The Note (Manhattan Nights #5) - Natalie Wrye Page 0,14
wrist visible as she leans against the headrest. “My place?” She glances at me, wide-eyed.
I nod, unhooking the top button from my collar. I stare at her face.
“Why not?”
“Well, seeing as how I barely have a place…” She bites her bottom lip, and an ache I didn’t know could exist burns in my chest, making it tighten. “Why not your place?”
“Sure.” I shrug. “Just one question: Are you familiar with Stephen King’s Carrie?”
She peeks up at the ceiling of the cab and then back to me. “Yeah. Why?”
“Nothing. She’s just my new decorator, that’s all. But it should be fine, you know, if you’re into that hurricane-just-hit look.”
A twinkle enters her eye. “Can’t be any worse than my place.”
“You’d be surprised.”
The second the cab stops, we stumble past my stone-faced doorman, into my apartment building’s marble lobby, and up to the penthouse elevator.
Once inside the steel and carpeted cage, Miss Hazel eyes turns to me, that bottle of tequila still dangling from her fingertips.
Her starched, short-sleeved, white collared shirt is now wrinkled, her black skirt askew. Hair messy, red-stained lips slightly smeared, she is still easily one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever laid eyes on.
And I’ve laid my eyes on plenty.
She points an unsteady finger eye at me, her hazel eyes slightly hazy.
“Now you’re not going to kidnap me, are you?”
“What would make you say that?”
“Well, I don’t know you,” she slurs just a little bit, her mouth twisting ever so slightly. “You could be a serial killer.”
“If I was, I would let you know.”
She raises a finger. “Aha! That’s exactly what a serial killer would say.”
“Trust me.” I hold a hand to my heart. “I’m no Jack Torrance, even if I wanted to be.”
“Another Stephen King reference…” she muses as the lift finally stops. “That’s it. I knew it. You’re a freak.”
I have no choice but to chuckle. “Not a freak. Just a fan.”
I lift a brow, daring her to walk out as the double doors open. She hesitates just a second, and for a moment, something unfamiliar enters my gut.
A feeling of fear.
In a night of zero normalcy, I wouldn’t be surprised if she did walk away.
For the first time in my overachieving life, I’ve failed at almost everything. Failed at securing my company’s financial future. Failed at finding my father’s watch.
Failed at making myself forget about the last two.
The alcohol couldn’t do it. The mess I made in my apartment barely made a dent.
But that’s what I was hoping the brassy brunette could do.
Fuck me into forgetting.
I know that’s why the need for her is so strong right now. She’s the only part of my day that’s succeeded in making me think of anything else other than my guilt.
I wait as she considers her choices, regarding me with the quiet scrutiny of a doctor examining her impatient patient.
I stand still, letting her analyze away.
And just as the silver double doors start to close, she holds a hand between them, and they jolt apart.
She arches one chocolate-brown eyebrow.
“If you’re a serial killer, I’ll kill you first.”
“Duly noted.”
We both ignore the ridiculousness of her assertion, and I exit the elevator ahead of her, heading down the hall to my apartment, my heart beating a reggae-like rhythm in my chest.
I open the front door, holding it open for her as she passes inside, her golden-green eyes scanning the walls. And then the tornado disaster I’ve left in my wake.
Pillows, papers litter the hardwood floor, and she glances over her shoulder at me.
“Nice decor… At least I know you’re not a liar.”
If only she knew me at all.
I swallow another guilt pill down the gullet, closing the door quietly behind me.
The dark hardwood of my floors stretch in front of me, and I take a long look at the loft myself. The wide windows. The dark wrought-iron railings. The floor to ceiling glass overlooking the festive city filled with the glimmer of red and gold lights.
I can almost smell Christmas in the air this time of year, and as the second level of Grandfather Quinn’s renovated penthouse apartment looms overhead, I imagine what the hell will happen to the place that’s been my New York home for seven years.
Ever since the old man kicked it, leaving everything behind.
A part of me—large and looming—has always hated being back here for that reason. Back in this city. Back in this state. But standing here now in the small foyer gives me new eyes to gaze at the space.