Chapter 6 #3
In this clear headspace, suddenly the impossible feels a lot more within reach, and any difficulties more simple. Here, in this rundown, fluorescent-lit studio, I’m free.
And that’s the best feeling of all, to have the space to pretend your shitty little life is together, when in all actuality you’re falling apart at the very seams.
Hours later, I’m back in the office, relieved to find that my badge lets me in past nine p.m. I risked my life on the sketchy late-night subway to type these notes that have got to be full of the most mind-numbingly boring information that exists on this planet. Maybe even in this universe.
Most of the building is dark inside, the only light coming from a handful of forgotten desk lamps still glowing in empty offices. The silence is suffocating, the eerie stillness somehow more unsettling than a late-night subway ride.
My black leotard doubles as a shirt beneath my sweats, my hair barely holding onto what was once a neat bun. I thank my lucky stars that I’m alone, with no one here to witness the braless, flyaway-ridden mess I’ve become.
The door to Theo’s office is closed as always, the sliver beneath dark and indicating that he’s already left for the day.
It couldn’t be more perfect. I’m nearly bursting with excitement to see the look on his face when I personally deliver the crisp and stapled pages of the meeting notes.
He thinks he’s backed me into a corner by giving me an impossible deadline that I will undoubtedly fail.
If anyone’s going to have the last laugh, though, it’s going to be me.
I don’t care that I’m technically an adult, or that society expects me to be kind and demure simply because I’m a woman. I’ll cling to my pettiness with the same tenacity I cling to my stubborn streak—right up until my last breath, and probably even beyond that, just to prove a point.
I type and nod off. Strain my eyes to proofread and jerk awake.
The night grows darker until I know it’s much past my bedtime.
In fact, it’s the middle of the goddamn night.
I have only a few pages left, when suddenly, Theo’s office door swings wide open, the hinges silent but still audible.
I drop to the floor, terrified. While it could very well be him, I highly doubt he’d be insane enough to work sixteen hours straight.
The soft thump of footsteps grows louder, each one amplifying my panic as I shrink further into the shadowy nook beneath my desk. If there’s one thing true crime documentaries have taught me, it’s to expect the worst.
Murder? Absolutely on the table right now.
A pair of dress shoes thumps closer and closer, until they stop inches from my face.
Their polished leather catches the faint glow of my computer screen, the only light in the otherwise pitch-black space.
Holding my breath, my mind races through every possible escape plan.
If I need to stab someone in the eyes with the pencil I’m currently clutching, then so be it.
The person kneels down, and when my eyes meet Theo’s, we both jump, startled to find someone else here at this hour.
My heart pounds against my hand clasped to my chest. “What the fuck, Theo. You scared the hell out of me.”
“I didn’t know you were here,” he gruffs defensively.
“So, what? You just like walking into my workspace when you’re all alone?”
“Of course not,” he says, as if the notion disgusts him. “I thought maybe someone was trying to break into your computer. Or maybe that there was …” He stops short, not finishing his sentence.
“A ghost?” I say, biting back a laugh at the thought of someone like him believing in spirits.
He rolls his eyes. “No.”
“You sure about that? Your expression seems like you thought you were walking up on one.”
“I wasn’t going to say ghosts.”
“Well, that’s too bad. Because I totally get the haunted vibe from this particular floor.”
I push up from the ground, nearly losing my balance in the process. His hand shoots out, steadying me before I can topple into my desk, setting me upright like it’s second nature.
His touch on my bare skin is exactly how I imagined it would be the first time I saw him at my cousin’s wedding.
Electrifying. A live wire sparking from his fingertips, radiating through my skin.
Then his hand is gone as quickly as it landed, slipping back into the front pocket of his pants like it never happened.
“What the hell are you doing here this late?” He stares down at me like his last nerve has left the building hours ago.
“The notes. They’re due tomorrow morning.”
“So, do them tomorrow, not now.”
“They do need to be done now, actually, so they can be ready at eight a.m. sharp like you said,” I remind him.
This catches him off guard. Either the fact that I’m actually listening and working on this impossible deadline he’s set for me, or that I haven’t up and quit yet.
