Chapter 5
Karey Justice
Misery hangs over me like a dark, stormy cloud. I scuff my sole on the sidewalk and hunker down deeper into my coat to ward off the wind.
The bruise covering my right forearm pulses and my right ear rings, but the swelling on my face is gone, and my makeup held firm all day today.
The pain in my left leg has lessened to a dull throb, but it was never sharp enough to cause a limp, so I continue down the concrete in my trusty shoes.
I haven’t cried since my mom died when I was eight, but I almost broke that streak last night when my new roommate proved to be not as asexual as he claimed.
Guilt worms through me and adds fuel to the mental storm brewing above me.
I wouldn’t have gotten away without the self-defense class I take every Saturday night at Mr. Carter’s gym, the place I just left, although not for a class.
Tonight the ladies coordinated a surprise party for Hilary. Her husband proposed again. It was sweet.
I’m happy for her, truly, but I barely made it through congratulating her before I bolted for the door.
Which isn’t like me. She deserved better.
I just don’t have it in me to smile tonight. A few decent hours of sleep and a couple ibuprofen, and I’ll be back to the smiley, bubbly woman everyone expects me to be twenty-four-seven, three-sixty-five no matter what horrible thing life throws at me.
I bury the resentful thought, greet the bellhop, rush through the hotel lobby, and jab the elevator button.
As a professional matchmaker, I inevitably always know someone no matter where I go, and after my horrible day yesterday—from being sore from moving the day before, to an unfortunate run-in with my high school bullies, to seeing the grown version of the boy I thought would be my knight in shining armor forever, and then being attacked by my new roommate—the last thing I want is for someone to recognize me and strike up a conversation in the hotel lobby.
I’ve missed more than one elevator because of a chatty mom or grandma desperate to marry off their son, and I cannot afford that today.
Oscar Oswald, one of my high school bullies, exits the lounge and heads toward the front desk.
Horror clogs my throat. The elevator dings.
Half panicked, I slip sideways through the doors—uncaring how ridiculous I must look trying to squeeze my fat self through—the second there’s enough room and stumble toward the back.
I crash into a living wall.
Mortification sweeps through me. Too embarrassed to look up, I fumble through a barely coherent apology and press my back into the far corner, hoping the stranger’s exit will block me from view long enough for the doors to close.
My heart pounds in my ears and exacerbates the ringing on my right side.
With my eyes trained on the tips of my shoes, praying for the safety of my room, I wait until the doors slide closed to look up.
Declan Buchanan pierces my soul with his condescending grey eyes. My heart leaps while my stomach sinks.
“What floor?” he asks.
Wasn’t he getting off?
After the way he treated me yesterday, I need out right now, but the lobby isn’t safe. Not a complete idiot, I say the floor three levels above mine.
Despite standing closer to the back of the elevator than the front, he selects the button without leaning his big body or moving his feet. I swallow as I register the difference in our size.
He could crush me without even trying.
I’d prefer a physical blow, even from his massive hands, to the emotional agony he caused me in middle school and again yesterday.
I drop my gaze back to my feet and ignore him until the elevator dings. Sensing freedom, I mumble another thanks and dart forward.
Long fingers wrap around my bruised forearm. A yelp escapes my throat as agony streaks up my arm.
Declan jerks his hand away as though I bit him, but he crowds me back into the corner with his bulk.
“You’re hurt,” he growls.
“I’m fine.”
He grabs my elbow and works my sleeve up to reveal the bruise. I swallow, but emotions clog my throat.
“Who did this? Who hurt you?” he demands.
I pull my arm out of his grasp and shake my head.
“Karey,” he warns.
My name from his perfect lips is too much.
“No! You don’t get to pretend to care or treat me like some circus act. Leave me alone,” I snap.
Despite his greater strength, he moves aside and lets me pass when I shove at him.
A glutton for punishment, I steal a glance behind me as I turn the corner. My insides twist and throb at the intensity in his grey eyes. A sense of doom joins the storm building over my head.
Declan Buchanan may have been an ass yesterday, but when he sets his sights on something, he doesn’t stop until he gets it.
He wants me.
He can’t have me.
My heart hurts.
I take a deep breath and duck into the little side room with the vending and ice machines, wait a few agonizing seconds until the elevator doors close, then head toward the stairs.
Each step downward highlights the hitch in my hip and the bruise on my knee, but I plod onward and ignore the stormy cloud brewing above my head as it attempts to swallow me whole.
My phone rings as I reach for the door to my floor. I curse the timing—and my labored breathing; I was going down the stairs, not up, damn it—and check caller ID as I open the door.
