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“Okay,” I say carefully. “What do you want me to tell him?”
“I’ll quit.”
“What?”
“I’ll quit. If he buys the club I’ll quit. So, if that’s what’s holding him back from finalising the deal, he doesn’t have to worry about it. I’ll leave so he won’t have to deal with me anymore.”
Lance clenches his fists and rests them on his knees, his eyeline pointed straight at the TV, nostrils flaring, and jaw clenched. That’s not what he wants. It’s not whatanyonewants. Brent stares at the phone in my hand without saying a word.
“Elle…”
“Will you tell him?”
“Consider him told,” I say softly.
“Thank you.”
“Are you still walking?”
“I’m just at my building, so you can go now.”
“Has the lock been fixed?” Lance asks quietly so she can’t hear, he still stares straight ahead.
“Has the lock been fixed?” I repeat into the receiver.
She laughed without humour. “He told you he came to visit me?”
I know what she’s asking. She’s asking if I know about it all. “He mentioned it.”
“Great. No, the lock hasn’t been fixed.”
“Stay on the line until she gets into her apartment,” Lance says.
“Let me know when you get into your flat,” I urge.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” There’s some panting as she climbs the stairs and then finally, “There, I’m in.” The sound of a door clicking shut, and what I assume to be a dead bolt sliding into place. “Satisfied?”
No. “Yeah.”
“Okay. Well, bye Hayden.”
She hangs up before I can say anything, leaving me staring at the blank screen of my phone.
“I’m going to bed,” Brent says, getting up with the snap of his laptop closing. His nonchalance doesn’t fool me. He’s pissed. And he doesn’t even know the whole story.
I get up to retreat to my own bedroom, but Lance clasps my hand. “Hayden, please. You know this wasn’t my intention.”
“But it’s the outcome anyway.” I give his hand a squeeze before walking away.
28
ELLE
My flat is dark and empty. Gray is out with friends tonight. It would be the wee hours of the morning before he gets home, if at all. I feel sorry for myself, and I wish he was here to hug me. But I’m a big girl, so I’ll take myself to bed and sleep off the shit show of a week.
I don’t bother turning any of the lights on as I walk through the flat, kicking my heels off and leaving them strewn across the hallway. In my room, I struggle to reach the zipper at the back of my dress, stumbling slightly until I finally wiggle it down and peel off the garment. My feet are aching, I really should take flats to work to walk home in. I just really love heels.
I finally turn a light on in my bathroom and consider a shower for all of two seconds before deciding I’ll just wash my face, clean my teeth, and get to bed. I look at myself in the small mirror above the sink. I don’t wear my makeup this thick in the outside world—it’s for the stage—and up close, it ages me. Or maybe I just aged ten years since the ghosts of lovers’ past arrived back in my life.
