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I’m not doing that either.
And why the hell does this apartment feel so goddamn empty all of a sudden?
My fingers push the sculpture off its pedestal, watching as it lands with a crash on the floor and cracks in half. Fucking thing. Screaming? I don’t scream for anything. I am processed. Methodical. Controlled. This chaotic mind melt is unwelcome, as is the thought of her skin under my fingers no matter how seductive the imagery.
Cracking my neck, I head for the table to rip up the damn card, and then I do the fucking idiotic thing of swerving past it and heading for the stairs. I’m not entirely sure what I'm doing until I get to the bedroom and gaze at the bed, pondering the thought of her in it more than I already have done in this time we’ve been apart. It only takes another few minutes thinking on that visual and I am heading for the shower to get ready for a party I do not want to go to.
Half an hour later and I’m still cursing every goddamn curse there is, and questioning why the hell I let Malachi into my life, as I wait for the elevator to open. Jackson looks up at me the second I step out of it, as mystified by my appearance as he was earlier.
“Party,” I snap, annoyed with fucking everything.
He flips over his itinerary searching to see if he’s missed something. He hasn’t. “Where, Sir? It’s not on your schedule.”
“The Beekman. Am I not allowed spontaneity?”
“Of course, Sir.”
He calls through for Tom and follows me, as I head through the array of cars I don’t use, until we reach the Lincoln. Why don’t I use those? I should. I like driving. Especially on open roads. I half snort, disgusted with the thought of enjoying anything, and slide into the confines of dark corners. Too long ago. They were times when I was allowed fun and the merits of youthful amusement. I'm not that man anymore.
Tom eventually arrives and begins driving us out of the lot into heavy rain, a slightly dishevelled suit thrown on as if he hurried. That’s annoying, too. I glare out the window rather than take him to task on the matter, trying to dampen the need to explode about things that aren’t his fault in the slightest.
My eyes close, a long breath hauled in to calm the impending storm that wants to erupt. None of this is anyone’s fault but my own and now I’m doing nothing other than fuelling that storm by giving in to basic need rather than being sensible and forgetting her.
I snort, a smile tipping my lips – as if I’ll ever forget her. She’s rooted in – her smile, her body, the sound of her seductive tone. She’s buried deeper than even I’ve accepted, and this damn chain in my pocket proves it. I should toss it. Burn it. Break it into pieces and throw them off the top of my building so I can concentrate on matters that need my attention.
“Sir?”
“What?”
“We’re here.”
I look out into the mass of people congregated round the main doors at the top of the steps, most of them queuing for acceptance, and I watch as Jackson heads for my door. People. Irritating. My gaze narrows, sharp breaths sucked in to counter the anxiety overtaking the annoyance. This is stupidity. It’s nothing more than temptation and imprudence. I stare some more, looking at all the coloured dresses, feathers and outfits, as I search for black in the midst of them.
The door opens before I’ve seen one, Jackson shielding me with an umbrella as I step out into the evening. My hands find my pockets, the chain more necessary than usual for reasons I can’t, or perhaps don’t want to, comprehend.
He moves us swiftly, cutting around the side of the crowds to gain access to the VIP entrance. Women smile flirtatiously at me under their garish painted faces. They’re not masks here. Not like at Malachi’s. They’re façades on skin, intricately drawn on flesh to enhance bone structure with animals or birds of more useful merit. Men move out of my way to give Grayson Rothburg the respect he apparently deserves, their scowls are clearly visible because I’ve even been allowed in without putting the stupidity of a painted face on.
I plaster on a half-smile and nod appropriately, uninterested in conversation, or argument, with any of them. Senators and the well-heeled elite of society pass me by, and then the actors and celebrities flaunting their wares. I sneer at the impending sense of dread rolling up my insides and avoid them at all costs, choosing the first glass of champagne that comes my way and a quiet table over on the opposing side of the floor. I’m here for one thing and one thing alone, and once I’ve seen her, maybe indulged myself with a dance, felt her in my hands again, I’m leaving.
Too many minutes continue with nothing but all the colours of the fucking rainbow getting in my face. I scowl at them all, only breaking the scowl to acknowledge Faith when I eventually see her lithe form with another man. She nods in return and makes her way through the crowds to me, her smile as fake as mine is as she chats amicably with each person she might deem useful at some point.
The laugh that ricochets over my shoulder before I’m ready for it makes me roll my eyes, ready to attempt defending myself if necessary.
“I thought you weren’t interested in seeing her.”
I don’t turn to look at him. “Go away, Malachi.”
“No. I’m only here to watch the show.”
“I’m not a show.”
“I think you are.” He sits and leans on the side of the table near me, somehow managing to drink champagne and laugh at the same time. “Admit it, you’re fascinated. Probably in love.”
“I’m intrigued. Nothing more than that.”
“You’re more than intrigued, my friend. You’re chaotic. Not something I’ve ever seen before.” Faith’s in front of me before I’ve found appropriate answers to that, too much cleavage on show for Manhattan and her eyes blown with too many pills.
“You shouldn’t be taking them here,” I mutter, looking around her for black that I still can’t damn well see.
