you’re so cut off from everyone. I won’t overstep again, though. I didn’t mean to hurt you.
Margaret.
Ps I bought this with my own money, not the company card.
I snort. She didn’t hurt me; she merely pissed me off.
I open the box and smile when I see a gray cashmere scar. It’s nice and must have cost a fortune. I press the button on my desk phone that puts me through to her.
“Yes?” she says.
“Apology accepted, and I like the scarf.”
“You’re welcome, Konstantin. I love you,” she says.
I freeze. She’s never said anything like that to me before. I know she doesn’t mean she loves me romantically, but it’s still a huge thing for her to say.
“You’re one of the people I respect most in this world.”
“Okay, Margaret, you can stop now: you’re forgiven.”
“Kon, I mean it.”
“Got to go, got a call coming through.”
I hang up. Then I frown at the phone. Why would Margaret love me? I don’t treat her that well. I’m bad tempered at times. Most of the time, I’m seriously demanding. I can’t imagine I’m easy to work for.
I think the bigger question is why are you so scared of Margaret, or anyone else, loving you? Dead Yulia says in my head.
“Fuck off,” I mutter at the ghost talking to me. Christ, I’m talking to the dead wife in my head as if she’s real. I must be losing it.
I need to get drunk, and I need to get laid. The idea that I can be celibate is crazy. I have appetites, a healthy libido, and I’ll drive myself nuts trying to go without. Liza is a no. I couldn’t fuck her if she paid me to. Cassie is right out because … well, complicated doesn’t begin to describe the dynamics if I screw her.
Screw this.
I grab my jacket, swing it over my shoulder, palm my wallet and shove it in my pocket, and head out the door.
I go straight to a local bar. It’s not the sort of place I normally frequent. It isn’t full of moneyed types; quite the opposite. I take a seat in a dingy corner and go to the bar to order.
“Old fashioned,” I say to the barman, then as he begins to prepare it, I add, “Better make that two.”
Once I have my two cocktails, both presented in thick, heavy tumblers, I take my drinks and go back to my corner.
When I’m done with those two, I go back and order two more. I sit in my corner, and I sip and brood, and sip and brood.
At some point during my pity party, I glance up and see a woman watching me from her corner of the room. She’s sitting alone, on a bench with a back that’s covered in dull red velvet, and she’s sipping at a fancy cocktail in a frosted glass. The cocktail is incongruous with her general appearance. She’s wearing dark, ripped, skin-tight jeans, and a black t-shirt with a woman’s face on it. The woman’s face has mascara tracking smudged tears down her cheeks, and below the picture it says ruthless pity, which makes no sense to me. It’s almost as stupid as that artist’s toilet seat, but it looks cool.
On her fingers, the woman is wearing a variety of silver rings, and she’s got chunky silver bangles halfway up each slender forearm. They partially cover her tattoos, so I can’t see clearly what they are.
Her hair is black, and her eyes are light, a pale blue, an odd combination which only serves to make her more striking. She’s not my type, but then neither is Cassie, and I can’t get her out of my head.
I go for well put-together women. The kind who turn heads wherever they go with their high heels and their swinging hips. This woman, she’s not subtle, not at all, but she’s not screaming sex. Yet when she gets up and stalks to the bar, I watch her go.
Her figure is fantastic, lean. Not as hot as Cassie’s curves, but she’s clearly fit. She’s wearing chunky, biker style boots, and her hair hangs in a dark curtain just past her shoulders. It’s iron straight, and she leans one foot on the rail running along the bottom of the bar, casual, confident.
The bar is empty, and it means I can hear her order clearly.
“Cosmo,” she says in a surprisingly sweet, girly voice. Her voice and the drink don’t match her outfit at all. She’s a bit of a puzzle. I like puzzles.
She