The moniker Boy toy #1 sits at the top of the screen. I gnaw on my lip as I yank open the door and step through.
I don’t have a boy toy, but Matthew, my best friend since middle school, has a weird sense of humor.
He stole my phone and changed his and his boyfriend’s name in my contacts a while ago, and he’s so ridiculously proud of himself I haven’t been able to bring myself to change it.
Boy toy #1 and Boy toy #2 are inseparable.
They’re one of the few couples I haven’t matched that seem ready to go the distance.
Boy toy #2, Fabio, proposed two months ago and moved in a week later.
The newly engaged couple insisted I could take my time moving out, but I couldn’t stay.
I’m happy for them and want nothing but the best for my best friend, but it hurt too much to have their happiness in my face every day when I’ll never have the same.
Fate is cruel.
I’ve been besties with Matthew for so long, he’ll know something is wrong the moment I answer the phone, but if I don’t, he might rush over to my new apartment in a panic.
I sigh, plaster on a fake smile even though it’s only a voice call, and hit answer before I chicken out. Without looking up, I tuck the phone between my ear and my shoulder and open my purse as I continue down the hall.
Everything I own besides the clothes on my back, my phone, and my purse—which I thankfully had the wherewithal to grab during my frantic escape—is still at my new apartment.
If it weren’t for my laptop and prescriptions, I’d never go back, but I can’t do without those for very long.
Chills race down my spine as I recall popping awake to my laptop’s lock screen as Brad loomed over me, but I shove the memory away and focus on the present.
I infuse a bit more sweetness than normal into my voice in hopes Matthew won’t notice my frazzled state.
“Hey, ho-o-o-o-ney, babe, the apple of my eye. Let me guess, boy toy number two is right beside you demanding a replay, isn’t he?”
Matthew says yes with a tragic yet loving sigh.
As I pour what little enthusiasm I have into my retelling of my friend’s second proposal, I find my room key but wait to scan it. If the men on the other side of the line hear the beep, they’ll know something is wrong.
My head grows heavier as I near the end of my story, so I rest my forehead on my hotel room door and close my eyes as I wait for their response.
Thank the stars above I keep three antidepressant pills hidden in the tiny inner zipper pocket of my purse, otherwise I wouldn’t have gotten out of bed this morning, although maybe that would’ve been for the better.
Now I only have two left, which means I have to go back to my new apartment either tomorrow or the next day.
I just had the bottle refilled, so I can’t request more from my doctor for at least another month.
Fabio squeals. I pull my phone away from my ear, scan my key card, and twist the door handle before he thanks me with tons of noisy air kisses.
His flamboyance is the extreme opposite of Matthew’s straight-presenting reserve, but somehow they make it work.
They’re a perfect example of opposites attracting.
A little ray of sunshine breaks through the storm. I shoulder open the door and swallow a spiked lump of emotions as Matthew says thanks before his routine sign off.
“Alright. Love you, too. Bye,” I say and end the call.
I step into my brightly lit hotel room, toss my phone and purse on the corner of the bed, and shrug out of my coat.
The hairs on my nape rise as I realize the door hasn’t clicked shut. For a moment, I can’t move as horror washes over me.
My new roommate found me. Or worse, the guy in the lobby followed me upstairs.
God, I’m such an idiot for walking around unaware of my surroundings. I’m stupid for letting down my guard for even a second.
As though trapped in slow motion, I turn.
Larger than life, Declan Buchanan leans his shoulder against my fully opened door. His massive frame blocks my entire view of the hallway. My instincts scream for me to escape, but there’s nowhere for me to go.
Darkness narrows my vision. All the oxygen leaves the room. I can’t breathe.
Slate-grey eyes capture mine. He moves. I flinch.
It’s a stupid reaction. He’s on the far side of the room, way out of even his long reach, but I can’t stop it any more than I can erase the cloud of misery hanging over my head.
He freezes with his arms partially crossed in front of his chest. He hasn’t moved from out of the doorway, so he hasn’t stepped deeper into the room, but that also means he hasn’t given me room to escape.
“I need a name, Karey,” he demands.
Every inch of me trembles, but I firm my spine and lift my chin. I slip on my theoretical mask, but it doesn’t fit as well as it normally does. After stretching it to its maximum yesterday and maintaining strict control over it all day today, it feels brittle and weak.
I force my lips into a smile anyway.
“You have a name. It’s Declan Buchanan, and what you’re doing now is harassment. Step out into the hall and shut the door, please.”
Despite my polite words and respectful tone, the hard edge of steel in my voice warns of my seriousness.
The bastard doesn’t heed it.