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This was one of the times I was glad that I “didn’t speak English,” because I didn’t have to explain anything to anyone, just waited at the gate until someone let me out, then made my way onto the street, waiting there for my car as the men all placed their bets on why I was leaving in the middle of the night.
They’d all come to the right conclusion too.
That I’d fucked the boss.
And he was finished with me.
Angry and humiliated tears stung my eyes as I watched the lights of a car make their way up the street, slowing, likely trying to find the house number.
A ride.
Not a friend.
Because the last thing in the world I needed at this incredibly low moment in my life was the concerned looks or incessant questions from my loved ones.
“Hope?” he asked as I checked the license plate and car model before climbing in.
“Just go,” I murmured, trying not to move my lips, well aware of A’s men still watching.
“You okay?” he asked.
He was a late teen or early twenty-something judging by the acne still smattered on his chin and the utter lack of stress etched on his face.
Meanwhile, I was horrified to feel the wetness slide down my cheeks.
Crying?
I never cried.
And I damn sure never cried over something as inconsequential as a fucking man.
“Yeah. Just need to get home,” I said, giving him my address as I wiped at my cheeks, pissed at each tear for raining down over A.
Of all people.
“You sure? I mean, like, you know, it’s important to report stuff,” he said.
“I wasn’t assaulted. I was fired,” I said, sniffling hard.
“After midnight?” he asked, dubious.
“It was a live-in position,” I said.
“Nice place,” he said.
“Yeah,” I responded.
“Sucks,” he added.
“Yep,” I agreed, shaking my head as if it was possible to knock the thoughts loose, then focusing my attention out of the window as we drove in silence, save for the radio thumping some Divorced Dad Rock that wasn’t helping my mood that was steadily running away from rage and toward doom and gloom at a breakneck pace.
“This you?” he asked as we pulled up to the building.
“Yeah,” I said, rummaging in my purse for a cash tip, and passing it to him. “Thanks for being a decent guy,” I said before climbing out.
I damn near ran up the stairs to my apartment, saying a silent prayer that Vi had moved on to someone else’s place because I really wanted one night alone.
When I went in, the lights were out. And there was a note saying she was crashing with Layna for a night or two.
As soon as I read those words, a sob escaped me, like it had just been waiting to make sure no one would be a witness to my breakdown.
That was what it was, too.
A breakdown.
I broke the fuck down.
Right there in my living room, curling into myself, letting it all out.
About A, sure, but after a while, it was every single repressed emotion I had been tamping down for years, refusing to deal with, just letting it pile up until there was simply no room for any of it anymore.
I couldn’t say how long I was down there on that floor.
It felt like an eternity.
And the way parts of me ached when I moved told me that it hadn’t been a short sob session.
When I made my way into the bathroom after, I found my eyes red with impossibly puffy eyelids and red streaks down my cheeks from the tears.
“Great,” I grumbled, reaching for a washcloth to use as a cold compress.
It wasn’t bad enough that I had a crying fit.
Now I had the evidence all over me.
I dragged myself up to the loft, falling into my bed, placing the cold cloth over my eyes, and trying to let it all drift away.
But there was no stopping it.
A’s hands on me. His lips on me.
His body inside mine.
The warm feelings afterward.
The rejection.
And as if that wasn’t enough, to add insult to injury, I hadn’t even gotten to say goodbye to Val.
When sleep finally did claim me just shy of daybreak, I had this horrifying little thought.
I knew what this was.
This feeling inside me, this ugly thing trying to claw out my insides.
It was something I’d never felt before.
But one I’d heard my friends and family speak of.
Heartbreak.
I was heartbroken.
And that, well, that was just fucking unacceptable.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Hope
I took off most of the next day.
Mostly because my face was practically a crime scene.
The cold compress hadn’t worked. The evidence of the night before was etched in my eyelids, on my cheeks, in the hollow look in my eyes.
That clawing sensation was still with me the whole morning as I re-did my laundry, as I put my things away, as I straightened my apartment, then ordered a grocery drop-off.
