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I stand there, staring at the glass for a few minutes. The golden-brown drink calls me to it as I watch a drop of cold water trace a line along the glass. Just one sip? I take a step toward the stool, then think of the custody hearing.
I can’t lose Ruby. I can’t give the Fishers anything they can use.
“Maybe some other time,” I mutter as I turn away.
The men in the bar watch me leave, and I don’t give them a second glance. The air hits my face when I step outside. The drunk hobo is back. This time, he looks at me, but he doesn’t run. I fetch a hundred-dollar note from my pocket and throw it at him.
“Here. Enjoy.”
At least, let one of us have a good night, I think as I head to my car.
Chapter twenty-one
Layla
The night jog is doing my body some good, but my mind still seeks escape. The cool night air blows against my face and through my hair as I jog slowly. The only reason I’m jogging out at night is because I can’t sleep.
Well, because I can’t stop thinking about Tristan, but no one needs to know that.
A sharp pain in my pelvis slows me down as I stop and bend over. That has been happening frequently—the sudden pain in my lower stomach. I don’t know what it is, but I know I’m not fond of it. I stay that way in the quiet, moonlit street until the pain passes.
Then, I continue jogging towards my home. My smart watch tells me I’ve only been jogging for fifteen minutes, but the sweat on my back in my gray cardigan makes me feel like I’ve been doing it for hours.
It took all my common sense not to ask Tristan if I could stay the night earlier when we got back from the beach. The way his hands curved around my hips and his lips claimed mine right there. Phew! We were together all day, and I miss him already.
I jog faster, willing myself to stop thinking about him.
When I finally reach my door, I rest against it and try to catch my breath. My heart races and my legs wobble as I suddenly feel exhausted. Next time, I’ll just stay up eating ice cream till I can sleep. Jogging isn’t for me, I nod to myself.
“Layla!” An unfamiliar voice calls out from across the street.
Something about the voice makes unease creep over me like a shadow. I fumble for my keys, the click of the lock echoing in the silence of the night. But before I can enter, the voice cuts through the darkness again, sending a chill down my spine.
“Wait, wait, I just have some questions. That’s all. Just some questions.”
I freeze, my heart pounding in my chest like a jackhammer as I whirl around to face the source of the voice. The man has red, messy hair, and he’s wearing an old coat with frayed edges. His hands are in his coat’s pockets, and his small frame stares at me with beady eyes.
“Who are you?” I fail to keep the tremble out of my voice. “Why are you out here so late?”
“I’m Miles Goldberg.” He removes his hands and shows them to me that he’s unarmed. “I’m a journalist for the—”
“Fortune.” I complete it for him. “You wrote the hit pieces on Tristan.” My hand finds the doorknob behind my back.
“I just want to talk.” He takes a step closer, almost close to me now.
I back away instinctively, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. “I have nothing to say to you,” I retort, a tremor in my voice.
Miles suddenly smiles, a sight that terrifies me. “I think you do.”
He rushes forward suddenly, but I’m too fast for him. I turn the knob and push through the door before he can get to me. I click the lock with shaky hands and look through the peephole. Mile is standing right outside my door, lighting up a cigarette.
“Layla, Layla, Layla,” he says, holding the cigarette between his lips as he returns the lighter to his pocket. “Why’d you run? I just want a little chat with Tristan’s new bitch.”
“I’m calling the cops!” I press my face against the door, my pulse quickening with apprehension.
“Go ahead,” he taunts, blowing smoke from his nose and lips. “But not before we have our chat.”
I grabbed my phone from my pocket and dialed 911. “I have nothing to say to you,” I repeat, my voice wavering a little despite my best efforts to sound composed.
