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

damned slab aside, the sound of glass crunching under my Christian Louboutin loafers.

I know what I need.

“Cyn, can I call you back tomorrow? I need to check on something.”

But I don’t want for her to answer before I hang up. I’ll hear an earful about that later.

I sling on my jacket, heading for the hotel room’s door.

Becky’s shouts and Sinatra’s croons cry over my shoulder, but I barely hear them, my brain centered on getting ahold of one element—and one element only.

My father’s watch. His heirloom.

And the key to saving Quinn Real Estate Enterprises.

I walk right out the door.

SOPHIA

Friday evening

There’s nothing like the smell of eviction notices in the air to ruin a nice Friday night.

It’s bad enough that I’m running late for my late shift and missing a sock. My alarm clock didn’t go off on time and I’m so wiped from last night’s shift that my late Saturday morning nap lasts a hell of a longer than it should.

I fell asleep with an imprint of my unused vibrator against my cheek.

Not that I’ve been able to use it these last few days or nights, anyway.

I’m way too tired for even simulated sex.

My usual late-night painting session turned to a marathon around four in the morning, and fourteen hours later, fresh from my overactive nap, I’m left scrambling out of my front door, keys dangling from my thumb, hair half piled in a dark knot on top of my head, I suddenly wish I had.

I glance at the bright pink notice on my door, ripping it from the surface. It really isn’t an eviction notice. But it is the second warning my landlord’s given me, and I know the next one will be the last.

I flip my middle finger towards the door. And with my paint-stained nail still stuck in the air, I hear the sound of a door swinging open behind me.

I hear a voice next.

“Wood paneling do something to piss you off there, Soph?”

It’s the sleepy sound of my coworker Drew’s voice behind me, and normally, I’d shoot a joke right back, but eviction notices tend to make people a little ragey, and instead I stalk down the hall, hair a mess, stockings half-split, my giant purse that could double as a duffle bag slung over my shoulder.

I shoot another finger in his direction.

“Oh, eat a dick, Drew. I’m not in the mood.”

“Then why are you even showing up to work?” He calls over my shoulder. “You look like you’re half-dead. I’ve seen question marks with better posture.”

I sigh, spinning in my ballet flats. My gaze lands on him. “As you can see, some of us don’t have roommates anymore. So some of us need every dime we can get.” I hold up the eviction warning. “Behold, ‘Exhibit A.’”

The dark-haired Adonis in the doorway frowns, his pale blue eyes turning to ice. His eyes flit to mine. “I get it, Soph. More than you know…” He trails off, the humor dimmed in his now dull eyes. “But if you walk into The Alchemist and show them that you’re being an ‘Exhibit B,’ it might make your day a living hell. You know that fucker Rick is on a power trip. My advice? Don’t give him any more mileage than he needs. Let him stall out on his own anger for once. You wouldn’t want to risk it, would you?”

I bite my bottom lip. “No, of course not.”

He nods, swinging the door almost shut. I call out after him.

“My bad, Drew, for the verbal daggers. I was a little quick to throw digs, I know.”

“Hey, it isn’t a normal day now without you telling me to eat someone’s dick or fly off a freaking roof. For the record: I pick the latter, if given a choice.” He flashes a million dollar smile at me, prompting me to do the same. “I’ll see you at The Alchemist tonight… I’m on shift tonight at the bar.”

I start to respond to that, but the high-pitched, sexy sound of a “Drewww” from inside his apartment draws his attention, and I get the hint, heading in the other direction, latent fear tearing me up from the inside out.

I manage not to exhibit any signs of being an “Exhibit B” all the way to work via the hot and barely ventilated subway. I even make up it to the still chilled sidewalk and inside the building before the shit hits the fan.

Nancy, the co-owner and the only person who keeps me sane, is nowhere