I need my bed.
My phone rings as I wait to reach the fortieth floor.
The penthouse.
The oneshewanted.
The one I paid nearly twice the asking price in a bidding war because I would have done anything to make her happy.
I’ve never considered myself an idiot, but we all surprise ourselves sometimes.
Cash’s name appears on the screen when my phone starts to ring again. It’s nearly two in the morning. He’s probably on his way home from one of our casinos. Or stalking his wife while she’s working at one ofhercasinos. My bet is on the stalking. Not that I blame him. I’d be doing the same. Which was a huge problem for my ex because it made it difficult to cheat on me. She called me obsessive. A psycho. I argued that I was being protective.
I slide the device back into my pocket and step into the foyer of my soulless penthouse.
Maybe just one more glass of whiskey to quiet these thoughts bouncing around my head. They’re too loud right now. Too painful.
As I pass the round table, positioned perfectly in the middle of the useless entryway, my eyes land on a pile of mail that’s been growing for a week. My housekeeper, Shirley, leaves my mail there each morning. She probably wants to throttle me for ignoring it this long. It makes the fresh flowers that she arranges look cluttered. That’s what she says. Personally, I don’t give a fuck. Cluttered or not, the entire place is ugly. Cold. Uncomfortable.
I pick up the pile and head for the built-in bar that runs along the side of the living room. A glass isn’t necessary. Even I know I won’t stop after the first.
Bottle in one hand and mail in the other, I lean against the kitchen counter. As soon as I pull the cork cap and swallow the amber liquid, my mind goes quiet.
It takes more work than it should to lift my arms to open one envelope after another, tossing them into piles. Bill, junk, junk, bill. It doesn’t matter how fucked up your life is; the world never stops spinning, and the bills don’t stop coming.
I take another gulp of whiskey and let out a deep breath, my shoulders dropping slightly as I rip open the next bill.
Perfectly numb.
When I unfold the paper and look at it, I blink slowly. Once, twice, a third time.
What is this?
A check?
My eyes land on the name on the check.
Quinn Summers.
Why is this in my stack?
I glance at the envelope and squint. So damn blurry.
The address is correct, but it should have gone toQuinn Summers’apartment, which is on the fourth floor.
After picking up the pile of my mail and the bottle of whiskey, I leave the check on the counter. Shirley can run it down to the correct apartment tomorrow. And I’ll deal with the rest of these another day.
I stop in my home office, leaving the papers there before I head to my bedroom, kicking off my shoes as soon as I walk in. Without bothering with anything else, I drop onto my bed and let the liquor-induced haze pull me under, wondering if maybe I’ll get lucky this time and won’t wake up.
A loud thudshakes me slightly, and I groan.
Did Shirley drop something while cleaning?
Thump.
“What the fuck?” I mutter and roll to my side, my head ready to explode from the repetitive pounding at my temples.
“Don’t ‘what the fuck?’ me, asshole. Get up before I pour ice-cold water on you.”
