Chapter 6
six
The smell of coffee on a Monday morning is decidedly not a good sign.
Tris only brews her own coffee on the not-so-rare occasions when she has overnight guests. And she only brings me coffee when she needs a favor.
An unholy combination, I assure you.
My door bursts open without warning. Then there’s some bustling. The sound of my stuff hitting the floor. The sheer of my curtain ripped to the side. My shoulders are already hiked up to my ears, even before an all-too-chipper, “Good morning!” rings out.
Her voice only gets louder as she plops onto my mattress. “Up and at ’em, Alley Cat.”
I crack one eye open, squinting against the meager light from my brick-wall-facing window.
When we moved into the tiny Greenwich Village walk-up on Bleeker Street, we decided Tris would take the room with an actual view. It’s bigger, after all, and she pays our rent.
Not for long, I hope.
“Tris,” I whine, closing my eyes again. “I need to sleep.”
While she was out, I spent the evening on my laptop and three new concept boards. It took half the night, but I managed to come up with a handful of themes for Ella to use as a jumping-off point. We have our first planning session this afternoon—and I’m so nervous, I barely got any sleep at all.
Ignoring my protests, Tris flashes her wide, white, winning smile. “I made you coffee.”
Wary, I lurch upright. “Tris… what did you do now?”
Still grinning like the Cheshire Cat, she shrugs her slender shoulders and swipes the auburn fringe of her side bangs off her forehead.
“What are you talking about? I just made coffee.” She stands abruptly, showing off her lithe figure in an electric-blue jumpsuit and matching heels.
“I have to run, though,” she goes on, casual as ever.
“Big meeting with my boss. Your boss, too, now, technically.”
That is too true. When I originally left my old job, I naively believed I’d be my own boss. Turns out, we all work for someone.
The man from the coffee shop rolls over my other thoughts. An irrational burst of hurt follows, then a lash of hatred. None of it makes any sense. It’s been three days, and the guy was simply doing his job, trying to keep my friend safe for her adoring fiancé.
How can I possibly hate him for that? And why am I still so embarrassed?
I’m not sure. If I figure it out, I’ll let you know. Though I suspect it has something to do with the way I basically slunk off in shame after Ella and I made our plans for this week.
I gently nudged her into doing our first set of sessions at her townhome. That way, I figure, she won’t need security to tail her anywhere. If I have the smallest pinch of luck, it’s possible I won’t even run into him.
Marco Amir.
His name rings in my head without permission. I do my best to mentally crumple it, reminding myself I have much bigger fish to fry.
Namely, a celebrity wedding. In less than four months.
Unfortunately for the rabid press, if her Pinterest boards are any indication, Ella’s taste trends toward the understated.
Except when it comes to her crazy color palettes…
and the dessert table. I’ve made a custom-painted vision board to bring with me today, although I’m decidedly unexcited about hauling it in and out of the subway.
Because I’ll be damned if I use that business card Marco gave me.
Instead of leaving my coffee on my nightstand, Tris carries the mug to the door of my thimble-sized room, waving it slightly to tempt me out of bed. “Up, up, uhhhhp!” she sings.
With a grumble, I roll to my feet and reach for the robe wadded up at the foot of my tiny full-sized mattress. The mirror shoved into the opposite corner doesn’t do me any favors, reflecting my pale, haggard face back at me, along with my limp blonde hair.
At least the robe covers most of my body. The fluff layered around my middle, the rolls under my ribs, the cellulite padding my thighs.
Ugh. I pull the sash tighter.
Edging carefully past the half-finished painting on my easel and one of the corkboards laden with the Strykers’ wedding details, I barely make it out of the room without toppling everything. I almost breathe a sigh of relief. Then I step into our living room.
“Tris,” I hiss. “What in the…”
At my side, my best friend shrugs one shoulder again. “Sunday Scaries.”
As if that explains the two—not one, two—naked men face-down on our sofa and rug.
“You had a threesome in our living room?” I whisper-shout.
“Well, it’s not like all of us would have fit in my bedroom, silly,” Tris replies, rolling her eyes. “And, technically, it was a foursome. The other girl went home. She was nice. Great boobs.”
Lord, have mercy. “You had an orgy in our living room?”
Dark red brows knit over bright hazel eyes. “Is four people an orgy? I feel like that implies a minimum of five.”
I clench my teeth together. “Beatrice Eleanor Dunn. You let three strangers in here?”
“Mellow, Mom,” she scoffs. “Everyone was safe. Nothing is stolen or broken. And they aren’t strangers. I know them from the karaoke bar.”
I open my mouth to argue, but my roommate is already in motion. She rarely pauses, in general. “Anyway, Alley Cat, I’m outie. I have that showing so… Have a great day!”
I grab her elbow. “No way are you leaving me here with them!” I hiss. “What am I supposed to say when they wake up?”
“Tell them…” Tris slips out of my grasp and makes for the door, outpacing me with her long legs. “…the coffee’s fresh! Okaygottago, loveyoumeanit, byeeee!”
“Tris!” Desperate, I lunge to grab the door handle just in time for the slab to slam in my face.
Frantic, I dash into the kitchen before either man rouses.
There really isn’t any place to hide, though.
The whole “room” barely covers six square feet from the doorway to the fridge.
And I only have enough space to turn between the brick wall and the four-foot wooden countertop along the only stretch of cabinets.
I glare at the full coffee pot, hating everything it stands for. Ridiculous Tris with her stupid coffee bribes and her orgies….
Someone shifts in the living room, and I press further back, my butt bumping the black fridge and the collection of Christmas cards still taped up there. I’ve asked my roommate to throw them out at least once a week since New Year’s, but Tris is notoriously horrible at cleaning.
Rolling my eyes, I rip them down, ignoring my stab of guilt. They are all hers, of course. Postcards and pictures from high school and college friends, exes, clients, her extended family.
Only one has my name on it—typed onto a label, clearly mass-printed from some sort of master list. I flip the thick piece of cardstock over in my hand, giving the picture on the front one last glare.
My mother looks gorgeous, as always. Coiffed to perfection in a cheerful red wrap dress, perched with her manicured hand casually resting on her husband’s shoulder.
Richard looks as fit and wealthy as ever. While my mother grins, he keeps his expression stoic and stares the camera down, daring it to disapprove of how much he doesn’t care about some silly Christmas card.
But he still sat for the picture. Because not sending out a Christmas card doesn’t look good. And Richard cares about appearances almost as much as my mother does.
By the time I finish shoving all the cards into the trash can stashed under our tiny sink, I hear the front door open and close.
When I bend out of the small strip of space, I see that one of Tris’s hookups—Floor Guy—has fled, leaving The Man On The Futon behind.
He stirs, moaning quietly and twitching against the morning sunlight.
Still totally naked.
I sigh at the pot of fresh coffee on the counter. Knowing I’m about to end up offering this bare-butted stranger a cup. And wondering if my roommate will ever remember that I prefer tea.