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The only fact that makes this scenario even remotely more bearable is that Bellamy isn’t anywhere in sight. I strain my ears above the rasp of my ragged breathing, but I don’t hear the shower running or the thud of footsteps in the other room. Which means that I have an unknown amount of time to get the hell out before he comes back.
With only that goal in mind, I peel myself from the surface of the gray duvet and climb to my feet. My head pounds. One step forward, I realize that my underwear is halfway down my legs. I only find one of my shoes in the chaos, and I have no choice but to shove it into my bag and race from the penthouse barefoot. Scanning my phone, I find four messages from the same unfamiliar number. After reading the first, I have a good idea who sent them.
We need to talk, Evs.
Please just hear me out.
I’m sorry for barging in on you.
I left your apartment. Let me know when we can talk.
I can’t think of Danny right now—my only focus is getting as far from this penthouse as physically possible. Thankfully, it’s early enough that not even the doorman is by his post, and I sneak out of the building unnoticed. The first cab I hail mercifully stops, and the driver merely takes me in with a smirk before asking where I’m headed.
Which is a pretty good question, all things considered. Thanks to Danny’s reappearance, my apartment is out of the question. I no longer have a job. With no other options in mind, I direct him to the self-storage unit I rent on the other side of town. Forty-five minutes and seventy bucks later, I find myself wandering through the maze of metal containers until I reach the one constant I’ve had over the past ten years—a ten-foot by ten-foot storage unit with a rusty door that doesn’t close all the way. I still keep Dad’s stuff here. Some days I even entertain the thought of emptying it out and moving everything into my current apartment like a normal person might.
But today isn’t that day.
I switch on the flickering lightbulb hanging from the center of the unit and find the box where I keep my old shoes. I settle for a pair of sneakers and dig through one of the many packed suitcases for a fresh pair of jeans, underwear, and a sweater. I take the suitcase with me, along with the few things I salvaged from the last place. Then it’s a cold, dreary march to Square One—which just so happens to be the name of a diner I stumble into a few blocks down.
Only once I’m served a steaming cup of coffee and two pieces of French toast can I begin to process what’s transpired within the past twenty-four hours. Danny is back—and ironically, that’s the easiest surprise to stomach. At least I know what to expect—he’s obviously in trouble and probably needs money, my blood, or my liver. Either way, it’s a crisis I can easily handle—by running to another part of the city until he tracks me down again.
Next on the list is the small fact of being fired from the longest job I’ve ever held—with a severance pay of more than twice what I made in a year. That event alone could justify a month spent in bed, eating ice cream out of a tub while contemplating the hollowness of my future.
But no. Evelyn King always has to go a step further and compound her own humiliation. This time I’ve royally outdone myself.
I went to his home.
More specifically, I broke in.
Then, I raided his liquor cabinet and stress-organized his closet.
But I just couldn’t stop there, could I? No,Ihad to call Graeme Bellamy bad in the sack, and then…
Oh god.I chug my coffee, but the searing caffeine doesn’t erase the memory—Graeme Bellamy’s hand between my legs. His voice a husky growl in my ear. His mouth on mine. Why stop at being homelessandjobless? Pity, almost-sex with a man you hated was a perfect way to celebrate a descent to rock bottom.
The icing on the cake is that I hadn’t even been able to keep my word about his lack of prowess. A man like Graeme Bellamy, who could barely return a handshake with a business associate, shouldn’t have been so good with his hands.Sinfullygood, I admit, before taking a scalding sip of coffee. I’d taunted him, and in the end, he’d had the last laugh. Literally.
I’m trembling when I finally set my coffee aside. The narrow café is nearly empty except for a man steadily typing away at his keyboard. He looks up at me and smiles, the picture of everything I would sell my soul to be again—a content human being.
When I pay my tab and head out onto the street, I have no solid course of direction and wind up on an aimless trek through the city. Despite my internal outlook, it’s a beautiful day, with everything sparkling beneath a fresh coat of rain. Skyscrapers glisten as if speckled with diamonds. The rare bits of green sprinkled throughout serve as a reminder of spring.
Somehow I catch a bus and ride it to a familiar part of the city. The moment I step onto one of the worn paths of Central Park, it’s like I can breathe again. The place had always been my one refuge during the old days when Dad would drag us back to the city after some excursion overseas or to another state. Our address may have been different, and Danny and I had grown older, but for some reason, this part of the city rarely seemed to change at all. There would always be the same old paths. The same old benches occupied by flirting couples or sleeping junkies. If you ventured far enough, the deafening sounds of the city would soften—almost like a distorted lullaby of honking horns and shouting voices. In those rare moments, I could feel truly, entirely alone…
“Evie?”
I whirl around, already digging into my shoulder bag for my pepper spray. If Danny followed me…
Though, on second thought, the voice sounded more like a woman’s, probably belonging to the woman, waving frantically from a nearby bench. Even from a distance, I can tell she’s striking with her perfectly-smoothed bun framing a beautiful, if familiar, face. “How weird that I run into you here! What a small world!”
Smallis an understatement. Dahlia—Adrian Riley’sDahlia, to be exact—hadn’t struck me as the type to go for early morning walks through the park during our previous interactions. Her outfit supports that theory—a cream skirt with a matching blazer. Only when I glance down at her six-inch heels do I notice the small dog padding around her feet. “Pouchie loves this route,” she says, glancing down at the dog with a small smile. “Are you on your way to work?”
“Um…” I can’t help it. I flinch, and my fingers tighten their grip over my rolling suitcase. “N-No.”
Dahlia frowns and reaches down to scratch Pouchie’s head. “Day off?”
I somehow manage to shake my head. Small talk has never been my forte, and I’m not sure how to navigate a normal conversation without cutting in to ensure that the other person ate meals at a reasonable time. I’m not sure if it’s typical protocol to blurt out that you’ve been fired to a total stranger.
Before I can help it, some variation of that truth spills out anyway. “I took some… um, time off. Not by choice. I mean, I just… I’m taking a walk.”
