12. Now
TWELVE
now
For the first time ever, I kick the shit out of Amir.
My chauffeur-turned-security-liaison, Marco Amir, ordinarily wins every round when we spar. Easily, given his Hulk-like 6’5”-frame. It doesn’t help that he’s also ex-military. And a former detective. And a self-professed gym addict.
As he adjusts the set of his bruising jaw, his dark eyes widen. “Did you take a shot of amphetamines? Because you’re on another level.”
For Gray, for always .
My teeth rip at the boxing glove strapped to my right wrist, unfastening it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I mutter, throwing the gloves into the middle of the ring. “You’re just pathetic today.”
Amir’s black brows arch. “Damn. So it’s like that, huh?”
My non-existent patience completely unravels. “It’s however I want it to be,” I snap. “You work for me , remember?”
In fine form, I tear out of the ring, snatching my duffle bag en-route to the elevators. I don’t so much as glance back before stepping into the cart. “I’ll see you in the morning. Six. Don’t be late.”
A military man through and through, Amir keeps his reply entirely even. “Yes, sir.”
Two floors up, my anger burns off, leaving a puddle of shame behind. I scrub the back of my neck, squeezing my eyes closed.
First Beth, now Marco .
I add his name to the list of out-standing apologies I owe others.
Mom, too , I realize.
On my ride Uptown after work, I bit her head off for pressing me too hard about a date she fixed me up with a few weeks before. Really, I’m just appalled that I can’t even recall the poor girl’s last name by the time my mother called to ask me about her.
And Daniel . Known by most as “The Other Stryker.”
My older cousin basically saved my ass when he stepped up to help me run half of the operations at Stryker & Sons. And, sure, we don’t always agree on various business methods. But he gets shit done. And all I ever do is argue with him. Just this evening, I sent a terse email demanding the poor bastard re-do a project that’s already totally acceptable, just because I could.
Speaking of bastards…
Graham . My asshole best friend, who puts up with more of my moodiness than anyone. I owe him a round of drinks. Or two. Or ten. In fact, I blew him off for the third time in a row last week.
And Dad .
Of course. He always sits at the very top of the list. I basically spend my entire existence apologizing to my father, albeit indirectly.
The elevators swing open, revealing my lonely hallway. Another barb of regret pricks me.
I designed the whole building from scratch… and ironically, the damn hallway outside my own penthouse wound up being the only piece I hate. Because the penthouse takes up the entire top floor, the elevators should just open right into it. Instead, I opted to put a narrow strip of blank space between the elevator doors and the stainless-steel gateway to the apartment.
Needless.
My electronic lock disengages with a swipe from my key card. I shuffle through the pointless door and lean back against the cold metal. Emptiness echoes back at me.
For Gray, for always .
In another fit of impotent rage, I throw my shit to the side. In a normal home, a duffle bag that big would hit something. But I designed my place with surgical minimalism.
White oak, steel, and glass.
From my place on the threshold, I can see the entire floor. It sprawls in a cavernous circle, only interrupted by the metal island off to the right, an occasional piece of furniture, and the fogged glass that partitions off the master bedroom, the terrace, and the guest bath.
Ella would hate it .
It’s not the first time I’ve had that thought. In fact, when I designed the place, I went out of my way to alienate any memory of her. I banished colors, texture, and warmth, opting instead for hard surfaces, clean lines, and cool fixtures.
Usually, my spite comforts me. But not tonight.
For Gray, for always .
Ignoring it all, I turn to the left and make a beeline for the bar along the far edge of the great room. My shaking hand pours out four fingers of gin. I gulp it down, not even bothering to mix it with tonic.
I pant through the liquor’s burn, bracing myself over the ashen bar top with both hands. “Jesus.”
After refilling, I wander over to the glass wall at the back of the penthouse, staring without seeing. I wish—for the thousandth time—that I never rode the godforsaken subway in the first place. That I never noticed the sweet girl huddled in a pile of red yarn. That I never chased her down, asked her out, determined that I had to have her.
But I did.
I had to have her.
And, when she left, I had to let her go.
While I debate the wisdom of reading beyond her book’s dedication, I take my gin for a tour of my shower. By the bottom of my glass and the end of my grooming, I can’t take it anymore.
Not knowing what the book is about feels like a shard of glass lodged in my consciousness. Every time I try to focus on something else, a dart of pain reminds me that I still don’t have answers.
Holding my breath, I slide under my covers and stare up at the dark ceiling, summoning the courage to open the reading app on my phone.
For Gray, for always .
The words stare back at me, proving that I haven’t lost my mind. They’re really there.
I tap past the cover pages to the first chapter. Three pages in, suspicion kicks up. The characters, the settings. Bits of dialogue I worked hard to forget. It’s all too familiar.
A scene in a small park... I scroll ahead, scanning for the location of an upcoming chapter. An art gallery…
My heart fucking stops.
Dear God.