7. Serena #2
“I’ll get it.” Sid is already standing, moving toward the door. The rest of us look at one another for a moment. Sid has been here the longest. He handles the rent and utility payments.
And none of us is entirely sure what he does for a living. For a while, Grayson was convinced he was one of those guys driving around in a truck, locating copper and selling it by the pound.
“People do that in Manhattan?” I’d asked, skeptical.
“Well… probably?” Grayson shrugged. “What else could it be?”
Now, I’m scrambling after Sid, desperate for more information about his mysterious job, when he calls out from the front door.
“Serena! It’s for you.”
I’m moving too fast to stop or process; then I’m at the front door, standing next to Sid, taking in his suspicious expression. On the crumbling front step of our old Victorian house stands a man in an impeccable midnight black suit, holding out a crisp, dark envelope.
“Direct from Onyx,” he says simply. “Serena MacKenzie?”
I swallow. “That’s me.”
“I’m supposed to deliver this straight into your hands. Can I see some ID?”
Lillie, Grayson, and Georgie crowd in the hallway behind us, and I hear one of them whisper something about this being a scam. But the man said Onyx, so I’m already producing my I.D. from my wallet and holding it up for him.
Apparently satisfied, he hands me the envelope and turns, walking back down the path and toward a black SUV idling at the curb.
“What the fuck was that?” Grayson hiss-whispers, the moment the door shuts and Sid has locked the deadbolt. Sid’s phone is in his hand, and he watches the grainy image of the SUV pull away on the screen.
“I don’t know,” I murmur, staring at the envelope in my hand. “Have I been served?”
“People can lace letters with contact poison,” Georgia says, gaze flitting between me and the letter. “Maybe we should get gloves?—”
“Oh, shut up! He said Onyx!” Lillie pushes past Georgia and to the front of the group, her cool fingers wrapping around my wrist. “You have to open it, Serena!”
The group goes quiet, and I realize they mean here. Now.
I shift uncomfortably. If I had the choice, I would have been here alone to collect this and locked up tight in my room to open it. But slinking off now would be rude, especially since I was more than ready to spy on Sid when I thought he was the one with the visitor at the door.
Slowly, I slide a thumb under the flap. It’s impossibly smooth, the paper strong. When the envelope is open, I reach in and pinch the contents, pulling them out.
A blank key card and a note. When I turn the card over, I reveal a shiny, looping label: Onyx Hotels.
The card reads, Room for you. Be there at eight. T.
“Holy shit,” Lillie whispers, a squeal punctuating the end of her sentence. “Holy shit! You got a calling card from a rich suitor! This is?—”
“Not happening,” I scoff, shaking my head, even as the card feels heavy in my hand. Even as my core tightens and I remember the way Travis looked at me in his office yesterday. Like he’d had to hold himself back. Did I imagine that?
Does this mean it was real? What else could this be other than a lavish—and incredibly direct—invitation to share a hotel room with him?
All at once, they start talking again.
“You can’t go,” Georgia is saying, shaking her head. “It’s unsafe?—”
“How did they know our address?” Sid asks, still looking at his phone, brows drawn together.
“Wait…” Grayson’s brow draws together. “Are we talking about Oakleys, like that rich family…?”
“I swear to god, you are so dense sometimes,” Lillie says, smacking his bicep. “Yes, like her ex-boyfriend? Serena’s boss is his older brother.”
“Which is another reason this isn’t happening,” I say, firmly, loudly, over the top of them.
“Why not?” Lillie wraps her arm around mine and tugs me out of the entryway, holding her hand up to the ceiling of our living room like she wants me to imagine the possibilities. “Think about it, Serena—what better way to get back at that fuckwad than to sleep with his brother?”
“His attractive, wealthy brother,” Georgia seconds, following behind us, and my head turns sharply.
Didn’t she just tell me not to go - that it’s unsafe.
She’s the last person I was expecting to get on board with something like this.
I blink at her, and she just shrugs. “I’m not saying you should do it.
It could be risky. But when you examine the situation, think about the potential for revenge… ”
“Why is there even a question?” Grayson asks, plucking the card from my hand and whistling at it. “Look at the quality of this card stock! This is sugar daddy territory.”
I rip it back from him. “Not looking for a sugar daddy. This is strictly professional. He probably just needs pictures of the room for… something.”
They all stare back at me.
“Ri-ght,” Sid says, stretching out the vowel.
“Well, then, if you think it’s something more, I’m not going!” I sound—and feel—like a petulant teenager but just talking about the possibility that Travis Oakley might want me in a hotel room with him is making my blood pressure rise.
Lillie holds her hands up, and the rest of them take a step back.
“Okay, okay.” Lillie presses her lips together, then shoots me a mischievous look. “You got a fancy invitation to a fancy hotel, where you could rendezvous with a hot, successful guy. But you hate fun, so you’re not going.”
“Should I go?” Georgia asks, tucking a stray hair back from her face. “I could use a sugar daddy. Pay off my student loans. I’ll have Sid come and stay outside just in case the guy is trying to traffic me.”
Grayson frowns, and I mimic the motion. Why does the sound of that make something twist in my chest? I don’t want anyone going in my place. Don’t want anyone else alone in a room with Travis Oakley but me.
“No.” I shake my head and push through them, splitting the crowd. “Let’s just forget about this.”
There’s a beat of silence, then Grayson says, “You know what will help us forget?” Quickly, he snatches the remote from Sid’s hand and bounds toward the living room. “Figure skating!”
Sid groans and throws his head back. Georgia lunges after Grayson, laughing and trying to get the remote from his hand. And, just like that, my roommates have already forgotten all about the invitation in my hand.
I look down at it, frown, and set it down on the old buffet table by the front door.
Going is a terrible idea. Stupid. Reckless.
Not happening.