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

I sling on my jacket, heading for the hotel room’s door.

Becky’s shouts and Sinatra’s croons cry over my shoulder, but I barely hear them, my brain centered on getting ahold of one element—and one element only.

My father’s watch. His heirloom.

And the key to saving Quinn Real Estate Enterprises.

I walk right out the door.

SOPHIA

Friday evening

There’s nothing like the smell of eviction notices in the air to ruin a nice Friday night.

It’s bad enough that I’m running late for my late shift and missing a sock. My alarm clock didn’t go off on time and I’m so wiped from last night’s shift that my late Saturday morning nap lasts a hell of a longer than it should.

I fell asleep with an imprint of my unused vibrator against my cheek.

Not that I’ve been able to use it these last few days or nights, anyway.

I’m way too tired for even simulated sex.

My usual late-night painting session turned to a marathon around four in the morning, and fourteen hours later, fresh from my overactive nap, I’m left scrambling out of my front door, keys dangling from my thumb, hair half piled in a dark knot on top of my head, I suddenly wish I had.

I glance at the bright pink notice on my door, ripping it from the surface. It really isn’t an eviction notice. But it is the second warning my landlord’s given me, and I know the next one will be the last.

I flip my middle finger towards the door. And with my paint-stained nail still stuck in the air, I hear the sound of a door swinging open behind me.

I hear a voice next.

“Wood paneling do something to piss you off there, Soph?”

It’s the sleepy sound of my coworker Drew’s voice behind me, and normally, I’d shoot a joke right back, but eviction notices tend to make people a little ragey, and instead I stalk down the hall, hair a mess, stockings half-split, my giant purse that could double as a duffle bag slung over my shoulder.

I shoot another finger in his direction.

“Oh, eat a dick, Drew. I’m not in the mood.”

“Then why are you even showing up to work?” He calls over my shoulder. “You look like you’re half-dead. I’ve seen question marks with better posture.”

I sigh, spinning in my ballet flats. My gaze lands on him. “As you can see, some of us don’t have roommates anymore. So some of us need every dime we can get.” I hold up the eviction warning. “Behold, ‘Exhibit A.’”

The dark-haired Adonis in the doorway frowns, his pale blue eyes turning to ice. His eyes flit to mine. “I get it, Soph. More than you know…” He trails off, the humor dimmed in his now dull eyes. “But if you walk into The Alchemist and show them that you’re being an ‘Exhibit B,’ it might make your day a living hell. You know that fucker Rick is on a power trip. My advice? Don’t give him any more mileage than he needs. Let him stall out on his own anger for once. You wouldn’t want to risk it, would you?”

I bite my bottom lip. “No, of course not.”

He nods, swinging the door almost shut. I call out after him.

“My bad, Drew, for the verbal daggers. I was a little quick to throw digs, I know.”

“Hey, it isn’t a normal day now without you telling me to eat someone’s dick or fly off a freaking roof. For the record: I pick the latter, if given a choice.” He flashes a million dollar smile at me, prompting me to do the same. “I’ll see you at The Alchemist tonight… I’m on shift tonight at the bar.”

I start to respond to that, but the high-pitched, sexy sound of a “Drewww” from inside his apartment draws his attention, and I get the hint, heading in the other direction, latent fear tearing me up from the inside out.

I manage not to exhibit any signs of being an “Exhibit B” all the way to work via the hot and barely ventilated subway. I even make up it to the still chilled sidewalk and inside the building before the shit hits the fan.

Nancy, the co-owner and the only person who keeps me sane, is nowhere to be found again. And our general manager Rick is out at the front of the restaurant-pub.

For the fortieth time.

The wanna-be pretty boy who, rumor has it, came from pizza-slinging roots never misses an excuse to show his cleanly-shaven face and the second I walk through the front door, the mask he normally shows to our customers is completely off.

Openly sneering at my appearance, his green eyes travel the length of my body. His blond hair almost looks sandy against his pale skin and his gaze combs over my toes, my hips, my breasts, and finally to my face at last. He crosses his impossibly thin arms.

“You’re late,” he scoffs in my direction.

“And you’re not the host of this restaurant, though you keep acting like one. So I guess we’re both off our game today.” I turn to walk away. “If you need me in the next few minutes, I’ll be in the back.”

“I want you out here in five minutes, Sophia. Not fifteen. Not ten,” he hisses at my back as I pass the hosting table. “If Nancy were here, she wouldn’t put up with this shit.”

I pivot. “If Nancy were here, you wouldn’t be parading your peacock ass all around the restaurant, dying for someone to notice your new aftershave. But Nancy isn’t here. And you are.” I step backwards, keeping my eyes on his face. “Just give me a second to get my stuff together, and I’ll be right out…” I mutter under my breath. “Dickhead.”

“Maybe if you worried a little more about your job and a little less about pretending to be the next Picasso,” Rick continues, “you might actually be able to show up on time for work.” He