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

tilts his head. “I’ll see you in five.”

The world’s worst manager walks away, leaving me fuming.

How the fucker knew about my paints was beyond me. I was willing to bet another waitress told him.

Reason number fifty-five to get out of here.

As if I needed another.

I had a Bachelor’s Degree in Russian Literature, for Chrissake. And yet, it seemed like my life was turning into a Russian fairytale.

Which might seem great…

If Russian tales weren’t grim.

I didn’t know which fairytale I was now most: “The Princess Who Never Smiled” or “The Armless Maiden” considering how sore my biceps were from lifting trays all night.

I sigh, thinking how simple it would be if a fortune—just a shitload of money—just fell into my hands all of sudden. Or maybe even a prince.

Someone who knew his scotch and his way around a woman’s skin.

I fix the knot of hair on my head, straightening my shoulders as butterflies take hold of my stomach. I’m down to two minutes to show up on the restaurant floor before Rick really loses his shit, and before I lose my last chance at making tips. Tips needed to keep a roof over my head.

I plaster on a smile, praying for patience…and, most of all, rent money.

Chapter 2

NOAH

It’s only irony that the interior of my apartment now looks like the inside of one of my favorite novels.

The Shining only wished that it witnessed this type of bloodshed.

The luxury loft I keep in Midtown like the site of a massacre, and I rip through the wreckage like a tornado with a purpose.

Magazines and papers are strewn at the foot of my black Grand Piano, a slew of pages crumbled across the hardwood. The plush Ottomans are knocked aside and anything that isn’t affixed to the ground is upended, as I flip, rustle and rummage through the entire apartment in search of that damned watch.

Where the hell did I put it?

Where the hell would any sane person put a half a million dollar watch?

Fuck, if I only were sane…

My eyes scan the expanse of both levels in search of the gaudy timepiece, the glittering diamonds.

The damn thing is the only possession I have from the fucker that sired me, the only item connecting him to me or the Quinn family at all.

The funny part?

I remember hating that bloody watch at some point. Even considered breaking it a time or two.

Good thing twenty-year old me had sense because this twenty-eight-year-old one? This bastard is a stone-cold idiot.

One who should have tucked the expensive heirloom somewhere he could find it. Where he wouldn’t be fighting with couch cushions to locate the only belonging that would stake a claim to his dead father’s fortune.

The fortune that was owed.

It’s crazy, actually, to consider all that I know about the man. And all that I don’t.

One fact is for certain, though: Grandfather Quinn had the man pegged from the start. And if he couldn’t be a father to me in life, then he damned sure could be one in death.

Dear old Dad.

Stephen King could have used him for horror story material for days. The thought of his face—gray and stern—is in my mind even now as I grab for my phone, dialing my brother Lachlan in desperation. The phone rings twice before picking up, and my younger brother clears his throat.

“Lachlan speaking.”

“Lach,” I grunt. “It’s me. Noah.”

“Noah!” He exclaims in surprise for a split second. His voice lowers, reminding me of how much he’s grown. He scoffs. “Man, you sound like shit.”

“Was there a mass email that I missed or something? Because everyone I know is singing that same chorus.” I wring my hands through my dark hair. “I don’t sound like shit.”

“You do. But I guess that’s neither here nor there. How’s it going?”

“She’ll be apples pretty soon.” I clutch the phone closer. “As soon as you tell me who’s been in my apartment.”

“Your apartment?”

“Yeah, mine. You haven’t thrown any rages here lately, have you?” My voice lowers.

My little bro stammers. “No, I have-haven’t.”

“Lachlan…” I warn, my feet now pacing the floor. “I want you to be deadset with me.”

“Noah, I swear.” He asserts, his pitch turning high. “I haven’t thrown any more parties since the last birthday bash.” He pauses. “Fair dinkum.”

Bloody fucking hell. I stop, my fingers working at my temples as I think. I take a deep breath. “So, no ripper parties in my apartment while I’ve been gone?”

“No, but, uh, does having someone over for a fuck count?”

“Lachlan!” I bark.

“Keep your shirt on, old-timer. I’m just joking.” Lachlan laughs, and I could kill him, strangle him with my bare hands.

My brother drives me crazy sometimes. But there’s no prankster I love more than this bastard here, so I try to calm down, my gait finally slowing. I rub my jaw.

“What’s the problem, bro? I mean, is the place trashed or something? Don’t you have a maid come out regularly?”

I do. And I know Maria didn’t touch a thing.

I trust her more than most Quinn company employees. I chew lightly on my tongue.

“Yeah, nah, it’s just…” I hesitate, tripping over the truth. I stop myself. “It’s nothing. Just was missing something.”

“A woman, perhaps?” Lach muses. “Maybe if you had one, you’d have less time to leave the place open for my parties. Not that I’m complaining or anything…” My little brother trails off with a small laugh.

“Please. You should know me better than that by now.”

He sighs, a lofty sound that echoes through the phone in my empty apartment. “Ah, yes. The eternal bachelor strikes again. Mr. Pristine doesn’t like anyone coming in and muddying up his perfect world,” he mocks. “You ever think you might be too uptight there, bro?”

“Obviously not enough…since I let your ass even throw these parties at all. If Maria didn’t spot-clean the place after each one, I’d swear I’d get an STD just by touching the walls.”

“Probably not the permanent kind, though.” He chuckles. “And I wouldn’t worry; no one knows how to dodge a