest, I feel like I barely have the energy to push myself into the shower. I’ve gotten by on Hayes-levels of sleep for days on end, continuing to do my job while setting up the three-ring circus Hayes wants in his backyard: catered lunch, aesthetic services, favors, open bar, valet...the list is endless. There is so much to do today, and I only want to collapse in bed, which means there’s no way this thing is going to work out as seamlessly as he’d like.

I arrive at his house with my ridiculously expensive beige dress, my toiletries, and a pair of sky-high heels in one bag, the last of the party favors in another.

Hayes is already downstairs, looking so pressed and perfect and alert that I can’t help but resent him for it.

“You look like death warmed over,” he says.

I let both bags drop to the floor. I feel like I don’t even have the energy to respond this morning.