Chapter 48
Roni
If she didn't look like shit every time I saw her, I might think she was doing it on purpose. She’s six minutes early. Already at our table. Already half finished with her first coffee. And she sent me a “come find me, babes” when I walked in.
Chloe’s one of maybe three people who knows my real name and wouldn’t sell it for five bucks and a free latte.
She waves at me like a cheerleader. Both arms. Full extension.
Extra points for avoiding spillage. Blonde hair everywhere.
Tank top, white as a corpse. And a zip-up hoodie that's more string than fabric.
The seat across from her is empty, but she's blocked access with her feet on the chair.
Painted toenails, chipped on every toe, even the pinkies.
I ghost through the entryway. Eyes on every face.
Every hand. Every bulge under a shirt. It’s instinct now.
I know Vic’s only a few tables away, watching like a stalker, but still, I can’t help the momentary paranoia.
I feel like I stand out. Black leggings vacuumed to my skin.
Teal and pink flannel hanging just far enough open to see how far my cleavage goes. Hair straight and shiny.
I drop into the chair and put my phone face down on the table. Chloe smirks.
“Nice of you to wear a shirt this time,” she says, eyes on the unbuttoned v of my chest.
“You’re the only person who deserves to see it for free,” I tell her, and wave over the server with the least visible acne.
My coffee is black and strong. Her coffee is whatever the fuck, hot and caramel and drowning in sweetener. She sips it and crunches the ice cubes after. “You sleep?”
I squint at her and say, “I wish.” The nightmares have been a bitch lately. “You?”
Chloe raises her cup in mock salute. “Here’s to getting railed.”
So that’s a ‘no’.
We order food. I go protein, eggs and ham and a single slice of sourdough. Chloe orders the pancake stack with extra butter. She never gains a pound. I hate her for it, but only in the way you hate someone who would bail you out of jail. No questions asked.
“So. You dump Phoenix for one of your keyboard daddies yet?” she asks, voice so loud half the room looks up. She doesn’t notice or care.
“When I left this morning, he was snoring loud enough to rattle the window.”
“Tell me you at least suffocated him for fun,” she says. “Just for, like, science.”
I stir my coffee. “If I suffocated him, it’d be with my thighs, and you know it.”
Chloe snorts. “You’d get five years tops, with your face. Less if you offer a demonstration for the jury.”
We dig into breakfast, and it takes maybe two bites for her to lean in with the real questions.
“Okay, so are you going to tell me what’s eating you, or do I have to guess?” Her eyes are huge and dark. She’s staring right through my smirk.
I sigh, make a show of stretching my back, arms overhead. Let the flannel stretch to the brink so every old man in the cafe gets his money’s worth. “Phoenix has been a freak lately.”
She leans forward, chin propped on her hands, elbow on eggs. “A freak how? Like, you found a duffel bag of guns and cash in the closet?”
I shake my head. “Not that. He’s weirdly controlling now.
Like, I know guys can get jealous, but he’s trying to pretend he’s not.
Look at the bald law enforcement looking guy a few tables behind me.
That’s Vic. The bodyguard I talked about teasing the other day.
I know he’s watching my shows and reporting back to Phoenix. ”
“He’s fucking hot. And he watches your show.” She sticks her tongue out and fans herself harder with her bare hands.
I shrug. “He doesn’t know I know.”
“And that’s why you were fucking with him the other day?” Chloe grins.
“Oh, for sure. He’s my type, in the way that ‘grumpy war criminal’ is a type. But he’s married. Ring and everything. Just like me.”
Chloe chuckles. “That would stop one of us.”
I smack her arm with my fork. She doesn’t flinch. “I have morals.”
She wipes her face with her sleeve and says, “Babes. You fuck for money. I love that for you. But morals?”
I drink half my coffee in one go and it scalds my tongue. Feels good. I want to bite myself, or break a glass just to feel something.
Chloe wipes syrup from her lips with the back of her hand, and says, “Okay. So you’re being stalked by your own husband and have a government assassin for a bodyguard. Is that it, or is there more?”
I glance at my phone. Still face down. Notifications keep popping. At least a hundred missed messages from last night. I usually wake up and check, but I haven’t yet.
“There’s a new guy,” I say. “On the streams.”
Chloe’s eyes light up. “Is he hot?”
“No. Or yes, maybe. He doesn’t show his face. But he’s rich. Or obsessed. Or both.” I lower my voice, lean in. “He tipped me tens of thousands of dollars last week. Then did it again.”
She lets out a low whistle. “Damn. What does he want in return? Blood? A kidney? Feet pics?”
I can’t hold my laugh in this time. She’s so dumb sometimes. “He hasn’t actually asked for anything wild, yet. And sometimes he just wants to talk.”
Chloe pulls her hair into a bun and says, “So, he’s in love with you. Or a serial killer.”
I point my spoon at her. “That’s what I said. Phoenix doesn’t know yet.”
She raises her eyebrows. “You’re going to tell him, right?”
I shrug. “If I tell him, he’ll have a stroke and hire a hitman. If I don’t, I’m lying. So, either way, I’m fucked.”
She shakes her head, tongue clicking. “I’d tell him. Or don’t. It’s your marriage. But still. Probs should tell him.”
I want to ask her how she would feel if she were me, but she’s never had a boyfriend longer than a month, and the last guy she dated moved to Idaho because he thought she was a government plant. Chloe attracts broken men like flies.
“Hey. Your turn,” I say, flipping the script.
She blinks, deer in headlights, then shrugs. “Not much. I went out with Derek again. He lasted eleven minutes this time, so that’s a new record.”
I cackle. The old man at the next table glares at me. “You time them?”
“Obviously,” Chloe says, deadpan. “Otherwise, how do you know when you’re done?”
I shake my head. “You’re a sociopath.”
She shrugs, then pokes at the last pancake. “I just know what I want, that’s all.”
I look at my friend. Her laugh lines. Her huge eyes. Her relentless optimism. And for one second, I wish I was her. But I’m not. I’m the one with a husband who loves me. A job which provides orgasms and money I don’t even need, and a new potential stalker with a bottomless bank account.
I push back from the table, stand up and stretch. Chloe does the same, cracking her neck, rolling her shoulders like she’s prepping for a fight.
“We should do this more often,” I say. “I miss it.”
She grins. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t bring your bodyguard next time. I don’t want to have to fuck him to assert dominance.”
We step out onto the sidewalk. The sun is glaring. Everything is too bright—too sharp. I put on my sunglasses and feel the tension uncoil, just a little.
“I love you, babes,” she says it like she means it. Like nothing could ever change it.
I smile back. “Love you too, bitch.”
She starts to walk away, then turns back. “Hey. If you get murdered by your stalker husband, the faceless weirdo, or Officer Gooddick over there, can I have your shoes?”
“Only if you wear them to my funeral.”
She laughs and disappears around the corner.
I look at my phone, still face down in my hand. For one second, I consider throwing it into the gutter. Instead, I unlock it and scroll through the messages. Nothing of any importance stands out. I tuck it away and head to the car. Where Vic’s waiting. Engine idling. Watching.