Sweetly Obsessed (Devoted In Darkness #3)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

LOLA

Are you wearing underwear?

WN's text that just came in wants to live rent-free in every cell.

My body buzzes.

My mouth goes dry.

Hell, no. No way. I'm not...I'm not that kind of girl.

Okay...

I pour the hot water over the teabag, and the mellow notes of toasted rice hit my nose.

Okay...but should I?

I glance at the phone.

Nothing else has come through from WN.

I breathe out, slow and uneven, as tendrils of electricity spark in my blood, warming me.

Of course, I shouldn't. It is ten a.m. on a Tuesday. And I'm at work.

My first job I have had that has lasted since—

I close my eyes.

What is that phrase? Oh, yeah. Since my life went to hell in that handbasket. On a frayed string.

Could I?

If my life were different? If I were a wild girl, living up to my name and walking on the wild side of things. If I weren't at work and I still had my old life and confidence and everything else that is gone? I would like to think the answer is yes. That, in a fantasy world, I would.

Right here. In the break room.

The fantasy me would slide my skirt up slowly, hook my thumbs on the sides of my panties with the tiny roses on them.

No. Fuck that. Since this is my fantasy, they would be sin red and satin.

Then I would wiggle them down to pool at my feet, around my Louboutin heels, and I would bend at the waist, showing off my wet pussy, step out of them, and sweep the panties up. Then I would turn and fling them in WN's face and say, "Oops."

And he—

"Hey, Lola." Ben lopes over to me, oversized coffee mug in hand. He is pushing fifty, I think. A fifty that hasn't seen a gym. He is not fat, just... unfit, a diet of numbers, computer screens, and energy drinks. "What has got you all hot and bothered? New boyfriend?"

I almost drop my tea as I fumble for my phone, slapping it face down on the bench.

Slick move, right there. A girl could win awards.

My entire body, from my functional Mary Janes to the roots of my hair, freezes up.

He waggles his brows at me. "Or is it a big, hot secret?"

"My gran." I don't have a gran anymore, and she was ice and stone and the furthest thing from WN and stripping off panties I can think of.

He chuckles and shakes his head. "What? Your gran some kind of pole dancer who likes to tell dirty jokes?"

Ben thinks H and R are just letters in the alphabet.

He studies me, then scratches his side as he hitches up his work pants.

"Actually..." He furtively looks around.

"If you do have a filthy-mouthed stripper grandma, let me know where she works.

Queens? Brooklyn? I'm not going to Staten Island, and Jersey City is out of the fucking question.

But I like a mature lady who knows where it's at. "

What the fuck? Is this guy for real now?

I slam a hand on the phone and stare, and I think my mouth drops open. I haven't been here long, but isn't this inappropriate?

All I can get out is, "What?"

"Shit. I mean—Fuck. I'm not trying to date your gran." His eyes go big. "Or you."

Sweat pops out on his forehead, and I'm almost positive it's because he basically wants to date someone's stripper gran.

"I..."

Ben guffaws. "A joke...a joke, kid. Your gran's safe from me. I'm kidding. I've got a girlfriend. This guy you're texting, he must be some kind of catch to make you blush like that."

Suddenly, the thrill of the moment is lost along with any desire to drink the brown rice tea.

Setting down the mug, I excuse myself, scurrying down the hall and turning right to the ladies' bathroom. I go into one of the stalls, lock the door, and sit down on the lid.

Then I let myself breathe.

I know Ben is harmless. He is just shit at small talk. That, and he is not used to talking to females. Apparently.

Also, I think maybe he has a fetish for grans, if that conversation is anything to go by. Or he just can't joke to save his life.

My hands shake as I hold them out, heart pounding hard.

Maybe it's me. Maybe I misread the situation and the joke was hilarious. Maybe I just can't read signals. After all, I didn't know my own dad was—

Closing my eyes, I drop my head in my hands, heaving out a breath.

Sometimes, the world gets too much for me.

It never used to, at least not on this level. And a year ago, the before times, as I sometimes call them, I could hide in studies, in work, in the world I grew up in, pampered, protected, surrounded by people who loved and supported me.

At least, they did, until...

A sob hits me, but I swallow it down.

It's just been twelve months since my dad died.

The pain sometimes feels so switchblade sharp. Other times, it's worn into my flesh, etching into bone.

"Breathe, Lola. Breathe." I force a few slow inhalations and exhalations, counting the seconds, forcing them to be steady and deep.

