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I place it in his hand, wondering what this is about.
I know he’s a hacker. Could he be using my phone to check I haven’t gone to a bar or something?
“I’m putting my number in here,” he says. “I know you want things to be different for Secret, but you can’t feel like you’re out here in a new place with no one to turn to if you start feeling like you’re going to back slide. Call me, if you ever feel like you need to drink.”
“Really?” I find myself asking as he hands me the phone back.
“I won’t let Secret find out. As long as you actually call, when you need to.”
I think I’m still a little in shock when I nod at him.
He leans against the wall next to the steps that lead into the building.
“I assume I can trust you to walk to your apartment and stay there tonight?”
“You can,” I tell him.
“Then, I’ll see you tomorrow when it’s time for dinner.”
He walks away, doesn’t look back.
I move up the stairs to the building, still clutching the phone in my hand.
Not that I felt like I might backslide before, but now … I seriously don’t want to piss off the most extreme Alpha I know, and it’s not because I’m afraid of him.
It’s because I know if I did, it would mean disappointing Secret.
Now that she knows I was an alcoholic, I don’t want her to see that lost, messy version of me ever again. I’m not her idiot older sister anymore. I’m her mom, and I need her to know she can trust me.
Chapter Twelve
Leanne
Another night of broken sleep and weird dreams later, and I find myself struggling to get out of bed.
My body aches all over. I need painkillers before I can make it through an interview.
I get up and use the bathroom first. Then, I tell myself the heat from the shower will help.
Really, I’m delaying going into the other room. I like the protection of having two doors wedged shut and one with a lock and a bolt for any intruder to have to get through before they can make it to where I am.
Not that I’m expecting any unexpected visitors.
It would be pretty unlikely to suffer a second break-in from a psychopath when the first one isn’t even still alive. I mean, unless you’re Laurie Strode. Thankfully, Frank Palmer is no Michael Myers.
He’s not coming back from the dead, and I need to remember that so I can get on with my life.
Still, I take my time getting dressed in the interview appropriate clothing I bought yesterday.
Then, I take even more time putting on nude-look make-up and pinning my hair back to look more professional. That last activity has me lifting my blouse to check on my wound after.
It hurts, but it’s not bleeding, thank God.
I put my purse over my shoulder and use my foot to remove the doorstops and slide them under the bed. I wait to see if I’m tempted to pick them up and put them in my purse.
Apparently, I’m too sore to be that anxious this morning.
Leaving the room, I take in the pokey living-room / kitchen area and let out a weary breath.
