I KNOW THIS is a bad idea. I’m not a fool, but I’m also not a complete asshole. I can’t leave New York without at least trying to persuade Robyn to come with me one last time. Even if she doesn’t follow me to the West Coast, she could go back home to her parents, or anywhere she wanted for that matter, as long as it was far away from here. My conscience won’t allow me to leave knowing that she’s still here, being her stubborn self and not listening to my warnings. She can’t possibly believe that what I’m telling her is for her own good, or surely she’d listen. It took me all day yesterday to break Lucy into telling me where Robyn was living. I’d ripped the apartment to shreds looking for Robyn’s old telephone book; she likes to keep people’s numbers written down. She hasn’t trusted technology to sync her contacts correctly since the time she swapped her cell and lost everyone’s numbers. I didn’t find it, so after pulling at my hair in frustration, I bit the bullet and headed across the hall. I spent an hour begging Mrs. Heckles to tell me where she worked, only to hear a lecture on what makes a real gentleman, before she finally relented and admitted she didn’t know where it was. I decided to go find Lucy, but not before Mrs. Heckles told me Robyn’s new boss drove a motorcycle and could rival James Dean in looks. The old woman has finally gone senile, and I’m almost positive she was high.
I made my way to Lucy’s house, hoping she’d be able to tell me where Robyn was. I wasn’t expecting the punch to the face I received when she opened her door and saw it was me. I like Lucy and always have, but it took a lot of self-restraint to not hit her back. I’m not saying that I’d ever hit a woman, but Lucy punches like a man, she hits through an object, not like a typical woman. Her punch landed me square on my ass and sent me sprawling across the sidewalk. Once I’d gathered my wits, I had to plead with her for the name of the club where Robyn worked. I didn’t want to say too much but in the end I had no choice. Her loyalty is fierce, but once I’d explained that Robyn might be in danger, she gave the information up surprisingly quickly.
Now as the cab pulls up outside of Reveal, I look up at the building signage. Is she working as a burlesque dancer? I pay my fare, wishing that I’d walked. I don’t have the spare cash to be taking cabs, but then I don’t have time on my side either. Walking around Manhattan could get me spotted by the wrong people. I walk through the entrance into a dimly lit room littered with tables that look like they belong in a different era. The place is nice and classier than I imagined when I’d seen the word burlesque. The stage is empty, and I’m about to head over to the bar to ask where I might find her when I notice him. A cold chill races down my spine and the hair on my arms stands on end. I look around blinking in confusion and panic.
This can’t be happening, did Lucy set me up?
CALLUM IS AVOIDING me, and Cole hasn’t acknowledged the messages I left on his phone last night. I wanted to air the whole truth about my situation, so at the beep I spilled the details of my messed-up existence over three phone messages. It turns out there’s a limit to the length of the message you can leave. I didn’t know that, but then again, I normally spit out my name and number with quick instructions to call me back, not attempt to detail the trials and tribulations of my current relationships. It was my effort at providing a rationale as to why I was so closed off in the beginning, and how Callum and I found ourselves sleeping together. I’m not sure what reaction I expected from my admissions, but I did expect a reaction. The silent treatment is beyond tormenting. I want to send a message to check if he got my messages. I don’t do well with being left to stew; it’s making me stir crazy.
I hoped I’d get a chance to talk with Callum more, too, but that didn’t happen. I haven’t seen him since walking out of his room before going to meet Danny. I need to pay Carter the money I owe him in 48 hours. I haven’t got it, and speaking with Daniel only confirmed what I already knew. I’m in way over my head and sinking fast. I need to ask Callum to loan me the money to pay off the debt. It’s beyond disrespectful and rude, given how things are between us at the moment, but he was adamant about settling the debt. I can’t let him do that, and after exhausting all my other options, the only thing I’m left with is to ask him to loan me the cash. I’m hoping he’ll agree if I tell him to withhold my wages until it’s all paid back.
I never sleep in, but my alarm clock is flashing 10 am, and I reluctantly rise from my bed and stumble over the bags I packed last night after my shift ended. I’ll call Lucy later. I need to charge my cell before I leave today. It died not long after I’d messaged Cole. I’d already packed my charger, and didn’t have the heart or energy to go rummaging through my stuff again. By the time I’m showered and dressed, Callum has materialized at my bedroom door with two cups of coffee in hand. I guess the shock is evident on my face by the small smile that pulls at the corner of his mouth as he passes me a mug.
“Sleep well?” he asks and I feel like I’ve entered into a parallel universe, where none of the crap from the last three days has happened and we’re back to being Cal and Tweet.
“Not at all, you?”
“Pretty terribly, thanks for asking.” He takes a sip of his coffee, and I stand dumbfounded in my doorway, not knowing how to act. He peers around me, craning his neck to see inside my room.
“My stuff is packed; I just need to power up my cell and call Lucy to come collect it.” Maybe he’s here to find out when I’m going? “I’ll be out of here by this afternoon.” I finish.
“I don’t want you to leave.”
I’m mid-sip, and I swallow a huge gulp at his words. The coffee burns a blazing hot trail all the way down my throat and into my chest. The heat is stealing my ability to form a response. There’s an overly long pause, and I guess that Callum feels the need to fill it.
“I know things are awkward, but I can’t let you go back to your apartment and I—”
“I’m not going back to my apartment,” I interrupt and his head rears back in surprise. “I’m going to stay with Lucy for a while,” I finish.
His head bobs in understanding and I swear I see relief cross his features.
I hold up my coffee. “Can we take these to the living room?” I need to ask him about the loan and standing in my bedroom doorway seems like the wrong place to do it. Plus, I don’t trust my legs not to give out when he’s around.
“Sure.” He gives me a small tight smile and then turns and heads down the hall. God, how do I even broach the subject of him lending me thousands of dollars when we can’t even engage in a normal conversation at the moment without it feeling awkward as hell? My hands are shaking as I follow him; the movement is so prevalent that I’m spilling my drink as I go, and I have to remind myself to take deep breaths. I hate this sense of helplessness. I watch as he sits down, sinking into the cushions of his dark gray sofa. He’s wearing all black: black socks, black jeans, black t-shirt. I’m wondering if he’s changed his communication methods and taken up reflecting his moods through his clothing rather than his music. I sit down as far away from him as I can on the sofa and angle my body toward his so we can talk. I place my cup on the coffee table in front of us—I don’t trust myself not to spill the rest of the contents all over me, my hand is trembling so badly.
“Spit it out, Tweet. You look like you’re about to pass out,” he says and he wouldn’t be far wrong. I feel like I’m about to pass out. The air in here feels too heavy to breathe.