Her telling this jerk anything else, no matter how small or inconsequential it may appear, is the last thing I need.
“So she’s still around then?” The timbre of his voice gives credence to the images I’ve been conjuring in my mind—making my stomach churn. Mr. I-could-kill-you-with-one-finger has a hint of hopefulness in his otherwise gruff forty-a-day habit tone. I wait as he morphs from intimidating to polite and utterly charming in an instant.
Shit! Don’t answer, Mrs. Heckles. Please, please don’t answer.
“Sure, you want me to tell her you called, Mister—?” she replies, waiting for him to fill in the blank and offer his name.
Damn it!
My shoulders drop and I shudder as a cold bead of sweat races between my shoulder blades and down my spine. I move my legs out from under me, drawing them up and hugging them tightly to my chest as I strain to listen.
“Carter, Mr. Carter. That would be very kind. Here’s my card—if you could give me a call when she shows up, that’d be swell.”
The knot in my throat burns and I can feel the sting of tears begin to prick behind my eyes as I lean against the back of my sofa. I’m hidden like a five year-old playing hide-and-seek. Only the thought of being discovered is terrifying. Their voices begin to trail off and I listen for the dull thud of his boots retreating down the hall before I summon the courage to move out from my hiding place.
I’m shaking; I don’t know if it’s from the adrenaline of thinking he was going to force his way in here, or the realization that he’ll be coming back. I could kill Danny right now. I’m a twenty-four-year-old woman, too scared to leave my own apartment. It’s the one place that’s supposed to make me feel safe. Offer comfort, not elicit dread deep in my belly. What if another asshole wanting me to make right on my spineless ex’s debts decides to show me he’s not kidding? I’d never been slapped before until a few days ago, not even as a kid growing up with older siblings. I can still feel the sting on my cheek and the throbbing behind my eye thinking about it. I guess the whole you don’t hit women rule goes out the window when the guy that owes you ten grand ups and does a midnight flit on you, leaving his girlfriend to settle the debt. Apparently sharks of the human variety don’t like to be told to go screw themselves—I’m not going to forget that lesson in a hurry. My mother always said my smart mouth would land me in hot water. Well, now it has. Only this time it’s scalding, fifty feet deep and I’ve forgotten how to swim.
MY MEETING’S BEEN canceled, but instead of being pissed, which on any other occasion I would be, I’m making use of the small window opening up in my otherwise stacked day. I hate deviating from my schedule, but fuck if I can manage another hour without a decent cup of coffee. If Sophie can’t figure out that damn espresso machine in the office, I’ll have her re-distributed and find an assistant that can.
I’m rocking on my heels in line at the Starbucks outside my building and I watch as the polished glassy black leather of my overly-expensive designer shoes crack under the strain of my movements. I could’ve had Sophie come down here and get this for me, but I’ve been working on the Michaels’ case since five-thirty this morning, and I’m glad for the ten-second blast of fresh air I get crossing the street into the store. The barista, a tall, awkward-looking guy with too much product in his wavy dark hair is idly chatting to the woman at the front of the line. He’s unaware, or more likely unbothered, that there are four other people waiting to be served while he flirts unashamedly. I can feel my blood heat as he carries on his conversation, biting the side of my cheek in an attempt to calm my temper. Everything is pissing me off lately. It’s out of character for me; I’m the cool and collected one in the family, or at least I used to be.
This case feels like a goddamn noose around my neck. If I win, I’ll make partner and at thirty years old, I’d be the youngest in the company’s history. The pressure is immense. My whole life is centered on this one case, and everything has to be on point. Not only do I have to deliver professionally, but my private life has been hijacked and is under scrutiny, too. Having family on the board isn’t quite shaping up to be the ideal situation I thought it would be. For the last eighteen months, I’ve endured my parents’ input on everything: who I date, whether or not they portray the right public image, what social events we need to be seen at, and whose proverbial ass I need to kiss in order to keep everyone happy.
“Sir, you ready to order?”
A spike of irritation races down my spine as I meet the barista’s irked glare. He’s spent the last however long flirting with a customer while the rest of us waited patiently for him to be shot down and carry on serving. Now he has the nerve to look annoyed that I’m keeping him waiting by not stepping up to the counter quickly enough.
“Venti Americano, black.”
I dismiss his efforts to upsell me on my coffee choice as smoothly as I can. I’ve no desire to try their new Columbian roast, or add a shot of some synthetic-tasting syrup; I want a coffee, not dessert in a cup.
“Name, sir?”
He’s poised with his marker on the cup, brow arched. I really don’t like this kid. “Cole.”
“Collect your drink at the end of the counter. Sugar and creamer are behind you. Have a nice day, Cole. Next!”
I can’t actually remember the last time I engaged in a real honest-to-God conversation with somebody, instead of these clipped exchanges, each of us striving to communicate with as few words as possible. It’s amazing that in a city of 8.4 million people someone can feel this lonely.
I hear the shriek a millisecond before I register the searing hot pain shooting down my chest and abdomen, leaving a fire in its wake. What the hell?
Wide dark eyes flash panic at me before my mind makes sense of what’s happening. My shirt, pants, and shoes are drenched in steaming hot coffee, and I pull at the once-white cotton of my button down, peeling it from my blistering chest. I’m holding my breath and sucking my stomach back in a feeble, inept attempt to place as much distance as I can manage between my skin and shirt. Neatly stacked bottles of water on the countertop catch my eye, and I grab one with my free hand, quickly biting off the sports cap before dousing myself in the cold liquid.
Goddamn, this burns.
If I weren’t in public, I’d be shouting profanities and stripping out of these clothes like a madman. The background noise dissolves as I look up, realizing I have an audience.
“I’m so sorry, are you alright?” A voice belonging to the dark eyes trembles, cutting through the silence. I watch as the woman brings her hand up to her full pink lips and sucks down on her wrist. There’s an angry red welt from her spilled drink.
Shit!
“Here.” I pull her wrist from her mouth with a little more vigor than I intend, and she stumbles towards me. There’s not much water left, but I squeeze the plastic bottle; letting the last few drops slide over her skin and cool the burn. She’s still looking at me wide-eyed as I lift her hand, bringing it closer to me as I blow gently over it. Goosebumps break out and race down her arm. My chest is on fire, but this girl’s face has me tending to her needs and not mine. I’m sure she’s about to start crying when a young girl comes from the back with napkins and damp washcloths. I’m still holding this stranger’s wrist; her face is quick to smooth out and look swiftly unaffected as she pulls from my grasp.
The store begins to bustle like someone has released a pause button, and a new wave of energy has blown into the small store. The show’s over, and people start talking amongst each other once more, realizing there’s nothing more to see. The young girl frowns, looking irritated at me as she bends to set about drying the huge puddle of coffee and water over the floor. I would have offered to clear the mess myself, but her scowl has just sealed her own fate.