Chapter 3
AMARA
“I swear to God, that drilling is making me go insane. I can feel it in my skull.”
Kira, one of the dental hygienists at Aspen Street Dental, is standing at my desk, her eyes squeezed shut and her finger tips pressed to her temples. Not that I can blame her. The drilling is, in fact, loud.
“I mean. This is a dentist’s office,” Renee, the other hygienist working today, points out as she approaches with a patient chart. “The drilling kind of comes with the territory.”
I take the chart and start typing it into the system. “Don’t forget the screaming.”
“Good point.”
Kira groans dramatically. “Yeah, but that buzzing. Over and over and over. It has to be against the Geneva Convention or something.”
I chuckle. “Sounds like someone has a hangover.”
“She said it, not me,” Renee says while pointing at me.
“How do you know I’m hungover?” Kira moans, still drawing circles on her temples.
“Because it’s nine in the morning and you’re about to vomit from the humming of a dental drill,” I say.
“She’s not wrong,” Renee adds, and Kira throws her a look.
“In my defense, it was two for one last night at Rumors.”
“Why do I have a feeling you had more than two?” I tease.
“Erin is right. Your breath alone smells more like four. Maybe five.”
“Well, if Erin knows so much, she should go out with us sometime.” Kira uses the opportunity to corner me. Not that I am fazed. They do this pretty much every day, trying to get me to go to the town watering hole with them. Every day I say no.
But the thing about dental hygienists? They don’t mind making people uncomfortable. They just keep scratching until they hit a nerve.
“I agree,” Renee chimes in. “In fact, it’s karaoke night tonight.”
“It is!” Kira suddenly perks up. “Come on, Erin, you have to come.”
“Have is a strong word,” I say as I type, though I am biting back a smile. Their efforts are amusing, I’ll give them that.
“I just don’t understand,” Kira says. “You’re young. You’re gorgeous. There’s literally nothing else to do in this town.”
I drag my eyes from the screen for a second. “Nothing else to do other than get drunk off Pbr pitchers at a seedy bar while listening to Hank from the hardware store sing a Billy Ray Cyrus song?”
“Excuse you! We drink cranberry vodkas, all of which are bought for us, and we sing ABBA hits, thank you very much,” Renee corrects me, and I laugh even though the very mention of vodka turns my stomach sour.
“I’m more of a tequila girl.”
“Hell yeah!” Kira lets out as if her body has completely forgotten about her hangover. “Shots!”
Renee joins in. “Shots! Shots! Shots!”
“No, no.” I wave my hands. “I don’t do shots.”
“Margs then,” Kira says. “They serve ‘em in fish bowls. Six bucks if you order during happy hour.”
“Free if you’re us,” Renee says.
I roll my chair away from the desk and stand up, pointing at my belly.
“Oh, right. The bump,” Kira says as if I don’t look like a bowling ball.
“I keep forgetting. You’re still so tiny,” Renee says. “But listen. They make most of their cocktails virgin.”
They’re both staring at me as I sit back down. “I’m good. Thanks for the invite though.”
“I think she’s secretly married and her old man won’t let her go out and play,” Kira whispers.
“Either that or she’s a nun. Wait. Are you Mormon?” Rennee asks. “Mormons don’t drink.”
“They do have a lot of babies though,” Kira adds.
“I am not married. Or religious. And this is my first baby. I am simply just not interested. Sorry, ladies. My bar hopping days are in my past.”
A mom with four kids in tow walks in. It’s our cue to get back to work, and for the Party Bus to leave without me.
Honestly, I don’t hate going out. Even if I can’t have a drink, chilling at a bar—even a rundown one—is a nice way to melt away the stresses of the week. Or in my case, my life.
But it’s Friday. And that means one thing.
Eliza will be out with some girls she met at the Salon.
Gianni has plans with some of the other mechanics at the shop.
And Bella, despite insisting she is friendless and her life ended back in New York, is going to the mall and then the movies.
If I had to guess, not alone. And that means I will be alone.
The very idea of it sounds glorious.
I stop at the grocery store and grab a few things to make a spicy curry stir fry. Now that the morning sickness has fully run its course, I have food cravings. The spicier the better.
After I get home, I toss it all in a pan until my whole house smells like an Indian restaurant. Then I change into sweats and nestle on the couch with my plate in one hand and the remote in the other.
But as I doomscroll through Hulu’s never-ending library, I find my mind drifting away. Far away. Sixish states away, to be exact.
This happens a lot on nights like this. During the chaos of the week, between work and hanging out with my siblings and taking care of things around the house, I don’t have time for thoughts like these. They’re intrusive. Nagging. Tempting. Like nicotine to a lifetime smoker.
I take a deep breath and let it out, then turn off the TV.
The thing about… him… is that from the first time I saw him, the first he looked at me, I’ve been hooked. There’s something about those steely blue eyes, that sharp clean shaven jawline. That scowl. It’s hypnotizing. Addictive. Possessive.
I close my eyes, unable to keep myself from falling back into the memory. Unable to tune out his voice. His words. His demands.
“Who do you belong to?”
“You.”
“Who are you loyal to?”
“You.”
“Who owns you?”
“You do, Mr. Rozanov.”
“Good girl.”
I gasp, my eyes fluttering open and I realize I might have to change my pants. Hell, I might have to shampoo the couch.
I want to shake it away. I need to. So I get up, finish my food as I walk, and rinse my bowl in the sink. Then I brace my hands on the counter while slowly, my eyes drag over to my laptop sitting on the desk in the corner.
I shouldn’t. I can’t.
I need to.
Just. One. Peek.
Before I can talk some sense into myself, I grab my laptop and open it. Then I look around and decide to take it to my bedroom.
I sit cross-legged on the bed and open my laptop again. My fingers hover over the keys for a moment and then, one letter at a time, I type in the web address. The one I used when I worked for him to log into the system. Both systems.
Surely, my username is no longer valid. After all, I don’t work for him anymore.
And even if it still exists, my password is most likely expired.
When I type it, it will most likely kick me off and that will be that.
I will have done nothing wrong and no one will be the wiser.
Maybe just typing it in will be enough to get it out of my system.
And then I can go back to the couch and enjoy my quiet evening alone and—
The login works.
I’m in the system.
And I can see everything Ransome is doing.
“Holy shit.”