“Well, forget what I said earlier,” he finally says. “Go home.”
I gulp.
Go home.
That’s easier said than done. I’ve never walked home this late before. Not on my own. I’ll have to tough it out for a night, unless I decide to take an office sink bath and prepare a makeshift bed under my desk.
Most men will never understand the constant need to glance over your shoulder every thirty seconds, just to make sure no one is following you.
Mentally mapping an escape route every time a car slows down as they approach.
Or sending your location to your best friend in the off chance you get murdered.
No matter how tough I act, the harsh truth is that the real world is a scary reality I can’t afford to ignore.
There are people I could call and rideshares I can’t afford. But it’s the middle of the night, and the last thing I want to do is wake someone because of my own choices.
“Okay, okay. I’m going.” I hoist the strap of my dance bag up and over my shoulder. He watches me the entire time, probably assuming I’ll be tempted to steal office supplies when he’s not looking.
“Why are you dressed like that?” he blurts out, his eyes dropping to my leotard.
“I had rehearsal.”
“Rehearsal?”
“For my dance company.” I point at him. “And don’t assume I’m a stripper. For some reason, when a woman tells a man she dances, they all assume that means taking off clothes for money.”
He’s silent, staring at me like he can’t quite believe I just said that out loud.
And if it wasn’t for my insane amount of shits I don’t give, then I’d feel awkward.
Instead, my brain decides it’s the perfect time for verbal diarrhea.
For all I know, he has a relative who’s an exotic dancer, and the last thing I want to do is disrespect them.
“Not that there’s anything wrong with stripping,” I backtrack.
“In fact, I’ve known some amazing people who do that type of dance.
Did you know how hard pole dancing is? I took a class once and earned a whole new respect for it—”
“Marley.”
“Was I talking too much?”
“Yes. Go home.”
“Okay.” I head for the elevator, as he follows from a respectable distance. On the ride down, I pull out my phone to check the subway schedule, while he keeps his eyes fixed on the lit-up numbers above the door.
Exiting the building, I turn to him and give a quick salute. “See you tomorrow, boss.” I spin on my heel, not bothering to wait for a reply I know won’t come.
I’m several feet away, and about to break out into a full-on sprint, when his deep voice rumbles from behind me. “There’s no fucking way you’re walking home by yourself at this hour.”
“I’m not walking, I’m taking the subway.”
Although he’s silent, I know exactly what he’s thinking. This woman must be an idiot if she thinks she’s safe alone on a subway in the middle of the night.
“That’s somehow worse,” he finally says. “Come on. I’ll drive you.”
I cross my arms against the chill of the night, shifting my weight onto one foot. “You don’t have to do that.”
His eyes darken, impatience simmering beneath the surface. “I’m aware.”
Then he turns, already heading toward wherever he’s parked, like he fully expects me to follow.
And I hate that I do. That my feet move before my brain can protest, because the alternative is arguing with a man who looks like he’d rather shove his own hand through a wood chipper than let me take the subway alone.
“For all I know, you’re planning to lead me off and murder me,” I say, following him now.
“I’m not going to murder you.”
“You definitely seem like you want to murder me. At least a tiny bit.”
Stopping short in the middle of the sidewalk, he spins to face me. “If I wanted to murder you, don’t you think I would have done it a long time ago? Now, c’mon, before I change my mind about being a good person.”
He’s got a point. If he wanted me dead, which I’m pretty sure he’s wanted since the first day he met me, he could’ve done it by now. “Do you have heated seats?”
He looks down at me as if I have two heads. “I don’t know.”
“Guess we’ll find out,” I reply, continuing to walk in the direction he had been heading.
Instead of replying, he simply stares straight ahead, occasionally scanning our surroundings like he’s on a mission.
Being next to someone the size of him at night in the big city feels safe.
Safety isn’t something I’m well accustomed to, but a feeling I could easily get used to.
We walk in silence until we reach the vast cement underground garage.
The dim yellow glow of the overhead lights casts long shadows, making the scene even more eerie.
His fancy black SUV beeps as he pushes a button on the driver’s door to unlock it.
