Chapter 24
AMARA
It’s been a long time since I’ve woken up to the sound of a phone buzzing over and over again.
So long, in fact, that for a minute, I assume it’s a dream. Not real life. Because what even is real life right now?
But as it stops buzzing and then starts up again, I realize I’m not dreaming it. I have my phone. And someone is calling.
I bolt upright and grab my phone from the coffee table. I was so tired last night that I didn’t even check my messages or call anyone. I didn’t even doomscroll. I just downed my Don Julio and passed the fuck out.
Which means I have catching up to do.
“Hello?” I answer just before the line goes dead.
“Amara! Oh my God, where have you been?!” Eliza’s voice is so refreshing that hot tears immediately spring to my eyes. I want to hug her through the phone.
But there’s urgency in it, too, and I’m not sleepy enough to miss it.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I was working and I lost my phone and—is everything okay?”
“Everything is fine,” she reassures me. “But we miss you. Hey, are you working today?”
Today… today… What the fuck is today?
It hits me that it’s Saturday. I don’t work Saturdays. Not for Apex anyways. And I’m not answering my other boss today either. After kidnapping me and dumping a new job description on me, he owes me some PTO.
“I don’t,” I smile, sitting cross legged on the couch. I still haven’t been able to bring myself to sleep in the bed. I’m not sure that I ever will. The idea of it is too erotic, and in light of the current state of events, that would just make things… messy.
“So how about lunch?” she asks.
I bite my lip as the obvious question fills the room like an elephant. I get up and pad over to the door. And to my surprise, it opens. Not only that, but Ivan isn’t standing there.
I’m so happy I literally do a little dance.
“I’ll do you one better,” I tell her, skipping towards the bathroom. “Let’s get breakfast.”
“Wait…” she pauses, and I can hear the excitement in her voice. “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”
“Yep,” I grin, looking in the bathroom mirror and pulling the hair tie from my head. Then I put the phone on speaker, set it down, and work my fingers through my hair into a loose braid.
“Gianni! Bella! Get dressed. Amara says we’re going to the Waffle House!”
I laugh as I hear their excitement. The Waffle House was a staple when we were kids.
We hated it. I think it’s because it was the only place close enough to home that we could walk, which at the time meant it was a little bit janky.
But now, it feels like an old tradition, and I’ve never craved it more.
We hang up so I can get ready. I make my way to the kitchen for a glass of water, suddenly realizing that I am literally in my bra and underwear. I wasn’t about to sleep in the clothes I was wearing last night.
But I can’t bring myself to rummage through his closet either. As much as I don’t love the idea slipping back into dirty clothes, I don’t feel like I have much choice.
And then I see it.
A bag by the front door.
I don’t know how I missed it before. I was probably too busy checking to see if I was still a prisoner.
Normally, the sudden appearance of a bag by the door would be a red flag. But it happens to be my suitcase, a bright pink one I bought with my first Apex paycheck when I found out that we would sometimes be traveling for work. The idea was so glamorous that I treated myself to a snazzy luggage set.
I walk curiously towards it, looking for a note or any indicator of why it’s here. When I don’t find anything, I decide to open it.
It’s filled with my things. Not just work outfits, but leisure too. Leggings and tank tops and hoodies and jeans.
It’s obviously Ransome’s doing. I’m not entirely sure how he pulled it off, but right now, I’m not going to think about it. I am off the clock from all things Ransome.
I opt for the leggings and an old t-shirt and go change.
My sister Eliza jumps me as soon as I climb out of the Uber. “I missed you so much!” she squeals as she squeezes me.
“It hasn’t been that long,” I laugh. “But I missed you too.”
After she finally lets go, Gianni smiles and envelops me in a hug too. “Hey, sis.”
“Hey yourself. Have you been working out?”
“A little,” he says, and I can see the heat in his cheeks. Gianni is all of seventeen and too cool for school and everything else. Except with me.
“Alright, out of the way,” Bella says, shoving Gianni aside.
Our youngest sister is the spiciest of us all, though I probably come in as a close second.
She’s fifteen, her hair is bleach blonde with colorful streaks and chopped off in a messy pop, and I haven’t seen her without fishnets in at least six months.
“I missed you,” I tell her.
“I know,” she says back. She’s the tough lover too, which makes sense. It can’t have been easy growing up without Mom entirely and watching Dad at the peak of his downfall.
And speaking of downfalls…
“Look at this place,” I say as we all head into the restaurant. “Has it changed at all?”
“Nope,” Gianni grins.
“And guessing by the smell, I think it’s even the same oil.”
We all laugh and head to a table in the corner, the same one we always sat at when we were younger.
“God, this brings back memories, doesn’t it?” Eliza says as she slips into the booth.
“It does.” I feel myself smile.
“Do you remember,” she goes on, “how we used to come here after you worked a shift at the grocery store and you bought us all dinner?”
“And we usually had to walk because my car was never running right,” I add.
“I just remember all of you taking turns carrying me because I complained about my feet hurting,” Bella says with a grin.
