9. ABRAHAM
AbrAHAM
Twenty Four Hours Prior
I WASN’T NORMALLY A heavy drinker.
I took too many meds for one thing and doing so in public assumed a level of social availability I didn’t have. But the only thing worse than drinking with an audience, was drinking alone and I didn’t trust myself enough for that, yet.
Removing my jacket, I set it on the edge of the low slung seat on the balcony of the rooftop bar and nursed a smooth rum because I was clearly into self-flagellation, these days.
The early summer night crisp and sharp, but not cool enough to ebb a hot blooded rage I had nowhere to direct, I stared at nothing. Listened to nothing. Felt nothing, but the gentle warmth of poison taking away the edge.
As of two days ago, it was official.
Nineah had capitulated to every demand, conceding the Paris apartment and a quarter of a million dollars in liquid assets with one small stipulation—the photos.
My fucking photos. Granted, she was the subject of most of them and I knew how she felt about her likeness in digital—or other—media, but still.
It was a bitch move. Then again, so was pretending as though I was going to sue her.
In the end, Vanessa had urged me to accept the deal with the thinly veiled suggestion that I would otherwise be looking for new representation. So, I signed. And initialed. And signed some more. And that was it. The end of my marriage, sealed with a G2 0.7mm and it was all so… anticlimactic.
Seemingly overnight, I was back at square one—single, professionally sidelined, and drinking sweet liquor like a college girl.
Christ.
I lifted the tumbler for another swallow, wondering how many of these I’d actually have to purchase before I stopped reminiscing about large, adoring brown eyes and a laugh I wished I’d been able to hear one last time before everything went to shit.
However, before I could further poison myself, I caught movement in my peripheral.
I stiffened.
Standing off to the edge, one arm crossed over the other in a defensive position that screamed fear, a pretty woman with dark skin and braided hair stepped out of the shadows in heels I should’ve heard approach me.
Jesus.
“H-hi,” she said, barely louder than a fucking whisper.
Shivering in a short, gold dress and strap sandals, the girl wearing a woman’s clothes but the fear of a child, couldn’t have been older than twenty and must’ve come up from the club downstairs.
I tracked the direction she’d come from and noted two men I hadn’t seen at the bar when I’d collected my drink, pretending not to watch her.
“Is anyone sitting here?” she asked, injecting some volume into her tone. She had a slight accent. Southern. Louisiana regions probably.
“Not tonight.”
“May I?”
I nodded at the chair and she sat, offering a grateful smile.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Ottilie.”
French origin. Meaning prosperous in battle. Lovely name, though I wasn’t sure it fit the shivering young woman.
“Abraham.” Reaching for my jacket, I offered it to her as an exchange for more information. “Where are your friends, Ottilie?”
“They’re still downstairs,” she answered, accepting the coat and shoving her arms through it immediately. “I came up here for some space. It was really hot inside and people kept asking to buy me a drink. I don’t drink.”
“And the men at the bar?”
She didn’t turn back to look at them, but her expression confirmed my earlier suspicions.
“They followed me up here from the club and said they just wanted to talk, but no one I’ve ever met who just wanted a conversation, had to announce it.
” She looked at her hands. “I’m sorry for interrupting your night.
I panicked and saw you was wearing a wedding ring.
And since you haven’t looked at a single girl here, though you been noticing everything else, I hoped you’d at least be nice enough to let me sit here ‘till they left.”
This was another reason I didn’t drink in public.
Not everyone meandered through life, oblivious. Some paid more than their fair share of attention.
“How’d you get here?” I asked her.
“Rideshare.”
“From?”
She hesitated.
Good.
I rephrased. “Would you like me to call you a cab?”
I could tell by the girl’s face she wanted to leave desperately, but likely didn’t want to upset her friends. “Could you just… sit with me? Just a minute? Please.”
I supposed there were worse ways to pass time. Like shooting a mag of rounds into my marriage certificate. “What are you studying in school?”
“How did you know I was in school?” she asked.
“Right age, wrong accent, and you have friends.”
