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

I wasn’t willing to tug them down my Alice-like rabbit hole to the sordid past I’d left behind.

Successfully tucking away my “unusual” Bronx upbringing was already hard enough.

I enter the shop, ordering a cheese slice, even as Drew continues munching my ear off, giving me a verbal whip-lashing worthy of an S&M title.

He sighs with exasperation as a server hands me my slice, his deep voice gravelly. “Okay, that’s it,” he grunts over the line. “You’ve got to give it up. I know you’re not sick. You’re eating pizza. I can tell by the way you’re chewing.”

I try to defend myself. “No, I’m not.”

“Oh, really?” He counters. “We both know that, for you, the damned stuff is its own major food group, right behind tequila. How you’re not dead already from that diet at your age of twenty-three, I’ll never know. But if you’re eating pizza, then that means you’re alright. And if you’re not showing up for work, then I know something serious is going on.” He blows out a breath.

“You might yell at Rick, piss off the snobby customers and give half of the people you know your Italian ass to kiss. But you never miss a day of work. Never. Despite the times I’ve tried to convince you otherwise...” He makes a clucking sound with the back of his throat. “You sure this isn’t some excuse to miss something else besides work?”

My brow creases as I walk away from the pizza counter, my steps slowing as I head back to the sidewalk. I continue checking over my shoulder. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean, yeah, I’m glad you called, Soph. But aren’t you supposed to be prepping for the auction tonight?”

The gallery auction. My painting.

It was going to be featured in it tonight.

Shit. I almost forgot about it.

Time sure did fly when you were committing crimes. And I’d already committed enough.

I inhaled deeply. “I already told you, Drew. I’m sick. That means I’m not in a position to show up to anything.”

“Yeah, sure, not fucking buying it. Not for a second. I know you too well, Fee. And you know yourself too.” My neighbor and one of the closest people to me on the planet Earth sighs, and I swear the air around me sighs with him. I can almost feel his huff of disappointment on my neck. He takes a deep breath.

“Seriously, though, Fee. Cut the bullshit; you’ve never been sick a day in your life. Remember the Cinco de Mayo Margarita fest from Hell? You woke up the next day with what was probably a gallon of tequila in your system, ready for work and all. Me? I threw up ten times that night.”

“That’s different,” I huff.

“How?”

“You’re a lightweight. I can outdrink you in my sleep. And tequila is a component in my blood. I’m one-part O-negative and two parts Patron.”

Except for Friday night, when I’d had to be carried from the bathroom into Big Bad’s bed. I shake the thought of the sophisticated man picking me off the floor, carting me in his muscular arms and laying my body between his sheets.

I sigh.

“Okay, so what about the next art auction?” Drew presses, not letting up for a second. “I know there’s another one in five days. You could present your work in that one.”

I hesitate. “I’d rather not get into that now.”

“Uh huh. Just what I thought.” Something shuffles in the background of Drew’s call, and his voice nearly sinks to a whisper. I strain to hear him on my own crowded sidewalk. “You always do this.”

“Do what?” I nearly bark.

“Quit. Turn around. Go back to the status quo. It’s what you’re known for, Soph. Think about it: How many times had you quit your college degree track before you finally earned that Russian Basket weaving degree?”

“Four. And it’s Russian Literature, you asshole. What’s your point?”

“Point is…you need to stick this opportunity out. Like you did with that damn Underwater Shoe Polishing diploma.”

“Drew…” I sigh, shifting the pizza in my hand. I can’t bring myself to throw it away. I cling to it like a lifeline. “You have no idea what I’m up against. The art auctions are…”

Not for messy-haired, tequila-drinking, Russian Lit-majoring waitresses prone to fits of fancy and fairytale.

The art auctions at the Dweller Gallery were for real painters. Real artists.

The events were prestigious. Intimidating. And full of rich men like the one I just stole from.

I go with the safe word instead, not drawing Drew into my crazy thoughts any further. “Exhausting,” I finish.

But he doesn’t quit. “So? You’d give up on an opportunity to showcase your art? To make yourself known on the New York art scene, all to serve drinks for suited pricks who wouldn’t know a Picasso from a shitstain on the street?”

“Gross, Drew. Graphic much?”

His words go soft. “In case, you’ve already forgotten: You’re very familiar with shitstains already. We work with one; his name’s Rick Slauson.”

My shoulders slump at the mention of our general manager, and the thought of the wrath I know I’ll incur when I come back to work. I lean against the shop’s gigantic window. “So what are you suggesting? That I force myself to show up to the auction tonight? To ‘stick it out’?”

“It can’t hurt.” He snorts. “It’s only been two days, Miss Back-Pedaler. You’ve had enough time to get your mind together. And you never know…the auction might surprise you. Hell, you might surprise you.”

An array of clouds moves suddenly, blotting out the sun, and shadows fall over me as I consider Drew’s words.

Another year of coffee runs. Another year of late nights serving assholes and even later nights squeezing out minutes for myself.

The only minutes where I’d truly felt at peace. With my paints. In front of a canvas.

Bringing the broken fairytales in my head to life.

I pull my spine straight, staring up and over the city’s skyline. The steel black and gray structures looming overhead, making me feel small the way Manhattan always does, and in that