The Note (Manhattan Nights #5) - Natalie Wrye Page 0,15

to my gorgeous little waitress, waiting—her saucer-like eyes expectant, and despite it all, a small smile creeps onto my face, my skin vibrating as our gazes connect.

Until I realize why my skin is vibrating.

In the pocket of my slacks, my phone rings incessantly, and with little finesse, I fish out, staring at the damn screen.

Who the hell could be calling me this late? Or early, as it was.

And then it occurs to me.

Becky. Shit.

I left the little blonde in the hotel room I rented for the night. Because I completely forget about her.

Another failure.

I may not be a serial killer, but I was a fucking asshole.

I just took a woman home while having another in my hotel room. And the stack of shame pills that have been piling since I’ve been back in New York taunt me from my subconscious with the same mantra they’ve been singing all night.

Bottoms up.

SOPHIA

“I don’t do this with men like you. I don’t even like men like you.” The sound of my voice is slurred in the minimally decorated loft. And loud.

Even I can tell that.

The Tequila Gods are being kind to me tonight. I haven’t even thrown up.

But that doesn’t stop the word vomit from coming up, and my drunken mind tries to take its frustration out on the walking orgasm who just sat me down on his couch.

A couch that’s now spinning.

I lose control over my tongue. And like the drunkard tonight has turned me into, I hear myself talking, hear myself berating the dark suited man in front of me, unable to stop the words from coming off my loose lips.

I kick off my black ballet flats, watching them fly, my bleary eyes trying to focus on my drinking buddy’s suit.

I blink three times. “You’re just another fuckboy like those guys back at the bar, aren’t you?”

He glares. “I’m not sure what a fuckboy is, but if it’s causing you to spit like that, then I’m guessing it’s an insult.”

“Oh, don’t patronize me, Aussie Boy. I know what your type is like. I’ve been there. More times than I care to count.”

“Been where?” Big Bad Wolf’s stare sears, just as the room takes another twirl. I swallow a mouthful of spit that tastes like tequila.

I keep talking anyway. I can’t seem to stop.

“Been around, you know. With you lawyers.”

“But I’m not a lawyer,” he asserts.

“Sure you aren’t. With those pricey Italian shoes and suit, you probably should be one, though. All of you bastards are liars.” I hiccup loudly without shame, wondering who the hell that girl is who keeps talking.

Oh right, it’s me. She sure doesn’t sound like me.

And why does she have so much spit in her mouth anyway? Saliva sprays as she keeps speaking.

“You lied to my dad,” she tells the tall man in the Italian threads. “You lied to me. You lied to my Aunt Roberta when you told her you’d make all the bad disappear. And then you took him away,” the drunk girl whines. “You took him away just like Aunt Roberta said. And you locked him in your castle. Just like she said. Only…I couldn’t save him. Like in the story. The story lied, too…”

The girl’s words trail off, falling into silence. The spinning room slows—just for a little bit, and black dots dance across my eyes, blurring everything out.

The black dots grow wider. Bigger. And my eyelids feel heavy on my face, the living room dimming to black until I smell the scent of something strong under my nose.

A familiar smell that brings me back to life.

I look up to find Mr. Sexy-in-a-Suit—Mr. Big Bad, kneeling beside me, a cup of hot liquid held in front of my face.

I sniff loudly as his tousled head of dark hair cocks. One thumb runs along the light sheet of stubble along his jaw. “Drink this.”

I groan. “What is it?”

“Poison, Snow White. The better to kill you with.” He blinks. “It’s coffee. You need some. You need to sober up. You’re completely pissed.”

“You’re completely pissed.” I shoot at him.

“I mean, you’re drunk. Totaled. Wasted. I don’t know how many ways to say it but you’re hammered, Little Bear. And if you don’t drink some coffee, you’re going to regret it when you wake up. Trust me on this; I’m an expert on getting utterly and completely drunk. And pretending not to be.”

I sit up straighter, soaking the coffee in, committing the smell. Big Bad’s still kneeling over me, and it takes every ounce of energy in