He hangs up and leans over the desk. His stance is a lot more hostile than mine. Two minutes later, two burly guys dressed in uniforms similar to the asshole over there appear, only they have a nightstick on one side of their pants and a gun at their waists.
How is it I felt safer an hour ago leaving a drug den than I do now standing in a multimillion-dollar complex?
“Problem, Russ?” the portly one of the two asks the asshole behind the desk, who jumps in before I can even open my mouth to explain.
“This…” He waves a hand over me as if he can’t quite find a word offensive enough to describe me. “Woman refuses to leave. She is trying to pretend she is the owner's wife,” he snaps.
“It's true. Look I only moved in today, this is all a horrible misunderstanding.”
“Miss, do you have any documentation on you confirming this?” the thinner guard asks.
I shake my head with a sigh. No, that would make things too simple. “I don’t have anything on me, but if you would just call him—”
“Oh sure, that will be fun. Let's just call up the big boss man and ask him an idiotic question like did you secretly get married and not tell anyone? Ridiculous.” Russ snorts, making the skinnier of the two security guards look at him with contempt before turning back to me.
“Maybe you should give him a call yourself,” he says softly.
I shake my head, my shoulders slumping in defeat, knowing I’m making this look even worse. “I…I don’t know his number,” I admit, sounding like an idiot.
“Right,” he answers, drawing out the word.
“He’s at work right now, but he said he wouldn’t be gone long. If you just let me sit over there in that chair, I swear I’ll be quiet and stay out of your way.”
The two security guys exchange glances before the rotund one looks as if he’s about to speak, only Russ the asshole interrupts him.
“No. I want her out of here. I’m not risking my job for some wannabe stalker,” he snaps.
“Call his company, honey, and tell him you’re here,” the skinny guy says softly, ignoring Russ. I get the distinct impression he doesn’t like him any more than I do.
“I can’t call him. I don’t even know where he works. I…forget it. This isn’t worth it.” I pull my jacket tightly over my breasts and lift the collar to cover the back of my neck.
“When he gets back and asks where I am, I’ll let you explain it to him,” I tell Russ with a shake of my head as I walk back over to the glass door and pull it open. It's raining heavily now, the cold wind whipping the icy droplets into my face.
I turn to face Russ and find him still glaring at me.
“I wonder how many rich bitches walk in here and lift their noses at you. I bet they don’t even know your name, Russ, snubbing you and your silly menial job the second their designer shoes hit the marbled floor. I bet you hate each and every one of them for judging you, and yet that is exactly what you just did to me. Shame on you.” I let the full weight of my disappointment fill my words before stepping into the freezing rain, slamming the door closed behind me.
Fifteen
Asher
I pull into the underground parking garage and climb out, hurrying over to the elevator. With the rain falling outside in sheets, I’m thankful I can access the lobby from here, or I’d be soaked through to the bone.
I had only planned on popping into work for a couple of hours at most, but like always, things came up that apparently only I could deal with, meaning my few hours turned into a few more. Before I knew it, it was dark out and a storm had begun to rage.
I’d tried to call the apartment earlier to apologize, but Linda never answered, likely pissed at me all over again. I can’t even say I blame her. I dropped her off and disappeared for hours. She’ll probably think this is how the next three months will go and cut her losses.
Shit. I’m going to have to curb my workaholic tendencies with her in the picture. There is no other way around it.
The lobby is brightly lit when the elevator door slides open, infusing the place with a warm glow. An elderly couple—the Moores—from the first floor, talk animatedly about something to Russ, the night doorman. Not having the time to stand there talking about inconsequential shit with them, I make a beeline for the elevators on the opposite side of this one and head upstairs before anyone spots me.
A glance at my watch shows it's almost ten o'clock. “Fuck,” I gripe to myself, knowing she’s going to be rightfully pissed. I have a feeling any headway I made will now be for nothing.
When the doors slide open, I hurry down the corridor and fumble for a moment as I let myself into the apartment. I pause with the door open, and when a shoe doesn’t nail me in the head, I relax and close the door behind me. The lights are off, but the blinds are all open, illuminating the room enough that I don’t trip and break my neck.
My heart begins to pulse when I don’t find her, knowing that means she must already be in bed. My cock throbs at the thought of all her colorful hair splayed out on the pillow, watching me with those big blue eyes of hers as I drive my dick inside her.
I don’t know if I’m relieved or disappointed when I find the bedroom empty too. The bed is still made from this morning. With a frown, I check the other rooms. Coming up empty, my agitation rapidly grows. Where the fuck is she?
Tearing open the closet door, I suck in a relieved breath when I see the clothes she brought with her hung up beside mine, and a pair of her shoes are sitting on the floor beneath them.
So, she hasn’t left me, that’s something, but it doesn’t tell me where the fuck she is.
Storming out of the apartment and back downstairs, I find Russ at his desk, alone this time, listening to the soft sounds of jazz music.
He startles when I bark his name, looking up at me with wide eyes.
“Mr. Sloan. I didn’t know you were back. What can I help you with, sir?”
“You can tell me where the fuck my wife is for a start,” I snap and watch with growing wariness as his tan skin bleaches white.
“Wife?” he questions in a whispered voice.
“Did I stutter? Yes, my wife. Who, might I add, is not upstairs. Did she tell you where she was going?”
He stares at me open-mouthed, without answering me until I finally snap and bellow his name.
“Where is my wife?” I grit out for the last time.
He lifts a shaky hand and points to the glass doors where the rain is still falling fast outside.
“I…I didn’t know you got married. You didn’t tell us,” he stutters.
“I wasn’t aware that I had to inform you,” I growl, two seconds away from firing him.
“I…she said she was your wife, but I didn’t believe her. She didn’t look like she would be the kind of woman you would marry,” he protests. I fume at his words, reaching over the counter and grabbing him by his collar.
“WHAT DID YOU DO?” I roar in his face.
“I…I sent her away,” he admits.
I shove him away from me and pick up the phone on the desk, pressing one for security.
Two guards arrive a few minutes later. One tall and thin, who looks at Russ with disdain. The other is shorter by nearly a foot and thicker around the middle, the polyester shirt of his uniform stretching to its limits to confine the beer belly within.