“Anything was better than staying at home,” Gianni says as the waitress approaches, a girl too young and too new to know the history in these bacon-scented walls.
“Anything is still better than being at home,” Bella huffs. And those words hurt.
I watch my siblings, who are all a decent handful of years younger than me, as they order waffles and pancakes and fight over whether strawberries or syrup is a better topping.
Bella orders black coffee for herself, and it hits me how grown-up she is while still being a kid.
And it makes me wonder what things might have been like if our mom had been around.
It’s a question I have asked myself here and there throughout life.
Growing up without one is hell on a kid. It doesn’t matter how old you are or whether you are a boy or a girl. Moms, it seems, are the stitching to a family’s fabric. And when that stitching is gone, everything just sort of falls apart. Dads included.
I remember turning to him when I realized she was gone.
Like really, really gone. And looking up at him for answers.
For stability. Reassurance. But he had nothing.
He offered no comfort, no answers, no promises.
He started leaving for work earlier and coming home late, though it wasn’t because he was working.
He was going straight from the job site to the bar, coming home way past bedtime or not at all.
And the times he did come home, he was too drunk to be a dad.
After a month or so of that, I realized the hard truth: I was the parent now.
Bella was little. Eliza was afraid. And Gianni was angry.
So I stepped into her shoes, metaphorically and physically.
We lived years upon years on hand-me-downs and makeshift dinners.
I used cash I found in my dad’s wallet when he passed out at night to buy groceries.
He didn’t seem to notice because he didn’t eat anything I made.
He just drank. And drank. And drank.
Eventually he became the bottle. Sour, empty, gone. And while he still comes around, he hasn’t changed. It’s more like he comes home when he needs a place to crash. His kids don’t acknowledge him. I doubt he even notices they’re there.
It’s why this job was such a big deal. It’s why I made a point of being so damn good at it. As I moved to the city to be closer to work, I hyperfocused on being the personal assistant to Ransome Rozanov. And that bled into hyperfocusing just on him.
He was a man of action. A man of stature. A man people listened to, respected, aspired to be. And he was dead fucking sexy the day I met him. It was… distracting. Appealing. Mysterious. And consuming.
“Amara? Are you listening to this?” Eliza yanks me from my thoughts and I am brought back to the noisy table. “Gianni says that he thinks his car—you know, the junker in the garage?— could beat a Ferrari.”
“It could,” he says with a cocky grin, his tattooed forearm on the table.
“Ferraris race jets,” Bella snorts.
“And lose.” Gianni takes a bite of his pancakes the second they’re set in front of him. “Listen. I built that engine from the ground up. I know what she’s capable of.”
Eliza sets her fork down with a clamor. “Why is it that men always refer to their cars as ‘she’?”
“Because she’s sexy as hell.” Gianni winks. Bella crinkles her nose in teenage disgust.
“Cringe.”
But as they bicker, I just smile. And I find my eyes stinging again. As chaotic as it all is, I miss this. I love this. I have to maintain this.
No matter what it costs.
The penthouse is quiet when I get back and toss my purse on the counter. That’s when I notice surprise number two. This time, it’s a white box with a black ribbon.
And this time, there is a tag on it.
I kick off my shoes and pad over to investigate when my phone goes off. Mindlessly, I answer it, not even bothering to look at the caller ID.
“Hello?”
“Amara!” Electra’s voice cuts through, sounding both exasperated and relieved. “Jesus, woman, did you fall off the planet again? Or let me guess—tight ass has you working overtime again.”
“Both,” I say, playing with the ribbon for a moment. Whatever it is, it’s fancy as fuck.
“Whatever,” she rattles off. “Find something to wear. Because we are going out tonight.”
“Where?” I ask as I turn the tag over to read it.
We are going out tonight. It’s a masquerade. Be ready at eight.
— Ransome
“I was thinking Ace’s. Or the Blue Olive. Yes, let’s go to the Blue Olive. I got some new heels that need to be broken in by drunken dancing and I think it’s salsa night.”
I set the phone to speaker and place it on the counter so I can open the box. It’s a red sequined dress. No, not a dress—a gown. Paired with it is a black, feathered partial mask.
“I can’t,” I say distantly, my attention one million percent on the thousands of sequins in my hands.
“What do you mean you can’t?” she blurts out. “Amara, we haven’t been out in ages.”
“I know. I just… I have dinner plans. Maybe tomorrow.”
“Dinner plans?” She zeroes in on the words like a hound on a scent. “With who?”
“It’s business.”
Electra lets out a persecuted sigh. “Fine. Tomorrow. That works anyway because we are going to meet with some people.”
“Okay,” I say as I run my thumb over the handwriting on the tag.
Ransome. He wrote Ransome. Not Mr. Rozanov. Not R.R., as he sometimes does on business letters. Ransome.
“Okay, cool. Mulligans. And don’t ghost! You’re my best friend and I miss you.”
“I miss you too,” I say before hanging up. And I do. But right now, my life is a little complicated. It’s hot and cold and dangerous.
And, apparently, covered in sequins.