25. Chapter 25
Harley
Down for breakfast after work?
Standing behind the bar in Golden Palace’s VIP section, I stared at the napkin a clubber had slipped me.
We’d been eyeing each other through the bobbing crowd and strobe lights for the past hour while I’d been serving, and even now as I glanced at him sitting in one of the lounges with his buddies, the hip hop music and hubbub of voices faded into the background.
I knew exactly why I was drawn to him—he looked like a less rugged version of Kingsley with his dark brown hair, green eyes, and broad shoulders.
Oh, I had no doubt what “breakfast” meant, and my hurting heart craved nothing more than that. It was a surefire way to erase Kingsley from my mind. The way his muscles flexed when I touched him. How he tasted. How he whispered my name.
Who are you kidding, girl? The man is seared into your memory. Your soul. You won’t be able to forget him.
Probably ever.
A week had gone by since I’d left him, and with each passing day, the urge to run back to him grew stronger.
So much so that I had begged Rome to let me work again.
He’d agreed, but not without ramming down my coworkers’ throats to keep an eye on me.
And I knew for certain that he was watching me like a hawk over the security camera feed.
“What is this?”
I jumped and whirled around. “Sheesh, Rome. You can’t sneak up on me like that.”
“What did he write, Harley?” he barked over the music. The intensity rolling off him made me hand over the napkin without protest. He glared at me for a moment longer, then dropped his spearing gaze to the black ink. His jaw flexed. “You’re not going with that guy.”
“I think I’m old enough to make my own decisions.”
“He could be affiliated with Fuller—”
“Not everyone is involved with him.”
“I know you’re hurting, but a one-night-stand isn’t what you need right now. Trust me, okay?”
I rolled my eyes, even though he was right. I didn’t even know why I considered something so stupid.
“I swear, Harley—”
“Do you wanna chain me up or something?” I jutted my chin. Apparently heartache turned me into a petulant child. Ugh. Why did I have to be like this?
Rome crumpled the napkin. “Don’t make me.”
He pushed past me and through the crowd until he’d reached the guy. Whatever he said, the clubber raised his hands in a placating gesture and inched away from Rome. I wanted to go over there, grab the guy’s hand, and walk out of here. Just to prove that he wasn’t in cahoots with Craig.
Or maybe I wanted Craig to find me.
I closed my eyes. Why am I like this, God? Why on earth would I want to continue to damage myself? And why do I always run to men when I’m hurting or feel lonely? I thought I was past this.
Rome came back, looking like he wanted to send his fist through something.
“I’m sorry,” I yelled. “I’m sorry for behaving like this. I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”
“There’s a lot we do to quiet our pain. I tried everything a man can come up with, and let me tell you the only thing that worked: allowing the pain while sitting at Jesus’s feet.
Gotta shovel down some humble pie for that.
” He moved past me and disappeared in the secret passageway leading to his office.
I just stood there, staring holes into the stuffy air.
Rome had made an excellent point. I never really sat down with Jesus when I was hurting.
Usually I prayed, then distracted myself with who knew what.
I wanted to try this. Instead of avoiding the pain I wanted to sit in it for a bit and see what God had to say.
“Hellooooo!” A lanky man waved his hand in front of me, yanking me out of my stupor. “I’m talking to you, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart.
For a moment I thought I’d heard Kingsley’s deep voice and I whipped my head around. No one was behind me. Just an illuminated liquor shelf. My knees almost buckled, and I clung to the translucent onyx bar. “What can I get you?” I heard myself ask.
“Lincoln Grady Family Reserve. On the rocks.”
My hand shook when I grabbed the bottle from under the counter. Of course that’s what he wanted. And as if this wasn’t enough, a remix of Gloria came on. I gave the guy his drink and closed my eyes, hearing Kingsley chant as if he stood right next to me.
My heart raced. I can’t breathe. I can’t . . .
I stumbled from behind the bar and through the crowd, not sure where I was going. Just out of here. Fresh air, I needed fresh air.
“Harley! Hey!” Rome grabbed my shoulder and whirled me around. “Where you going?”
“Out of here. I need to get outside. Please.”
Something shifted in his demeanor. He wrapped an arm around my shoulder and steered me through the throng, literally plowing people out of the way. One of the bouncers opened an exit door for us, and we climbed the stairs to the upper floor where we emerged from a side door right onto Velvet Drive.
I sucked in air, and even though it was polluted, it felt like pure oxygen compared to the stuffed air in the club. Slick SUVs and limousines cruised by despite it being almost five a.m., a drunk couple stumbling past us.
“What’s going on Harley?” Rome’s hand still rested on my shoulder.
I wrapped my arms around myself. “Panic attack, I guess.”
“Yeah, I got that. What triggered it?”
“Dunno.” I stared at the flickering LED screen the height of a ten-story building displaying some kind of fashion brand.
“Everything reminds me of him. Every stupid F-150, every guy with dark brown hair and beard, every smell even slightly similar to the kind of soap he uses.” I pressed my fingers to my temples.
“And I feel so empty. It’s like I left a part of myself at the monastery. ”
Rome raked a hand through his hair. “It’ll be like this for a while. But it’ll get better with time.” His gaze became distant. “At least somewhat.”
“Thanks for the encouragement.” We cracked a tired smile at the same time, which made me laugh. Then the tears came.
“ Oh, tesoro, non piangere. ” Rome pulled me into a hug, resting his chin atop the crown of my head.
His Italian reminded me of Latin, which reminded me of Kingsley. My heart crumpled in my chest, the agony manifesting in ugly sobs. Please make this pain stop, Jesus. I know it’s my fault, but I can’t take it anymore.
Yet I knew this had to happen. Even if Kingsley wasn’t a monk, we’d still have done the wrong thing by getting intimate outside of marriage. We both needed to work on our issues individually. We both needed to sit with Jesus individually. We both needed to heal individually.
Rome never let me go as I cried into his chest. Despite being grateful for his comfort, I wished it would be Kingsley who held me. Who chanted until I had calmed down.
But it wasn’t him. It would never again be him.
“What the—”
Rome’s exclamation drew me up. I pulled away from him, wiping at my eyes. “What?”
“Is that you?” He was staring at the big LED screen, and I followed his gaze.
I gasped. “Oh my goodness!”