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Hannah’s looking at me with a look I haven’t seen on her before, a look I hate: pity. I’m not the weak one, the one who gets hurt. That’s not me.
“C’mon.” I take her by the hand and pull her after me onto the dance floor. “Let’s dance.”
In the middle of the dance floor, I let the beat take over. Groove my limbs into motion, roll my hips side to side, bob my head back and forth.
God, it’s such a relief. The music. The all-encompassing feel of the place: the lights, the people, the pounding bass. Yes, all there is room for here is being here. Now. Yes. Yes.
The next song is “Smells Like Teen Spirit”, and Hannah and me jump around, faux angsting and yelling along to the lyrics.
A few more songs, and we goof off, do the chicken dance to some rap song, laughing our heads off.
A man comes and goes, another.
One takes my hand and spins me. He’s handsome and looks like an artist and yet I spin away just as quickly.
Suddenly, I can’t take it anymore. Can’t bear being here for another second.
I pull Hannah outside.
“What’s the matter?” she asks me.
“I can’t,” I say simply. “I can’t be here and pretend I’m up to meet another guy or dance. Or anything really.”
“Hmm.” Hannah’s head bob is pure understanding. “Need a good cry?”
I sigh. “Think so.”
“Well, we got a few good songs in there.” She’s already taking out her phone, ordering us an Uber. “Plus, you’re probably right. Holding it all in won’t do you any good—unless it does.”
We both chortle at that. Our Aunt Beatrice has a philosophy: “Emotions never did nobody any good.” She seems as blissful as a sloth whenever we visit, even after her beloved canary Bella died, though for all I know she could have a punching bag in the basement.
When we get home, Hannah gives me a big hug. “You sure you just want to go to bed now?”
“No,” I say truthfully. “I want to hop on a plane—any plane—and just see where I end up. Forget all this. Get away. But for now, I think I just need some sleep.”
Hannah yawns. “Yup. Sleep sounds good to me. I’m really sorry, Har.” She hugs me again.
“I am too,” I murmur. “I am too.”Chapter 29Greyson
“Why you looking so Grey, son?” Landon chides me as I walk by his office.
“Not now,” I tell him.
I’m surprised Nolan hasn’t thrown his quintessential ‘Grey, son’ joke at me lately. Then again, a lot of shit has been going on. So far, I’ve managed to avoid checking the papers today.
There’s one waiting on my desk.
STORM PREZ’S STEAMY AFFAIR WITH TEENAGE INTERN, the headline reads. I roll my eyes. To be fair, the assholes got 2/4 of the facts correct—probably a new record for them. Not that anyone ever reads the Star for its stellar journalism, but still. Part of me had hoped that last night’s warning was baseless. That this morning I could call up Harley and tell her I made a mistake.
Clearly, that won’t be happening.
Clack-clack-clack
“Good morning, Mr. Storm,” Madeline says, pausing in the doorway. “So, you’ve seen it?”
“I’ve seen it,” I say gruffly.
“Ah.” An inclination of her strawberry-blonde head. “Well, it’s certainly not my place to tell you how to run your business, but—”
“Ms. Davis has been let go,” I say. “That should satisfy the gossip mill—in the media and in this office.”
Madeline almost beams before recovering her composure. “You’ve done the right thing, sir. I know everyone in the office would agree.”
I give her a cutting glare. “I know how fond you all were of her.”
It occurs to me that I’ve never really disliked Madeline—or any of my employees—until this moment.
I thought they were better than acting like a bunch of bitchy high school girls against a new employee. Then again, if I’d known, maybe I could have put a stop to the bullshit. It’s too late now, anyway.
As for Harley, it’s only 9 AM and I’ve already had to stop myself from calling her up several times. Mostly for mundane bullshit excuses, like if she wanted her desktop ivy plant brought to her or donated, or what she thought of the weather on this fine day. But there are some actual legitimate things I need to know, like whether she wants me to get her a new position with a friend ASAP or give it some time, and which qualities she wants me to emphasize in my reference.
Spectacular. Gorgeous. Funny. Daring. Unprecedented.
Fucking focus, Greyson.
Madeline, apparently, has decided to pretend that she didn’t hear my earlier remark.
“I think Mr. Landon wanted to see you,” she says, heading for the door.
I say nothing, sit down when she leaves.
Maybe I was a bit hard on her, but too fucking bad. Her and the rest of them should’ve known better than to take out petty gossip on Harley. And if she thinks I’m going to pretend to be happy when I just made the hardest decision of my life… then she’s fucking delusional.
