Page 18 of Challenge Me

Holy hellfire, all these men were gorgeous. It must’ve been nice to run in those circles, full of good genes and shit.

While I was in town, a couple people had stared at me longer than usual. At least, I thought they had. It wasn’t like this was some crazy scandal on the Kardashian scale, but it seemed to be getting attention. Add to it the fact that he was ‘spotted in the shadows of an obscure New Haven bar’ with a ‘shirtless stranger who appears to have recently drifted into town’, as the article had so eloquently put it. Amir was in the middle of a public relations nightmare, in my opinion.

The thought made me chuckle as I unlocked the door. I did pity him the experience, but only for the part of his sexuality being forced into the light. The rest was a consequence of being a public figure.

I’d only been inside for a few minutes when there was a knock on the door.

Showtime.

I opened it and flashed a brilliant smile. The woman in front of me lifted a brow, as if my exuberance surprised her, but she offered a pleasant expression in return.

“Remi,” I said, holding out my hand.

She took it delicately. “Clara Kessler. You can call me Mrs. Kessler.”

It was hard not to laugh. “Alright, then.”

I swept my hand toward the bar to invite her in. Behind her, there was a camera crew. I blinked a few times as I watched them file in.

“When you asked if we could talk, I didn’t expect something so . . . professional.”

She gave me a sweet but underhanded smile. “Think of it, dear. We can give the world a glimpse of Remi’s.” She looked around. I expected her to keep the sour attitude, but she nodded appreciatively. “I think Remi’s can speak for itself, as long as it’s given a microphone. Don’t you?”

“Can’t argue with your logic, Mrs. Kessler.”

The idea of being on camera while I answered her questions made my gut feel acidic. I wasn’t shy; it was deeper than that. Now that I was looking at the woman, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was meant to be more than a simple, informative follow-up piece. If she was looking to smear Amir’s name, did I want to be a part of that?

“I’m going to change,” I announced. “Since I’m going to be on camera and all.”

“Sounds lovely, dear. I have a crew that will work with your hair and face.”

Fuck her. My hair and face were perfect.

I smiled before I headed behind the counter. The bottles were calling my name, singing a siren song meant to trap me, but I ignored it. Stress plus alcohol was never a good idea.

As I passed the counter, the phone was still ringing. It was madness, and the few times I’d answered it, I’d regretted it. Most people wanted to ask questions, which I had no interest in. One told me a joke about catchers and pitchers, as if that was in any way original.

It didn’t take me long to change, and since Clara apparently wanted control over my hair and face, I didn’t fuss with anything else. When I returned to the main room, there was a chair set up on the other side of the counter, and two people stood next to it. They motioned me over, and I tried to keep myself from scowling.

I swiped the ringing phone off the dock, just because I had nothing better to do, then sat in the chair. Immediately, a woman with fingers as cold as a ghoul’s fussed with my hair. My lip curled, but the expression didn’t deter her. Shame.

Bringing the phone to my ear, I kept my eyes on the woman’s, hoping it’d make her uncomfortable eventually. “Remi’s. This is Remi.”

“Hey, Remi.”

My smoothie slipped from my grasp. The cold liquid splashed over my boots and hit my ankles, which might’ve been the only thing that kept me from spiraling too far into my mind. Both women screeched and leapt backward, shooting menacing looks at me. I stood and escaped into the back room.

“You there?” the man on the other end of the phone asked.

I blew out a slow breath while I mustered my most nonchalant voice. “Yeah, who’s this?”

“Come on, baby. It’s only been, what, a year and a half?”

“How’d you get this number, Cole?”

He hummed, a dark sound, or maybe it was only portentous to me. The last time I’d really talked to him was when I moved out of my house in Seattle. It had taken a group of jocks to convince him to leave, then we’d all packed up my shit and got me the hell out of there. Two months later, I found the strength to change my phone number, cutting off the last connection to him. He’d come into The Commons a couple times, but Dean had been helpful in putting a stop to that.

Now that I was here, across the country, hearing his voice felt like being given a break from waterboarding. The worst part was knowing the torture wasn’t over, no matter how sweet his assurances sounded.