Up to Me - By M. Leighton Page 0,13

To say the least. Maybe Cash closed it and I just wasn't paying attention. Maybe I closed it out of habit and just don't remember it. Or maybe neither of us did and everything I've ever owned is in some homeless person's shopping cart. Who knows? I guess time will tell.

And if that happens to be the case, some stuff ought to be fairly easy to find. A homeless person who has recently redecorated their cardboard box with a two thousand-dollar clock might stand out a tad, as would one walking the streets in Jimmy Choo shoes and a Prada evening gown. Of course, who'd want any of it back at that point? Not me! I say happy trails and I hope you enjoy Marissa's expensive thongs.

The only thing I could identify would be my Tad's shirts. How sad is that? Maybe I ought to have my underwear monogrammed from now on...

I snicker and roll my eyes at my own wayward thoughts. I have very strange coping mechanisms.

The posh bathroom in our suite has a deep marble tub surrounded by all sorts of bathing accoutrements. On the back of the door hangs a thick robe. Although I have no clean clothes and no toiletries, a bath is too tempting to resist, so I turn on the spigot and undress as the spacious room fills with steam.

Thirty minutes later, I'm examining my pruned fingertips, thinking it's probably time to get out of the tub. The scent of the lavender bath products has permeated my skin and, after this long of a soak, might very well have invaded my liver. But it's been worth it. The hot water seems to have drowned out a portion of my thoughts and worries. At least for the moment. My utter exhaustion has helped a fair amount, too. It's been a seriously long and emotionally taxing week!

I release the drain and let the water out of the tub, toweling off and wrapping myself in the soft, warm robe.

The rich sure do have it easy!

But I rescind that thought almost immediately. Cash comes from money, albeit the ill-gotten kind, and he might argue that some riches aren't worth the price. In fact, I'd guarantee he would. He's lost so much because of his father's pursuit of wealth. Granted, it began as an effort just to feed his family, but it soon turned into more than that. Yes, he wanted out, but he still benefited financially from his ties to organized crime. And look at them now - suffering on every front!

I make my way into the bedroom and slide under the covers to rest my eyes until Cash gets back. I push the worry over how long he's been gone to the very back of my mind. I refuse to think of him getting hurt, of what that would feel like and how it would affect my life. I can't think in those terms. I won't. Whether Cash and I have a future is one thing. Whether he'll break my heart is one thing. But his death? That's something else entirely. I can't bear the thought of a world without him in it, even if he's not mine.

I sit straight up in the bed when I hear a noise. My mind is instantly alert. I'm shocked that I managed to fall asleep. That's a testament to how fatigued I really was.

I see a shadow pass through in the living room; I left the lights on in there. My heart thuds almost painfully against my ribs as I wait and listen. I hear the soft fall of footsteps against the hardwood floors and I look wildly around the room for some kind of weapon. The only thing I can spot is a vase on the dresser that I could crack over someone's head, a hotel pen on top of the bedside table I could use to stab someone in the eye, and a Bible that no doubt resides in the top drawer, although I'm not sure I could really harm someone with that. God absolutely could, but I don't think He works on demand like that.

A presence fills the doorway and my heart jumps up into my throat. Within a fraction of a second, however, recognition calms me.

"I didn't mean to