I’ve never been inside a car this expensive before.
I don’t own a vehicle since I’ve only ever lived in the city and solely rely on public transportation.
All my mother has ever owned is the beat-up old Toyota that’s been on its last leg, two last legs ago.
I’m trying to downplay my awe, but when it comes to me, there’s no watering down any part of my personality, especially when it comes to keeping my mouth shut.
He opens the passenger door for me, as I look around to inspect the interior, which is equally, if not more, luxurious as the exterior.
“I don’t think I’ve ever even touched something that’s this expensive.
” As I click my seat belt into the buckle, I add on, “Also, fair warning, I’m terrible at sitting in silence. ”
He starts the car without looking at me. “Should’ve made you sign a noise waiver first.”
“Those actually exist?”
“Probably not. But if they did, you’d be the first to need one.”
“Rude,” I scoff. Either he’s serious about a noise waiver, or he’s actually kind of funny. “It’s also not too late to change your mind about giving me a ride. I live on the opposite side of town. And once you inevitably catch me rifling through your glove box, you might regret it.”
He puts the car into reverse, his hand bracing against the back of my seat as he backs out of his reserved spot. He smells like he belongs in a men’s cologne ad.
“There are no mints in there, so I think I’ll be okay,” he mutters.
His joke catches me completely off guard. Never in a million years did I expect even a crumb of humor from him. Now look at him.
Trying, and failing, not to die in a fit of laughter, I reply, “You know, I’m starting to think you’re either secretly funny or even meaner than I originally thought.”
He has me enter my address into the GPS while we drive through the quiet, nearly empty streets of Brighton Bay. When I’m tucked safely into the passenger seat of his car, the city at night is actually kind of pretty. I watch the lights blur as we pass by, the sky dark against the tall skyscrapers.
His eyes never leave the road, so I take the opportunity to really look at him against the backdrop of the passing lights.
The dark, unfairly thick hair that’s somehow the perfect mix of messy and neat.
The fine stubble along the sharp line of his jaw.
And long lashes that any woman would envy.
It’s a good thing he’s an ass, because if he were nice on top of it all, it’d be too much good in one person to handle.
After several minutes, the gleaming, glassy cityscape begins to fade, replaced by shadowed alleyways, rundown mom-and-pop shops, and aging apartment buildings that look like they’re held together by sheer will.
The muscle in Theo’s jaw ticks, and I can tell he’s holding back whatever he wants to say.
“What’s the matter? Afraid someone’s going to run up and steal your car?”
“No,” he replies, still staring straight ahead.
“Is something wrong?”
He shakes his head, brushing off my question, as we pull up to the curb outside my apartment building.
If he’s this appalled simply by driving through this side of town, then it’s a good thing he’s staying in his car.
He’d be in for a rude awakening once he stepped foot into the filthy lobby of my apartment building.
Putting his SUV into park, I reach for the handle, ready to thank him for the ride before making a mad dash for the entrance. He makes a move to open his car door, as if he fully intends to walk me to my door.
I grab his arm, stopping him. “You don’t have to do that.”
He glances once out of the side of his eye, before turning back to me with a look fully indicating have you ever seen what neighborhood you live in?
The car’s interior overhead light blares down on us, casting an uncomfortably bright spotlight on our contact—my hand on his forearm, his body rigid beneath my touch.
My stomach flips like an Olympic diver mid-air.
Traitor.
I jerk my hand back, my brain scrambling to calculate if I held on a second too long. I should not be having fucking butterflies for someone like Theo Prescott.
It’s the exact reason why I abruptly bolt from his vehicle, yelling, “Thanks for the ride!” as I run into my building.
Despite what the crime rate statistics say, it feels a whole lot safer here, away from Theo’s cold attitude and his persistently, grumpily adorable face.
Away from his stupidly perfect hair, blue eyes, and tailored suits.
Away from his insistent need to drive me home and make sure I get inside safely.
And definitely far, far away from the way he made my stomach flip after one second of touching him.
The strangest part is that for a split second, I thought maybe he felt it too.
But thinking Theo could feel anything at all? That would be crazy.