The detour

The ride away from the restaurant was silent. The interior of Nico’s black Escalade was a sealed capsule of leather and silence, shutting out the noise of the city.

Clara sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window. The city blurred by in streaks of neon. She felt heavy, the rich meal sitting like lead in her stomach.

On the dashboard, sitting innocuously near the vent, was a black velvet jewelry box.

She had seen it when she got in. She hadn't touched it. She knew the game. If she asked about it, she was greedy. If she ignored it, she was ungrateful.

Nico drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gear shift. He was agitated, the energy from the fight earlier still buzzing under his skin. He took a corner too fast, the tires chirping against the asphalt.

"Slow down," Clara said, gripping the door handle.

"Shut up," Nico snapped.

They were heading toward her apartment on the Upper East Side. But when they reached the intersection for the bridge, Nico didn't turn left. He went straight.

"Where are you going?" Clara asked, sitting up straighter. "My place is that way."

"We're going for a ride," Nico said. "I need air."

He drove them toward the industrial district, under the shadow of the Queensboro Bridge. The neighborhood changed rapidly. The doormen and awnings disappeared, replaced by chain-link fences, warehouses, and the dark, oily shimmer of the East River.

"Nico, I want to go home," Clara said. Her heart began to beat faster. It wasn't uncommon for Nico to be erratic, but the bruise on his hand was throbbing in her mind.

"You're such a brat," Nico muttered. He pulled the car over onto a gravel access road that overlooked the water. It was desolate. A place where teenagers came to drink and where people dumped stolen cars.

He killed the engine. The silence rushed in, heavy and cold.

"You know who I saw today?" Nico asked, turning in his seat to face her. The shadows cut his face in half.

Clara shook her head.

"David," Nico said.

Clara froze. David was her ex. A graphic designer. Soft hands. Kind eyes. She had left him six months ago because Nico had offered her a life where she didn't have to split the rent.

"Why?" she whispered.

"He owed some money to a friend of mine. Gambling debt. Stupid kid." Nico reached out and ran a finger down Clara’s cheek. "He asked about you. Asked if you were happy."

"I haven't spoken to him," Clara said quickly. "I swear."

"I know," Nico said. "I told him you were very happy. I told him you were taken care of."

He leaned in, his breath smelling of red wine and mint. "And then I broke his nose."

Clara gasped, pulling back against the door. "Nico!"

"It was a gift," Nico said, his voice dropping to a growl. "For you. Happy Valentine's Day. Now he won't be calling you late at night anymore. He won't be wondering 'what if.' I closed the book for you, Clara."

He grabbed the back of her neck, pulling her forward. The kiss wasn't romantic. It was wet, hard, and bruising. He kissed her like he was trying to erase the memory of anyone else who had ever touched her.

Clara didn't fight him. She couldn't. She let him take the kiss, her mind reeling with the image of David, bleeding on a sidewalk somewhere, because of her. Because she belonged to a monster.

Nico pulled back, looking satisfied by her fear. He reached for the dashboard and grabbed the velvet box.

"Here," he said, tossing it into her lap. "Open it."