And as it always does, equilibrium returns.

There is nothing like drowning in grief while everything you have is either frozen by the government or sold off to pay debts.

Talk about riches to rags, reverse fairy tale style.

I give a silent, watery laugh and grab some toilet paper to carefully press to my eyes.

Life took such a turn from what I thought it would be.

I was a princess, waiting to be crowned queen. The life we lived wasn't the safest, not by a long shot. Danger was at every corner.

But Dad did all he could to keep me safe and happy, so my dreams were big, but they were also achievable.

Now?

Now I don't have a penny to my name, not until the accounts are unfrozen, at least.

Finding a job was a struggle—a hard-fought battle that I finally won. Now that I have it, I'm not going to be the village idiot.

I learned early on that you take all the chances life throws at you because nothing is guaranteed. This job is here, and I will do my damndest to keep it because I might not get another. And honestly? I'm not really looking to start the process all over again. Once was more than nerve-wracking.

The Mancini name that once opened doors now slams them shut.

Every time potential employers found out I was Lourdes Mancini, I got discarded. Over and over again.

A nicer one finally told me to go back to what I have always been called, Lola, and on forms put Carino-Winters. Carino is my middle name. Winters is my maternal grandmother's maiden name.

Lourdes Winters. Sounds utterly formidable.

I never met her, but I like it, and it works.

The nice CEO told me a lie is always best aligned closely to the truth.

She, of course, didn't keep me on. They were small and couldn't take the scandal.

But I listened. So, I became Lola Carino-Winters.

I have always been out of the spotlight. Until Dad's scandals hit the news, we were a very low-key family, kept to ourselves and tried to just live our lives under the radar.

And after it all came to light, I kept out of it.

But life has not been fair or easy. I went from safety to rocky ground, alone with bills to pay, living in an old tiny apartment in Brooklyn that used to be Mom's and is still listed in her name.

It was rented for years, but the couple living there had moved pre-scandal.

Dad suggested keeping it empty while I decided what to do with it. Serendipity, maybe. I don't know.

But the Lola pre-scandal and Lola now are two very different creatures.

I was free to live my life, I could be whoever I wanted to be. I could have a life. I could dream. Big. And I wanted it all. All I deserved.

Now I have to keep my head down, my dreams small, if I can even dream at all.

Now I settle on surviving.

And I have to give it my all and swallow my pride if I'm ever going to have anything like a life.

After so many curveballs, I learned that it is easier and safer to just stay in my comfort zone.

Still, I pull out my phone and look at that last text.

WN

Are you wearing underwear?

That thrill races hot through my blood again.

And that helps.

That is more than just surviving. That is a thrill. That is a window into a world where I can be reckless and free.

Best of all, it means nothing.

How could it mean anything if I don't even know who he is?

I don't even know his name.

Another thrill skips fast in my pulse points.

A year ago, before life decided I was a fun target to kick down, I would have ignored the very first text from WN—Wrong Number.

But post-personal apocalypse, with bills to pay, you take comfort and smile at the little things.

Having to sell the last piece of jewelry the government didn't get their hands on to keep food on the table and a roof over your head makes you appreciate the little luxuries in life. Like a sassy wrong number.

Having no one to rely on, no one to talk to, no one on your side. Being alone in a world that wants to swallow you whole helps, too.

And he wasn't racy then.

It was all so innocent.

WN

I just wanted to let you know I'm running a bit late for our date, but I'm on my way.

Me

Do you mind fluffy slippers?

WN

Is that your usual attire to dates?

Me

I mean, I occasionally wear clothes, too.

I'm sorry, I'm sure you know this by now, but you got the wrong number.

WN

Thank you for the stress relief. I had fun.

Me

Good luck on your date. Hope your girlfriend isn't mad that you're late.

WN

Not girlfriend. A date from MeetR. I will let you know how it goes.

Me

Ok, good luck. And try not to get murdered or mugged or anything like that.

An hour later, he texted to let me know he hadn't been murdered as she didn't show.

And that was what started it all. But it hadn't ended yet.

Since it was a wrong number, I didn't know whether he was the next male top model or Quasimodo. I didn't even know his name or anything. But because I didn't know, and most likely would never know, it was safe. I could fantasize.

Not about him.

About me.

I could be anything. Funny. Flirty. Silly.

I could be daring if I wanted.

I could be anyone.

I could be the me that never stood a chance after the rug was pulled out from beneath my feet.

And WN became a kind of comfort zone.

We would never meet.