Chapter 6
I’ve had this strange sense of existing in two realities all day, a side effect of what I’ve now equated to one hell of an elaborate fever dream.
Last night was… strange. And it only felt stranger when I awakened this morning to find my vibrator out of the drawer, perched on my nightstand, pointed right toward the sky.
Had I really been so out of it, so desperate, that I dragged an entire man out of my imagination to do what Martinez couldn’t?
The answer to this question is clearly yes, but as I round the corner, and the upscale restaurant Dove chose for today’s meet-up comes into view, I put these thoughts aside. After all, I went to so much trouble to look the part of “normal”—threw on makeup, slipped into real clothes—I owe it to myself to try and have a good time.
Soft chatter replaces the sounds of the busy street when I step inside, scanning the crowd for a familiar face. Isha waves me down from across the room, and I force a smile, bypassing the hostess to make my way over to the table the girls have selected.
“Yay! She made it!” Eliza announces, the first on her feet to squeeze me in a tight hug. Dove and Isha follow, and it’s honestly good to see them. I don’t often get out of the house for non-work-related events, so this is nice.
“Oh, my God! Your hair looks great!” Eliza grabs the end of the side-swept fishtail braid I toiled over for nearly an hour, so I’m glad to know it paid off.
“Thanks! Just trying to keep up with the three of you.”
“Please, you’re such a natural beauty it sickens me,” Isha teases, waving me off. “Do you have a clue how much I’d pay to get lips like yours? Hell, do you know how much I’d pay to have your tits and ass, too? Six figures. Easy.”
I feel my face warming with the compliment.
“Ok, Isha, stop fangirling. You’re making the poor girl blush. Look how red she is,” Dove says, fanning me with her menu.
“Oh, whatever.” Isha brushes the others off with a wave. “Layla knows she’d be my hall pass if I was into girls. My husband knows it, too.”
“So you’ve told us,” Eliza chimes in. “At least a dozen times, actually.”
There’s a pause in conversation when we all take a peek at our menus, but then Dove breaks the silence again with a question.
“How’s work?”
It takes a second to realize she’s talking to me. “Oh! It’s good.”
“Still not ready to tell us what your night gig is?” she teases, arching a brow.
I sip water from my glass, hiding my smile. “Nope. Still not ready.”
“I’m telling you guys, she’s one of those happy ending masseuses,” Eliza says, making a crude gesture with her hand that nearly has me spitting my water on the floor. The old lady at the table beside ours isn’t nearly as amused, though.
“You figured me out,” I laugh. “Yes, I play with guys’ dicks for a living.”
“I know we’re kidding around, but how easy would that job be? I mean, your dominant arm would look like it belongs to Popeye, but that’d be some damn good money. Easy money,” Eliza adds, and the serious look on her face has the rest of us exploding with laughter.
“This is why my fiancé doesn’t like me hanging out with you sluts,” Dove says, flashing her ring at us before she takes a drink.
“Bitch, please. Chris might actually love us more than he loves you,” Isha says. “You just wanted to point out, for the millionth time, that your ass finally got engaged.”
Not even bothering to deny it, Dove shamelessly holds her gigantic ring out for us all to see. Again. Like we weren’t at the park bearing witness to the elaborate proposal.
“You have got to be stopped,” Isha mumbles under her breath. “And when are you going to drop your baby news on us, Dove? Because we all know you must be pregnant. Why the hell else would you get engaged, and then rush to have your wedding three months later?”
“Um, I don’t know, maybe because Chris can’t wait to lock me down? Make me his wife?” Dove reasons, holding in a laugh because this is just what we do, give each other shit in the most loving way possible.
“Or… he wants to give you a chance to walk down the aisle before your pregnant ass can’t fit down the aisle.”
Dove can’t hold it in, laughing as she shoves Isha’s shoulder for that comment. “I’m not pregnant, so feel free to stop being an asshole.”
Isha smiles back, pretending to be serious when she raises her hands in surrender. “Just sayin’.”
“But speaking of Dove’s shotgun wedding, did you invite the infamous Detective Diego Martinez to the engagement dinner? It’s only a few weeks away, Layla.” Eliza waggles her brows at me.
