Page 24 of The Devil of Downtown

“Brody. He was skulking around our apartment when I dropped by to pick up some clean clothes for Elsie.”

“Damn, I forgot. Before my new double life as you, I said he could drop by.” I hold my breath, bracing myself for the onslaught.

“Ugh, Ivy, I hope you’re not letting that man back into your life.”

“I’m not. We’re just friends.”

“He left you in pieces last time.”

“I know, Sloane. Like I said...friends.” I reassure her. “And he is part of my friendship group, so I can’t avoid him.”

“Mmmm,” she says, unimpressed. “I thought he was living out in LA?”

“You hoped,” I tease. “He’s got a new DJ-ing residency at Vice nightclub in the Meatpacking District. And I swear, guides’ honor... friends.”

“For now.” She huffs.

“No, I wouldn’t put myself through that again. You know me.”

And I wouldn’t.

Brody West is bad news. The kind of bad news that rides a beast of a motorbike. Spins vinyl for a living. And single-handedly keeps the Betty Ford Clinic in business. The whole sex, drugs, and rock’ n’ roll cliché. Terrible as a boyfriend. Fun as fuck as a friend. We were loved-up in college until he took a gig for a music festival upstate. When he came home, it was like the success had gone to his head. I sensed him pulling away, and it wasn’t long after that he announced he was off to LA ‘because it matched his vibe,and that was that.

Yeah, fuck him.

I always pick the wrong guys. The kind who should have a walking red flag stamped across their Tinder bios.

Mom always says the Vale women are cursed in love. And with that cheery philosophy, she sent us out into the worldwith the bar set so low it was practically underground—before disappearing into a haze of crystals, tarot cards, and whatever commune happened to be calling her name that year.

Most of our childhood was swallowed by her and Dad’s messy divorce. Years and money burned on legal battles that had nothing to do with us and everything to do with punishing each other. Even custody became about winning, not about parenting.

Dad drifted away when the fight was over. Mom drifted into herself.

So Sloane and I clung to each other. We were—and still are—the only constant in each other’s lives.

Mom taught us that men can’t be trusted. That given the chance, they all cheat. Then Dad proved her point. And, like some twisted self-fulfilling prophecy, we kept gravitating toward men who fit that mold. Prince Charming was just a stupid fairy tale.

So when Brody bailed, it was expected.

But it still hurt. That part always does.

The room phone rings, the shrill sound startling me.

“Jesus Christ,” I say, clutching my chest. “Give me a sec. Sloane.”

“Ms. Vale, this is reception. The document has arrived. Mr. Black instructed us to call you.”

“Thank you. I’m coming down now.” I hang up and pick up my cell.

“Gotta go now, Sloane. I have to pick up a document from reception for Dane.”

“What document?” Sloane says, forever in work mode.

“I’m not sure, but he asked me to put it in his safe, so it must be important.”

“Probably a draft contract or notes from the Finance Committee,” she muses. “He has several meetings lined up—anything needing a hard copy would have been couriered. There might even be briefing notes for a parliamentary hearing. You should find notes about it in the pink folder.”

“Sure thing, I’ll check.” I don’t tell her I haven’t looked in her precious colored folders once. In fact, they’ve done nothing except weigh down my luggage.