The shove was brutal, square in the middle of my back, my phone flying from my hand as I fell forward, my knee hitting the sidewalk hard, a gasp of pain all I could manage as my palms scraped the concrete. My bag, an Alexander McQueen, was jerked away, wrenching my shoulder in the process, my shout of protest taken by the wind.
The asshole wore a brown jacket and had dark hair. That was the only thing I saw as I hobbled to my feet, my knee screaming in pain, the bright green edge of my purse disappearing as he ran through the crowd, then rounded a corner and was gone.
I yelled, I pointed, and was ignored, the crowd moving around me, one girl meeting my eyes with a regretful frown as she stepped past. I stared after him, thinking of my money, all of that cash, gone. Just like that. One more New York mugging, like the hundreds that happened every day. It wasn’t worth a call to the police; I hadn’t even gotten a glimpse at the mugger. Stupid me, skipping out of the pawnshop with a giant smile on my face. I should have had Dante drive me. I should have worn sweat pants and a fanny pack. I should have just sold the stuff on eBay like Cammie had suggested.
“Is this yours?”
I looked over, to the short man, a stranger, who held out my phone, his eyes worried as he gave me a onceover. I took it from him, smiling as tears pricked my eyes. “Thanks,” I whispered.
“Are you okay?”
I nodded. “I’m fine.” I stepped away from him, limping slightly, and looked down to see the knee of my jeans ripped. Waving away his concern, I headed for the warmth: just two doors down, a neon Bud Light sign called my name.
I never used to drink beer. I preferred wine or champagne, my fancy mouth above something so barbaric as a two-dollar beer. Now, in a booth stuck along the back wall of a burger joint, a bucket of peanuts before me, I tipped back an ice cold Pabst Blue Ribbon. They were the special, I was told by an enthusiastic redhead—a bucket of six for seven dollars. I felt my pocket, reassured by the feel of my wallet, and ordered the bucket, resting my foot on the opposite bench and rubbing my knee while I contemplated the depressing turn my life had taken.
I could have called Benta or Cammie. Gotten a drinking partner or, at least, a safe ride home. But there was something satisfying about a pity party for one. Something entirely blissful in finishing one, then two beers, while feeling sorry for myself. I understood my problems. They didn’t. They had no idea what any of this was like. And it wasn’t from not asking me. But they didn’t know the questions to ask. We’d never talked about money before, so they didn’t think to ask if I was okay. They bought my food and offered loans and moved on with their lives. They didn’t ask if it hurt that my parents didn’t call me. They didn’t ask if I was lonely.
The stress over money.
The worry over my parents.
How much I missed them.
How I felt so lonely.
The fight to keep positive when everything seemed to be falling apart.
They. Didn’t. Understand.
I opened a third bottle. The taste really wasn’t that bad. With the salty peanuts, it was almost good.
He always smelled good. I leaned against his shirt and inhaled the familiar scent, an expensive one that was custom mixed for him. My feet were dragging along the floor. I frowned, confused, and lifted one, catching it on something and Vic grunted. “Stop kicking me.”
I giggled. “I’m not kicking you.” The wind hit my face and I burrowed into him, my feet off the floor, someone carrying my legs and I saw a familiar face open the door—Jake, Vic’s driver. Vic ducked into the car and I was helped inside, my body falling back into the hard warmth of his chest.
Words spoken, a blur of them between people, so many people, and Vic shook me gently. “Chloe. Chloe. Where’s your purse?”
Purse? Through the blur, I remembered my money. Losing it all. I shook my head. “Don’t have it.” I wondered how he was there. How many beers I had had from that bucket. Had I called him? I must have. I reached for my jacket pocket, feeling the hard outline of