Chapter 15
Phoenix
Icouldn't say no. Not when the woman I'm obsessing over, with her strikingly dark hair and piercing green eyes, asks me to join her for drinks.
I can tell she's upset, and she might regret her decision tomorrow, but I won't turn down her offer.
She doesn't realize it, but she's got me wrapped around her finger, black nail polish and all.
So, I'm going with it. Besides, she insisted.
Her eyes plead in a way making it impossible to refuse.
I'm obsessed with her, but the closer she gets, the higher the chance she'll discover I was behind Mercy's disappearance—and a whole lot more.
And if she decides to go to the police, I won't have many options.
I'm usually good at covering my tracks. Leaving no traces behind.
I don't want to have to keep lying to her.
What kind of an asshole would I be then?
On the other hand, do I really want to torch whatever this connection between us is before it even starts? Absolutely not.
Roni trails behind me in her beat up, grey sedan as we drive through the dimly lit streets until we pull into the parking lot of the hotel I’m currently calling home.
I park my SUV next to her, the engine's hum fading into the night, and we agree to leave mine behind and take hers instead.
She wouldn't have it any other way, and I can see the determined glint in her eyes.
So I figure I'll play along. I don't have any reason to transport anything tonight. My vehicle’s empty. And I don't have anywhere I need to be.
She drives us to a quaint little pub just a few blocks away.
I've never been here before. It's a far cry from the dingy, dim-lit bar I usually frequent when I want to blend into the background.
The pub has a cozy atmosphere with soft, warm lighting and an almost eerie quietness, especially considering it's a Friday night.
I tell our server to bring me something strong—I don’t care what—and she opts for a glass of red. As we settle into our seats, she leans forward slightly, her eyes curious yet hesitant.
“I hope I'm not being too forward by asking this,” she begins, her voice barely above a whisper, “but why are you staying in a hotel?” I can't help but let out a soft chuckle, amused by her bluntness. It's a valid question; one I would likely pose myself if the roles were reversed.
“It's okay. You can ask me anything you want,” I reassure her with a gentle smile.
“I'm having my new… house built well outside of town, far away from everyone and everything, and it's taking longer than I hoped, with delays in permits and construction.
In the meantime, I'm renting a penthouse on the top floor of the luxury hotel in town, with more than enough space for my essentials.
It's a pretty good distance away from both the construction site and the space where I'm working most days. And it's close to your coffee shop.” I can’t help but smile.
I’m so full of shit. But it is where I found her.
“Oh, building a house. Exciting.” Roni turns her head about, looking around. I can tell she’s dealing with some nerves by the way her fingers twirl the end of her napkin.
“What about you? Where do you live?”
“Oh, uh—” She rubs her nose and looks away, and I worry I’ve hit a sore spot. “Nowhere special. Just a small studio. It’s not as nice.”
“Having your own place, particularly at your age, is impressive,” I say, and a I mean it. “And I don't say this to be rude, but if you ever need help, I'm more than happy to offer. I have enough to spare, whether you need a place to stay for a bit or if you ever get behind on your rent.”
She fixes me with wide, doe-like eyes, her expression a mixture of shock and bewilderment, as if I've just made an unforgivable blunder.
“You don't even know me,” she counters with a trembling voice.
“Hey,” I murmur softly, stretching forward across the wooden table to gently trace my fingers along the curve of her cheek, feeling the warmth of her skin.
“You deserve to be happy more than anything. You deserve at least that.” Her eyes shimmer with unshed tears, and panic flutters in my chest at the thought of unleashing a torrent I won't be able to control.
The last thing I want is to make her cry.
“Oh, My Little Temptress,” I whisper tenderly, my voice barely audible over the gentle hum of the pub. “Don't cry. I'm sorry.”
“Don't apologize,” she quickly interjects, shaking her head slightly.
“You have nothing to be sorry for. I've been on the verge of tears all day. You probably saw someone else in my eyes when you showed up. But these are actually happy tears. Or at least they want to be,” she adds, her voice wavering as she fights to keep them from falling.
“That's the sweetest thing anybody's ever said to me.”
We wade through a couple rounds of drinks, the clinking of glasses punctuating our conversation, while picking at an assortment of pub fare, crispy onion rings, golden fries, and sliders that don't quite hold our attention. None of it really matters.
The laughter between us flickers like candlelight, keeping the night alive with an effortless glow.
Her eyes, bright with curiosity, meet mine as she asks why I'm single at forty-three.
It's another valid question. She's full of them tonight.
I relax back in my chair, the warmth of the pub's dim lights casting shadows over the table, and I begin to recount the story of Sam, the once love of my life from years ago.
Our wild adventures started differently than this quiet evening.
I remember the electric first night at the dance club, the pounding bass syncing with our heartbeats.
We stumbled back to my “apartment,” as I falsely called it, drunk on cheap liquor and anticipation, and, well, it was unforgettable.
But Sam wasn't looking for anything serious.
She vanished from my life, leaving me in the middle of a crowded fairground, clutching a stick of cotton candy which suddenly felt as empty as my heart.
The betrayal built walls around my trust, especially when it came to women.
Years passed, and unexpectedly, I saw her again in a quaint coffee shop.
The aroma of fresh espresso mingled with the surprise of seeing her.
Our conversations picked up effortlessly, and I dared to dream again.
I was on the verge of proposing after what felt like the happiest year of my life, but then, just like before, she disappeared without a trace.
It left me questioning if there was something inherently wrong with me.
Ever since then, I've felt like women view me as nothing more than a bank account or a fleeting thrill. As I share this tangled history, Roni’s gaze never wavers.
She nods slowly, her wine glass poised elegantly in her hand, her eyes soft with empathy and genuine concern, offering silent solace to my battered heart.
“I get it,” she says, her eyes fixed on the rim of her glass as she traces it with her fingertip.
“My dad packed his bags when I was six. Left for Paris. Postcards for two years, then nothing.” She takes a sip, winces slightly.
“Mom worked double shifts at the hospital.
Always made sure I had new shoes for school, but sometimes I'd catch her crying in the bathroom at 3 a.m.”
The bartender calls last round. Her keys jingle between her fingers as she stands, swaying slightly.
The floor seems to tilt beneath me too. I glance at her compact car through the window.
I should offer to take her keys and drive, but I’m in no better shape to drive, and I’m pretty sure she knows it.