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

If only I hadn’t inhaled enough tequila to drown the entire city of Tijuana…

On a night that should have been one of the worst of my life after leaving my job, the man whose apartment I was currently coming to life in made it incredible, that much was sure.

And I know it should have ended that way.

After we’d drunk our way through half of the tequila in the state, we laughed, tripped and stumbled our way to a cab. Forty minutes later, and I was in his behemoth of an apartment, gazing out the panoramic windows, my chest clenching from all of its splendor, its wealth, its outstandingly beautiful views.

Views which included a Big Bad Wolf.

He was sophisticated perfection. Nirvana in a suit.

He turned to me in his ginormous living room, unfastening the first button at his collar, and it was all I could do not to grab him right then, not to kiss and press my lips to his and beg him to take me over.

Though I knew there was no need; he would know exactly what to do.

The fantasy of him is still in my brain when my eyes pry themselves open, finding myself alone in his blacked-out bedroom, my gaze shifting towards the blue-white light blinking from my blaring cell phone.

I grab the shrieking black square, pressing on the center button to shut it up. I answer.

“Hello?”

“Well, hello to you, too, Casper.” I listen to the voice on the other end of the line. “Have you been meaning to go ‘ghost’ all night or was this just an accident?”

I sit up in bed, clearing the remaining cobwebs from my brain. “Drew?”

“You know another?” He laughs, the sound a raspy note that has already claimed the hearts of female Alchemist customers everywhere. “I was beginning to think you were avoiding your favorite neighbor…”

“Never. Not when he calls me at the butt crack of dawn.”

“And only you would appreciate that.”

I shake my head, tempted to tame strands of my messy hair. I grip the phone harder instead. “No, my bad. I meant to call you back last night. It was just… I…”

I don’t know how to finish that sentence, so I don’t. I start another one instead.

“I met with a friend last night. And got back too late to call.”

“Uh huh.” He sounds unconvinced. “Considering the fact that you stayed until the bar closed at two last night, then I’m assuming this ‘friend’ is a guy.” He pauses a beat. “Is this ‘friend’ a lawyer?”

A moment passes. “No, I don’t think so…”

Though, I have the faintest memory of accusing him of being one.

“Well,” my coworker and neighbor sighs. “In that case, we need to call one for you. Now.”

I sit up straighter. “Why?”

“It’s your apartment.” His voice wavers. “Movers showed up today.” He exhales, the air in the bedroom seeming to thin as he does. I hear him on the other end of the phone line, swallowing, his voice thick with some emotion I can’t explain. He continues talking. “You know our landlord? The Wicked Witch of the Upper East Side? She’s evicting you.” He sucks in another breath. “She’s evicting you right now.”

The words land on my ears with a loud thud. But I don’t really hear them. Not until several seconds later, at least.

My tequila-fuzzed brain is taking its time to decipher the actual English language.

I can tell.

But when it does, a tidal wave of fear traps me, climbing in my throat and staying there, holding my tongue prisoner.

My body forgets how to breathe in the span of a few seconds, and my tongue decides it’s a great time to go dry, all speech shriveling up and dying in the desert wasteland that now exists between my lips.

I can’t open my mouth. Or close it.

In fact, I can’t move my face at all. I feel frozen in space.

I stay this way for several seconds with every word, every syllable, every sound trapped behind my teeth, feeling every bit of the Armless Maiden I called myself last night.

Only now I’m also Speechless.

Not wanting to be the heroine of my own grim Russian story, I forced my leaden limbs to swing into action.

My feet start moving before my mouth can, and I swing my legs over the side of the enormous bed, fingers and toes still entangled in the silken sheets, my eyes scrambling to adjust to the deep dark of Big Bad’s bedroom.

I can barely see a thing.

Scrambling to go God-Knows-Where, the only thought my hungover brain can come up with is that I have to get out of here.

I have to get out of this apartment now.

Only I can’t find the man it belongs to. And I wander through his large dark hallways, my bare feet thumping against the gray stained hardwood underneath, my voice echoing out in the large rooms.

But Big Bad is gone.

And apparently so is my apartment if I don’t get back fast enough. I head back to the bedroom, slipping my feet back into my ballet flats.

Or trying to.

I fail at successfully sliding the scuffed black shoes on, stubbing my toe against the nightstand. The entire tiny table crashes over…and out slides a slab from the back of the stand, sending a glittery chunk scattering to the dark-colored floor.

I can barely see what the chunk is.

The dark bedroom curtains make noticing anything practically impossible, but when I reach for it, scrapping at the hardwood to pick it up, I realize once it’s in my hand that it’s a watch.

A beautiful watch.

Breath-taking would be the more appropriate word. And I’m stunned by its weight.

Upon closer inspection, I realize that the shiny stuff around its center isn’t glitter at all, actually. It’s frickin’ diamonds.

I know in an instant that this singular piece of jewelry is worth more than my whole life. When my cell phone rings again, I’m still holding the crowned jewel of New York, and my voice is stilted, robotic with shock when I answer.

I listen to Drew’s