Hugging my jacket like it was a damn life raft, she nodded. “Music. I’m studying music.”
Pulling out my phone, I tapped out a text and sent it to the intended. I got an immediate response.
What the fuck do you want?
Well, that answered that question. It appeared Nineah got my sister in the divorce as well.
911. Greenlee Rooftop @ The Maryan. ASAP.
Lila responded within seconds.
Ugh fine. Omw.
I pocketed the cellphone and found the girl studying me. When I met her gaze, she looked away. “Are you texting your wife?” she asked. She’d at least stopped shivering.
“Sibling.”
“Oh.”
A long pause ensued and I was fine with the silence, but like most women, Ottilie grew restless. “You’re not much of a talker, are you?”
“No.”
There was only one person with whom I genuinely enjoyed conversation and she was fuck knew where with fuck knew who. Probably sliding pussies with someone as beautiful as her, while my bubble-wrapped photographs collected dust in her attic.
“That’s fine. I don’t really got nothing to say anyway,” she mumbled.
I glanced at the woman who was young enough to be my daughter and wondered what kind of fucking friends didn’t at least call to check on one another. Lila would’ve dragged one of her girls out by the collar before she left them alone in a crowded place.
“You need new friends,” I said.
“They’re my roommate’s people.” She didn’t elaborate and I didn’t ask. I should’ve known better than to think that was the end of it.
“You’re in a bad mood,” she said.
“I’m in the mood I’m in.”
She shook her head. “Your liquor’s half gone, but your eyes are still clear. Bet you told yourself you were gonna drink ‘till the feelin’ stops, but I know folks like you.”
I raised a brow. “Folks like me.”
“Always gotta be in control,” she explained. “Can’t let yourself lose it, not even for a minute. You all treat feelin’ your hurt like it’s punishment.”
I frowned. “How old are you?”
“Old enough to know better. Too young for it to matter.”
The men by the bar had left a few moments ago, but she hadn’t relaxed an inch.
Hadn’t checked her phone since she sat down, if there was even one in her purse.
Suddenly, a list of questions, not the least of them wondering if anything she’d told me tonight was the truth, flipped around in my mental Rolodex. That was when I saw it.
Fading. Dark purple. Nearly concealed by braids, makeup, and her skin tone. There was no mistaking the mark for what it was.
Fuck.
My phone buzzed. I checked it. Lila had texted back.
Parking.
I responded.
Don’t bother. Coming to you.
Ottilie must’ve sensed the shift because she sat upright. “Everything okay?”
I ignored her. “Is the person who put their hands on you in this building right now?”
She didn’t even flinch. She just stared straight ahead like she’d never heard me.
I was the wrong damn person for this. More so, the right person wasn’t an option because we weren’t on speaking terms. This was why you didn’t marry your goddamn colleague.
I went another direction. “Ottilie, can I be honest with you about something?”
Still holding herself together like she might fall apart if she didn’t, she barely nodded.
“I got divorced a couple of days ago.” I let the truth hang in the air and I didn’t even try to pull it back. The young girl with the old eyes frowned in sorrow. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, earnestly.
“I didn’t even see it coming,” I admitted. “I know a lot of men probably say that, but it’s the truth.”
“I believe you.”
I nodded. “I’m not going to ask you any more questions, but that doesn’t mean that I can, in good conscience, send you back to the person that hurt you. Do you understand?”
The mask cracked and for a moment, I feared she might start crying, but she laughed meekly instead. “I couldn’t go back if I wanted to.”
My chest deflated with relief, but it was short lived.
“He kicked me out.”
There was something about the way she said the words, flat and lifeless, but still so utterly heartbroken that made my already sensitive temper flare.
Suddenly, her lack of appropriate clothing, messy makeup, and empty purse made sense.
The only places open on the weekends that didn’t kick you out before three in the morning were clubs.
Admission was free for women and someone as pretty as Ottilie would’ve been able to get someone to buy her something to eat without looking suspicious.
Her next words confirmed it.
“You can’t send me anywhere, ‘cause I got nowhere to go.”