I rolled my eyes. “Who wouldn’t love daily maid service? That’s a stupid statement.”
But I did. I’d loved it. I’d loved everything about that life. And maybe that was what I’d struggled with so much in terms of Vic. Maybe it hadn’t been him, but his money, his lifestyle—a distinction that turned my year of struggle from being lovestruck to just being materialistic. Ouch.
“Chloe’s right.” Benta’s comment dragged me back to the conversation. “I would love daily maid service.”
“Let’s not talk about Vic and maids,” I groaned. “Please.”
Cammie raised an eyebrow at me. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “How terrible of us to remind you of his cheating right before you end things with him.”
“I already ended things with him,” I shot back, standing and gathering up my trash. “This is just closure.”
Closure. Such an odd concept. Did relationships really need it? Or was it just an excuse for one last glimpse at what could have been?
I didn’t ask them the question. They were, at times, a little too honest for my heart’s sake. But I thought Benta and Cammie were both right.
I needed to kiss Vic’s ass goodbye because it was the right thing to do and it was about damn time.
I needed to embrace my relationship with Carter and stop being a wimp. Whether I’d told him so or not, I loved him. He made me realize how empty my old life had been. And in his eyes, I saw a future that I wanted more of, a future where I was a better person.
Wow. I might have just become a grown-up.
I met Vic in the downstairs bar, instead of his upstairs office. I’d been in that office too many times. Bent over that desk, on top of liquor invoices and payroll docs. Pressed up against the window, my cheek to the glass, his hips pumping against my ass. Vic loved that office. I didn’t want to think about how many women, both during and after me, he’d had up there.
I got there first, finding a stool at the bar and pulling out my phone, returning a text to Cammie.
“Can I get you a drink?”
I looked up at the bartender. A drink. Ha. Alcohol was the one thing I didn’t need to add to this situation. “Diet Coke,” I said. The man winced, but grabbed a glassful of ice.
It took fifteen minutes for Vic to show up. When he did, it was in a dark gray suit, a blue shirt underneath, his jacket unbuttoned, his tie loose around his neck. His hair was neat, his skin tan from his fishing trip. He smiled at me as he approached and my hand tightened on my glass. The problem with not drinking? You lost the careless steel it could give your spine.
I started to speak, and he cut me off, leaning forward, so close I could smell his cologne. “Cute outfit.”
“Thank you.” I’d dressed casually, knowing it would irritate him, especially in this club, an establishment that prided itself on an unbendable dress code. My jeans and V-neck had made the doorman shake his head as soon as I had stepped up, his mouth souring into a scowl when I flashed the gold card that Vic had given me. There were only a handful of them in the city, some VIP bullshit that Vic printed up that gave carte blanche at any of his places. I hadn’t ever used it when we’d dated, everyone knowing who I was but now, eighteen months later, all of the faces were different, the city of New York one that changed often and easily forgot.
Vic pulled his stool forward and it was then I realized that the bar had emptied, the bartender gone, the velvet curtain to its entrance pulled shut.
We were alone and God, I hated it when he did shit like that.
Well, now I hated it. I used to love it.
74. Hit Me With Your Best Shot
His stool was near enough that his knee brushed the inside of my thigh, his huff of breath close enough that the hair on my skin rose in response. I pushed my drink away and stood, needing space. Being that close to Vic never led anywhere productive.
“Vic.” I swallowed. Short and sweet. I could do this. “You’ve got to stop … reaching out.” He sat back, his elbows on the bar, his body completely relaxed, his mouth twitching a little as if he was holding back a smile.