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

The only object in the world connecting me to my father. To the fortune he’d leave to me, once I proved that I was his oldest son.

The fortune that could save my company was now in the thieving bear’s hands. Except this was no fairytale.

In the fictional stories, the Big Bag Wolf was supposed to be just that: Big and Bad. But right now, there isn’t a “big” or “bad” bone in my body as I stand there—seething, the only lifeline to revive Quinn Real Estate Group, sitting squarely in someone else’s hands.

My voice is a hiss. No, more like a growl when I respond to Maria, my rage barely on a leash.

Here he was again. The beast inside me I was putting in cage.

And the beast, in the span of a second, was suddenly determined to find the woman who dared to violate his lair. At all costs.

Gravel grinds into each word as I bow my head inside Duffy’s tuxedo shop, my heart thrumming, each syllable from lips sharp enough to kill as I talk to my trusted maid. I grit my teeth, grating out the sounds.

“Maria, excuse my language, but… Read. Me. That damned note.” I rasp. “And then tell me: Where is she?” I ask my trusted cleaning lady. “Tell me: Where’s the woman I left in my bedroom right now?”

Chapter 7

SOPHIA

Monday afternoon

I don’t know where I am, but my feet won’t stop tapping on the sidewalk.

If I were on my shift at The Alchemist—like I was supposed to be, I’d have five minutes left on my lunch break in the restaurant-pub, but since I’ve called out sick for the last few days, I’m spinning my wheels, a nervous wreck every time I step out of my apartment building and onto the sidewalk.

Because I know he’s out there.

Somewhere. In the city. Waiting for me.

And I want him to find me.

But then again, I don’t.

Not after I sold his watch to my local pawnshop to pay the rent.

The thought of Big Bad strolling around Manhattan, most likely wanting to strangle me, paralyzes almost every step I take since the morning I slipped out of his sheets, and though I’ve managed to avoid The Alchemist (where I’m sure he’s already shown up), though I’ve managed to keep a Do-Not-Fucking-Step-Here radius around his pricey and luxurious Midtown apartment and anywhere near it, I can’t help but to think that I just might run into him when I least expect it.

Strolling down the sidewalk. Showing up on my doorstep.

Slipping onto a subway seat beside me, and owning it with his presence. Like he seemed to own everything he touched that night we were together.

Including me.

The guilt of stealing from the real “Prince Disarming” I met on Friday night pervades every waking thought, and even now, as I catch my breath, just steps away from my closest subway station, I have to remind myself that the innocent man in the suit I just mindlessly ran away from in the terminal wasn’t even him. Wasn’t even Big Bad.

None of them were.

I’ve been sprinting at the sight of suits and ties so much in the last few days that my running time could qualify for the Olympics. My large purse over my shoulder, hand over my heart, I suck in a mouthful of crisp, winter New York air, panting like a madwoman on the corner of Going-Crazy and Paranoid.

I taste the death of Indian summer, a hint of sewage, and, luckily, a nearby sandwich shop in the December New York air before I realize I haven’t eaten all day. Allowing my racing heart to calm, I walk to the nearest pizza shop I can find in my line of sight, dialing the last number in my phone.

I sneak peeks inside the unknown shop while the phone rings.

I’m about to hang up when finally the line picks up.

“The Alchemist. Drew speaking.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. “Drew.”

“Soph.” My name is a happy exhale on my coworker’s lips. “Is that really you?”

“No, it’s the girl you left in the taxi last night.” I pause, realizing that there could be several of them. I snort a small puff of air. “Of course it’s me, El Stupido.”

“Oh, you’ve moved on to insulting me in Spanish? That’s a new tier.”

“Yeah, I thought the ‘dick-cheese’ insult was getting a little old.”

“Nothing worse than being referred to as ‘dick-cheese’ other than being called spoiled dick-cheese.” He chuckles. “I thought you were dead or something. You’ve been shut off in your apartment for the last two days. I started to get worried so of course I called. I’m surprised you actually called me back. I’ve never known you to incognito for forty-eight hours straight.”

“Well, it’s kind of easy to fall off the face of the earth when you’re as sick I’ve been.”

I’m sick, alright. What I don’t tell Drew is how I’m sick.

Sick to my stomach. Over what I’ve done. What I’ve had to do. And what I hope I’ll never have to do again.

“So then can I ask why you’re calling this factory of dickcheese while you seem to be on your deathbed?”

I have to resist laughing, the tension from running from the subway still tight inside my body.

The Alchemist was anything but a factory for dickcheese. Present company excluded.

With the exception of our general manager, Rick, who had somehow managed to squirm his way back on staff after working for Nancy’s father years ago, The Alchemist was full of smiling faces, great staff.

Other than the late-night bankers who deserved a sneeze or two in their stout beers, the bar that had once saved me from eviction six months ago was packed with regulars and great people.

Great people like Drew. And Alchemist co-owner, Nancy.

I missed them already. And it’s only been two days.

I’d wanted to tell them, to warn them about what I’d done in case a certain someone came looking for me, as I suspected he would.

But when it came down to telling the truth,