Shit, it was funny when the heat wasn’t on me.
“I, um…”
“That’s a no,” Isha cuts in.
“Then, do it now! Take out your phone and text the man,” Eliza says, widening her eyes with the challenge. “And why haven’t we met him yet? Six months is a long time to be fucking someone and not let your friends judge the shit out of him.”
“Facts,” Isha agrees. “He married or something?”
“He… no! He does have a daughter, but I’ve already told you guys that.”
“How old?” Eliza asks.
“Three.”
“Have you met her?”
“No, because it isn’t that serious.”
The three all share an identical look before their gazes settle back on me.
“Not that serious to you or to him?”
I glare at Eliza, feeling mildly annoyed at her question. Even if I know she means well. “I don’t know. I can only speak for myself, I guess. So… it’s not that serious to me.”
She arches a brow, and I can tell she’s thinking so many things, but I’m grateful she keeps them all to herself.
Dove gets the conversation back on track. Sort of. “Anyway, the main focus is getting you to invite the man to the engagement dinner. So…”
She looks so hopeful.
“Fine,” I answer with a hard eye roll, but they don’t care as they celebrate having effectively broken me down.
Layla: A friend’s engagement party’s coming up in a few weeks. Want to be my plus one?
My phone chimes with surprising speed.
Det. Diego M: Of course. Just shoot me the date. I’ll be there.
“What’d he say?”
I peer up to meet Isha’s gaze. “He’s coming.”
“See! That wasn’t so hard, was it? Now, we get to finally meet him and decide whether he’s good enough for our girl.”
I fake a smile, and as they move on to a new topic, I zone out, focusing my stare out the window. It isn’t long before my thoughts are on last night again, and I shift uncomfortably in my seat. Simply at the thought of how something completely imagined could feel so real to me.
In a way, considering family history, considering my history… it’s pretty fucking terrifying.
Cars pass, and I’m in a daze, watching the street light cycle from green, to yellow, to red on repeat. It’s like the world’s moving in slow motion as I fall into what feels like a trance as all sound fades away.
Then, there’s only him.
A dark figure stands across the street, hands tucked inside his pockets, resting his shoulder against a street sign. I swear he’s staring straight at me. The dark hoodie over his head blocks any chance I’d have to see his face, but I can… feel him.
I swallow deeply, contemplating whether I should run out there, see if what I think I’m seeing is real, but that’d be crazy. It’s not normal to feel compelled to chase after strangers because you thinkthey’re watching you.
A bus breezes past the street sign and, just like that, the figure’s gone. Simply not there anymore. It’s as though it never was, and now I’m worried, wondering if this is yet another delusion, another instance of my mind not being able to tell what’s real. Or maybe I’m just exhausted and need to rest.
With shaky hands, I reach for my phone, pretending to check a text.
“Shit. That’s work. I need to take off.”
“Oh no! We didn’t even get a chance to order drinks,” Dove whines.
I stand, adjusting my purse over my shoulder. “I know. Next time, I promise I’ll turn my phone off, so we’re not interrupted, but I should go.”
I scoot my chair in and lean down to hug them one at a time.
“I’ll bet this is about that fucking Widowmaker case, isn’t it?” Isha says, scrunching her nose with the words.
“You know I’m not allowed to discuss shit like that,” I say with a laugh, pretending to be lighthearted about it, when all I really want is to get home. “I’ll catch up with you guys soon.”
They all groan their goodbyes, obviously disappointed by my abrupt exit, but not even the pang of guilt that hits is enough to slow me down.
I burst through the exit, feeling like I’d suffocate if I sat inside that building a second longer. But now that I’m out here, breathing in fresh air, I can only think of one thing.
My head whips in every direction, hoping to see the hooded man again, but he isn’t here. He might not have ever been here.
“Shit, I’m losing it.” The panic in my voice alarms me even more, and I pick up the pace, walking twice as fast to my car now.
I’m just tired.
I’ll be fine if I can just get home and rest, take my meds.
I’m not becoming her.
I’m not becoming… my mother.