The Note by Natalie Wrye (urban books to read .TXT) 📗

hand to my heart. “I’m no Jack Torrance, even if I wanted to be.”

“Another Stephen King reference…” she muses as the lift finally stops. “That’s it. I knew it. You’re a freak.”

I have no choice but to chuckle. “Not a freak. Just a fan.”

I lift a brow, daring her to walk out as the double doors open. She hesitates just a second, and for a moment, something unfamiliar enters my gut.

A feeling of fear.

In a night of zero normalcy, I wouldn’t be surprised if she did walk away.

For the first time in my overachieving life, I’ve failed at almost everything. Failed at securing my company’s financial future. Failed at finding my father’s watch.

Failed at making myself forget about the last two.

The alcohol couldn’t do it. The mess I made in my apartment barely made a dent.

But that’s what I was hoping the brassy brunette could do.

Fuck me into forgetting.

I know that’s why the need for her is so strong right now. She’s the only part of my day that’s succeeded in making me think of anything else other than my guilt.

I wait as she considers her choices, regarding me with the quiet scrutiny of a doctor examining her impatient patient.

I stand still, letting her analyze away.

And just as the silver double doors start to close, she holds a hand between them, and they jolt apart.

She arches one chocolate-brown eyebrow.

“If you’re a serial killer, I’ll kill you first.”

“Duly noted.”

We both ignore the ridiculousness of her assertion, and I exit the elevator ahead of her, heading down the hall to my apartment, my heart beating a reggae-like rhythm in my chest.

I open the front door, holding it open for her as she passes inside, her golden-green eyes scanning the walls. And then the tornado disaster I’ve left in my wake.

Pillows, papers litter the hardwood floor, and she glances over her shoulder at me.

“Nice decor… At least I know you’re not a liar.”

If only she knew me at all.

I swallow another guilt pill down the gullet, closing the door quietly behind me.

The dark hardwood of my floors stretch in front of me, and I take a long look at the loft myself. The wide windows. The dark wrought-iron railings. The floor to ceiling glass overlooking the festive city filled with the glimmer of red and gold lights.

I can almost smell Christmas in the air this time of year, and as the second level of Grandfather Quinn’s renovated penthouse apartment looms overhead, I imagine what the hell will happen to the place that’s been my New York home for seven years.

Ever since the old man kicked it, leaving everything behind.

A part of me—large and looming—has always hated being back here for that reason. Back in this city. Back in this state. But standing here now in the small foyer gives me new eyes to gaze at the space.

My eyes wander over to my gorgeous little waitress, waiting—her saucer-like eyes expectant, and despite it all, a small smile creeps onto my face, my skin vibrating as our gazes connect.

Until I realize why my skin is vibrating.

In the pocket of my slacks, my phone rings incessantly, and with little finesse, I fish out, staring at the damn screen.

Who the hell could be calling me this late? Or early, as it was.

And then it occurs to me.

Becky. Shit.

I left the little blonde in the hotel room I rented for the night. Because I completely forget about her.

Another failure.

I may not be a serial killer, but I was a fucking asshole.

I just took a woman home while having another in my hotel room. And the stack of shame pills that have been piling since I’ve been back in New York taunt me from my subconscious with the same mantra they’ve been singing all night.

Bottoms up.

SOPHIA

“I don’t do this with men like you. I don’t even like men like you.” The sound of my voice is slurred in the minimally decorated loft. And loud.

Even I can tell that.

The Tequila Gods are being kind to me tonight. I haven’t even thrown up.

But that doesn’t stop the word vomit from coming up, and my drunken mind tries to take its frustration out on the walking orgasm who just sat me down on his couch.

A couch that’s now spinning.

I lose control over my tongue. And like the drunkard tonight has turned me into, I hear myself talking, hear myself berating the dark suited man in front of me, unable to stop the words from coming off my loose lips.

I kick off my black ballet flats, watching them fly, my bleary eyes trying to focus on my drinking buddy’s suit.

I blink three times. “You’re just another fuckboy like those guys back at the bar, aren’t you?”

He glares. “I’m not sure what a fuckboy is, but if it’s causing you to spit like that, then I’m guessing it’s an insult.”

“Oh, don’t patronize me, Aussie Boy. I know what your type is like. I’ve been there. More times than I care to count.”

“Been where?” Big Bad Wolf’s stare sears, just as the room takes another twirl. I swallow a mouthful of spit that tastes like tequila.

I keep talking anyway. I can’t seem to stop.

“Been around, you know. With you lawyers.”

“But I’m not a lawyer,” he asserts.

“Sure you aren’t. With those pricey Italian shoes and suit, you probably should be one, though. All of you bastards are liars.” I hiccup loudly without shame, wondering who the hell that girl is who keeps talking.

Oh right, it’s me. She sure doesn’t sound like me.

And why does she have so much spit in her mouth anyway? Saliva sprays as she keeps speaking.

“You lied to my dad,” she tells the tall man in the Italian threads. “You lied to me. You lied to my Aunt Roberta when you told her you’d make all the bad disappear. And then you took him away,” the drunk girl whines. “You took him away just like Aunt Roberta said. And you locked him in your castle. Just like she said. Only…I couldn’t