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He’s not here to pull me in his arms. He’s not here to say I love you. He’s not here so I can say I love you back.
He’s not here to ask if I’m okay. To push the sweaty pieces of hair off my face. To kiss me one last time before we fall asleep.
So I fumble for my phone. And I try to call him again. “Please answer,” I mutter alone in London. “Please answer.”
It rings.
And rings.
“Please, Garrison.” It stops ringing.
Beep.
“Voice-mailbox full,” an automated voice replies.
I roll onto my back and hold my phone to my chest.
47
garrison abbey
Halloween.
Also known as Loren Hale’s birthday. He already texted me about some “surprise” party he’s throwing himself. Only it’s a surprise for all his guests, not him—the guy with the birthday. It’s so Loren Hale, you really can’t make this shit up.
The elevator at Cobalt Inc. is slow as fuck today. Maybe it’s broken? It goes down and down and down like the ticking of a clock, and I’m worried that I’m not ditching out of here early enough to avoid the party. I glance at the text again.
Loren Hale: I’m picking you up at 9:45 p.m. for my birthday party. The outing is a surprise. No questions will be answered. Participation is not optional.
He’s such an asshole, even in text. He didn’t even ask where I’d be, so I assume Connor tells him I work until midnight. But joke is on him because I’m out of here at 9:30 p.m. tonight.
The elevator finally makes it to the lobby, and I pull out my phone to call an Uber. Just as I exit the revolving doors, shoes landing on the sidewalk, a black limo slows at the curb.
Fuck.
Second option: Avoid eye contact. Maybe I can get away with ignoring the limo. I focus on my cell and notice that the nearest Uber is ten minutes away. Fuck Halloween.
“Garrison Abbey!” Loren shouts from the limo. “Let’s go! My birthday awaits!”
Don’t be an asshole. I let out a breath of defeat and glance up. Half of his body hangs out of the limo’s opened window. He holds out a hand like come on.
Trying not to seem too unenthusiastic, I pocket my phone, adjust my backpack on my shoulder, and approach the limo. Each footstep heavy.
Loren is about to open the limo door, but I grab onto the windowsill and shove it closed. Lo glares almost instantly like I just told his kid that Santa Clause isn’t real. And in the next instant, his eyes soften considerably. Like he’s trying to be nice—and that act is hard for him.
He opens his mouth, and I cut him off. “Thanks for the invite, but I decided I’m not going.”
His amber eyes are really fucking hard to look at. They basically scream a million things. Disappointment. Confusion. I avoid them, preferring his ruthless glares to what he’s showering me with right now. Seriously, I stare anywhere but at him.
The street.
The light pole.
The revolving doors I just left.
I can’t hang out with them like we’re friends.
I can’t hang out with him. My girlfriend is his little sister. For fuck’s sake, I vandalized his house three years ago. Did he suddenly have amnesia? He should be pushing me down on the curb. He should be kicking me and calling me a thousand different names. Not inviting me to his birthday party.
Jesus. It doesn’t make sense.
I steal one glance back at him, and he’s looking over my shoulder like he’s trying to find someone. And then he tells me, “Because you have so many friends lined up inviting you places.” In mock surprise, he puts his hand to his lips. “Oh my God, there’s your bestie waving you down. He’s so excited to see you.”
Fuck him.
I glare.
He glares back, and then I think, this is stupid. He’s just trying to piss me off to get me to go. He’s a button-pusher, and the more I’m around him, the more he’s learning mine.
I roll my eyes. “I have work, you fucking…” I let out an aggravated noise and scuff the sidewalk with my Converse. What the fuck am I doing?
“If the CEO of the company can take time off for my birthday, then so can his employee.” Loren tries to open the car door again, but I lean my bodyweight against it.
His cheekbones sharpen.
“I’m serious.” I take a deep breath. “I have to finish what I’m working on and…” I stare off. What else? God, I’m pathetic. I can’t even come up with a decent excuse.
“Just let me out for a second. I won’t force you in the limo.” The edge is still in his voice, but there’s no humor attached. He’s serious.
I step back and pull the sleeves of my hoodie down over the tops of my hands, the wind picking up. Chillier tonight. Loren opens the door and climbs out of the car. No Halloween costume on, which kind of surprises me. Just a black crewneck T-shirt and dark jeans.
