Cera
SEVENTEEN
The Doubloon: Krewes mint their own doubloons, coins stamped with an emblem and flung to the crowd, valuable only inside the world that made them. The money still landed in her account, stamped with a silence she could not spend.
I pull the wig on and tuck the last of my brown hair under the cap. The platinum falls around my shoulders, smooth and cold against my collarbone. I lean closer to the mirror and slide the first contact into place. Blue replaces the reflection I know.
Foundation next. I blend it over the line of my chin and down my throat, smoothing the color into something camera-ready.
I step back and check the full picture. Mask in place, camisole on, and Peoria stares back at me.
The laptop sits open at my desk, the screen dim in the half-sleep mode. I wake it up with the mouse and log into OnlyFans. It's 9:57, three minutes until our scheduled call.
I adjust the angle of the camera and test the lighting. Everything looks right. I smooth my hands down the black silk on my chest and wait.
The clock ticks over to 10:00.
I refresh the call interface. The connection shows green on my end, ready to receive. The indicator light on his side stays red.
I sit back and cross my arms, knowing he'll be on any second. Midnight is never late. He'll join any second now.
10:07.
I refresh again, still nothing.
A car passes outside, and headlights sweep across my bedroom wall. I tap my nails against the desk, then stop because the sound is too loud in my otherwise quiet apartment.
10:16.
I open the app on my phone and check to see if I missed a message. Nothing.
Maybe he forgot. We've been doing the same three days, Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday, for months and he's never forgotten.
The thought tightens my chest, but I shove it down. Things come up, schedules collide. He could have gotten pulled into something urgent and lost track of time.
10:30.
I pick my phone back up and type a message through the platform chat.
Everything okay?
I stare at the text, then delete it. Too needy, too whiney. I try again.
Running late tonight?
That sounds worse. I delete it, too.
The cursor blinks in the empty box, waiting for me to say something that doesn't make me feel small. I close the chat instead.
10:43.
The light never turns green.
I click my camera off and remove the wig, dropping it on the desk. My real hair sticks to my scalp, flattened and damp with sweat. I pry the contacts out one at a time and blink until my vision clears. Brown eyes stare back at me from the mirror, tired.
I go to the bathroom and turn on the faucet. Cold water runs over my hands, and I splash it on my face. Mascara streaks down my cheeks in thin black lines. Foundation smears across my fingers. I scrub harder, watching the woman I built for him wash away and circle the drain.
The red lipstick clings. I wipe it off with a towel, and the fabric comes away stained.
I lean against the sink and let the water run until my hands go numb under the stream.
I turn off the faucet and dry my face. The towel smells like my detergent. I press it into my nose and breathe it in a few breaths. I go back to my bedroom and climb into bed without turning on another light. I don't look at my phone.
Fuck him.
The elevator doors slide open on my floor, and I step out. The coffee in my hand is bitter, but I drink it anyway. I must have left it in the pot too long, or my pot needs a cleaning. Who the hell knows?
I didn't sleep at all. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the black screen and the clock ticking past midnight.
I drop my bag at my desk and log into my computer, initiating the startup sequence. Wells has our server locked down like Fort Knox.
Once everything loads and I put in my twenty-thousand passwords, I pull up the Rotterdam file, scanning the notes with Wells's feedback. He wants me to refine the risk visualization before the partner review on Monday. I open the draft and stare at the screen.
My phone vibrates in my bag. I pull it out, half hoping for a message from Midnight. The screen shows a notification about a dentist appointment next Tuesday. I lock the phone and shove it back into my bag.
The office door opens behind me. I don't turn around, but I know the sound of Wells's footsteps and the faint smell of cigarettes that always precedes him. He stops near my desk.
"Did you get my feedback?"
His voice is flat. Not angry, not warm. Functional.
I turn and nod. "I did. I can work on that now and have it done before lunch if you want. Unless there's something else you want me to work on this morning."
"I'd like you to focus on this first."
I wait for him to add something. A comment about the file or a question about the timeline.
He doesn't say anything else. His gaze moves past me to the screen on my desk, then back to my face.
It's honestly been so weird since Florida.
Sometimes he's warm and flirty, other times he's so cold I wonder if I did something to piss him off.
