Page 115 of Three, Two, One [321]

And even though I know she made some of the story in the novel up to make us more romantic, all the important things are true.

We were in love.

JD is dead.

People were saved.

Lives go on.

I’ve been back to see Ray a few times. Jax thinks I’m crazy, but the FBI went through his records for almost a year and never found a single i undotted or t uncrossed. Ray was as up and up as a porn mogul can get. Still is.

Public Fuck America never went live, obviously. But I did get back all the videos of JD. I had to fight for the ones of Blue. Jax made sure that evidence, including the videos and contract she had with Gabriel, disappeared.

I kept everything that was mine.

We destroyed the rest.

There were lots of trials. Not Gabriel’s. He bled to death on the concrete floor of my loft that night. And those trials had lots of deals. No one got off, not even the flock wives. The deals were made to keep Blue’s reputation intact. And now that she wrote the book, it’s sort of a cover in and of itself. A brilliant move, actually. She made our story fiction. No one will ever believe it’s true.

My transient gallery has grown through word of mouth generated so as to ensure people in her circles—her publisher, her agent, her publicist, her editor—all knew about it.

I have lived every moment of the past two years with her in mind.

So when the text comes through that she got into the car, my heart beats wildly with anticipation. She is not going to a transient show in some dingy abandoned building. She’s coming to my home. My personal gallery where I have labored over the past twenty-six months to create the perfect exhibit.

And not by coincidence, it’s called One, Two, Three.

One lost girl.

Two best friends.

Three eternal soulmates.

The idling motor of a car outside breaks my concentration and I stand up. I straighten my suit coat, and my tie, making sure it’s tight.

Her shoes tap on the concrete steps. I picture her hand being held by my driver, Matthew, and then the door opens with a creak.

She’s illuminated by the outside light for a brief moment, and then the door closes behind her and she stands in the shadows.

But it only takes her a moment to see JD. It’s hard not to, since I’ve placed a spotlight above his head. It’s my favorite picture of JD, taken when he was sitting outside on our terrace when we first moved into the loft.

It was a good day. One of the best. We were rich. He was happy. I was satisfied that we’d gotten through the hardest thing he’d ever have to go through. He was better. He was whole again. He was saved.

It turns out salvation is no more permanent than anything else in this life.

But if I could save him once, I could do it again.

Blue reaches out to touch his lips and then she spreads her arms and hugs the photo. It’s almost as wide as her arms, but not quite. There is just enough room for her to grab onto the edges and place her cheek on his.

“You came,” I say, stepping out of the shadows.

She turns to face me, wiping the tears from her eyes. “I owed you a story. So I wrote you a story.”

I walk forward and take her hand. “I love your story.”

She starts to cry again. “Why did you leave me? After it was all over I asked them to tell me where you were, but they refused.”

I take her in my arms and hold her tight. I smell her hair and close my eyes. “I left because I love you. And you were right.”