I'm sick of trying to anticipate him or whatever it is he wants from me.
Expectations, I hear Locke saying.
"I'll send them over in twenty minutes."
"Fine."
He walks to his office and closes the door.
I turn back to my monitor and pull the notes into an email draft. My fingers move over the keys, but my brain is sluggish.
I finish the email and hit send. The whoosh sound confirms it went through. I stare at the screen and try to focus on the next task.
My phone buzzes again. I pull it out, annoyed. A banking app notification fills the screen.
Deposit: $6,000.00
I blink, click through to the date, wondering if it's last month's payment. The date is today.
It's Midnight's payment. He always pays the full month up front on the first. Last night was the end of the month, the last day of the month he already paid.
I open the app and check the transaction details again, wanting to see when it was initiated. The deposit cleared at 3:17 AM, hours after he stood me up.
He still hasn't messaged me or explained why he missed our call. But he paid.
I lock my phone and set it face down on my desk. I swear I can't with these men who can't decide if they are in or out.
Francesca from Finance walks past with a stack of folders toward the break room. The office moves around me, business as usual, while I sit here holding money that says one thing and silence that says another.
I wake up Saturday morning no better rested than I was yesterday. I figure it's a good time to get some errands done.
The bell above the door chimes when I walk into the dry cleaner. The smell of steam and the chemical unique to here hits me first. It's always muggy in here, too, no matter what is going on with the weather.
A woman behind the counter glances up, balancing her phone between her ear and shoulder while holding out her hand. She says something in a foreign language into the phone. Maybe French.
"Ticket?"
I hand it over and watch her disappear into the racks. The fluorescent lights overhead hum. I shift my weight and pull out my phone to check the time. I should grab groceries after this. Maybe stop somewhere for lunch. Do something that feels normal.
The bell chimes again.
I glance back and freeze.
Cas walks through the door, ticket already in hand, sunglasses pushed up into his hair. He stops when he sees me.
"Cera."
Of course. Of fucking course.
I turn back toward the counter and force my voice into something light. "Hey."
He steps closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne. It's the same brand he always wore, Ralph Lauren Polo 67. It's probably the same bottle I bought him for Christmas. Shitbird.
"I didn't know you still came here."
"Same block as my apartment," I say. "Are you living around here, too?"
"No, I moved uptown. Old habits are hard to break. I know the flow here, so…."
Uptown. Right. Because he moved out of the apartment we shared four months ago, six days after I lost my job, and found somewhere better, but still comes back to our neighborhood.
The clerk returns with my clothes wrapped in plastic. I take them and pay, keeping my focus on the transaction.
"Oh, one more bag. Hold on," she says to me before turning to Cas. "Ticket?"
He steps up to the counter and hands his over.
We end up standing side by side while the clerk disappears again.
"You look good," he says.
I glance at him. He is smiling, easy and familiar, the same expression he used to wear when he wanted something.
"Thanks."
"How have you been?"
"Busy. You?"
"Same. Work is insane. But good. It's really good to see you."
I smile but don't reciprocate. Because it isn't good to see him.
The clerk comes back with his shirts, and my second bag that only has one shirt. I could have lived without this shirt until next time.
He gives her two twenties and tells her to keep the change. What a gentleman. We both turn toward the door. I push it open and step into the sunlight. The brightness makes me squint.
Cas follows me out onto the sidewalk. I expect him to say goodbye and head the other direction. Instead, he stops next to me.
"Coffee? Ten minutes. For old times' sake. I want to catch up."
I look at him. His expression is open, hopeful, like the past four months didn't happen. Like he didn't leave me scrambling to cover rent and scraping together an OnlyFans account to survive.
"That sounds like a phrase people use right before they make a terrible decision."
He grins. "So that is a yes?"
I should say no. I should walk away and spend my Saturday doing literally anything else. Locke is in Vegas, and I'm pathetically inside my own head.
The week has left me hollow, and the idea of sitting across from someone who already knows me seems easier than pretending to be fine alone.
"That is me making no promises about being pleasant."
"Fair enough."
We start walking. The café is two blocks down, a place we used to go together on weekends. I wonder if he picked it on purpose or if he just forgot.
The silence stretches between us. I clutch the dry cleaning against my chest and keep my eyes on the sidewalk.