He interrupts me with an annoyed sigh. “If immigration come knocking, I’m sure they’ll keep their mouth shut for the right price. You don’t have to pack right this minute. But if you could be gone by the time I get home tonight, that would be appreciated.”
I watch, stupefied, as he picks up his laptop bag, phone, and wallet, and heads towards the hallway.
“I’ll be in touch if I need you to do anything on your end of the deal.”
And with the slam of the front door, he’s gone.
23
Atlas
My fist flies into the elevator control panel, lighting up twelve floors all at once. The scraping on my knuckles does nothing to squash the rage.
I’m not mad at her, I’m mad at myself.
Mad that I could be so fucking stupid. Is that all it takes? A wandering hand, a sensual kiss, and I’m breaking my vow?
No women.
Not even ones that look like Violet. That fuck like Violet.
The elevator dings, and when the doors open, I’m met with some middle-aged chick living on the fourteenth floor. One look at my thunderous face and she decides to take the stairs. When the doors close again, I punch another button, this time on purpose. Emergency stop.
Suspended between two floors, I take a moment of solitude to gather my thoughts.
Last night was incredible. Not just the sex, but just being with her. The way she laughs when she tells a self-depreciating joke, the way she rubs her button nose when she’s thinking.
I’d be dumb to say I’m in love with Violet; we’ve known each other for less than two weeks. But there’s no doubt that’s where I’m heading if I carry on down this slippery slope.
That wasn’t in my plan. Getting her signature at the bottom of a contract, having her sleep in the spare room for three months, then keeping in contact via email or text for the rest of the year. That was the plan.
But I’m torn. My heart is screaming at me, telling me to get my ass back up to the penthouse and wrap my arms around the girl I’ve left crying in the kitchen.
My head is on Daisy. My daughter who doesn’t need anymore confusion in her life. She needs me, all of me. We don’t spend nearly enough time together as it is, what with work and her mom interfering all the fucking time.
That settles it, then.
I slam the emergency stop button once more, continuing my descent down to the underground parking lot.
Man up, Donn. She’ll get over it. And so will you.
But this fresh wave of willpower doesn’t stop me getting out my cell and punching in a familiar number.
“Oisin,” I growl down the line once my brother answers. “I got a job for you.”
24
Violet
And so I’ve come a full circle.
Back to where I started: sitting on my lumpy sofa in the wrong side of the city, wondering how the hell I got here.
Only this time, it’s a different husband that’s causing me pain.
I stretch my feet across the coffee table, brushing the stack of fresh bills onto the floor. It was so easy to forget about them when I was living the high life on the Upper East Side. The thought of them piling up on my doormat never crossed my mind. Donnacha agreed to pay them — I wonder if that deal still applies now I’ve fucked him?
It was a memory that made me giddy for just a brief minute. But ever since I stepped foot into that kitchen and faced reality, it’s done nothing but made me cringe.
How could I have been so stupid?
I let myself, even if just for a moment, believe that a man like Donnacha could fall for a girl like me. That a man who has everything, could fall in love with a girl who has nothing.
I was naive, my ever-present optimism working against me for once.
Fake marriages don’t lead to Happy Ever Afters.
No. In my version of Cinderella, I got chosen by Prince Charming, taken to the ball, and then he dumped me right back where he found me: scrubbing floors in the diner and making drinks in Starbucks.
The keys he gave me are on the other side of the couch, where they landed when I tossed them in anger.
I don’t need that apartment. He’s already given me enough — funded my schooling, my father’s wine bottle — I don’t need any more pity gifts from him.
Keep your face to the sun, Violet. I hear my father’s words ringing in my ears and it brings hot tears to my eyes.
Just before I let out my first sob, there’s a knock on the door. With heavy legs, I pull myself up and peek through the peephole.
It’s the only face I want to see right now.
“Felix,” I choke, the tears flowing thick and fast the second I see his concerned face.
“Oh, Vi,” he says softly, wrapping his arms around me.
But there’s nothing he can say that will make me feel better.
25
Atlas
My first connects with the solid oak door. Slow and deliberate thumps.
It’s a knock I’ve perfected over the years. One that is instantly recognizable. One that isn’t gonna be the mailman or a Jehovah’s Witness.
It’s gonna be me: Atlas the debt collector, coming for what you owe.
There’s no answer and no audible movement. I take a step back off of the patio, checking for any telltale signs of occupancy: curtain twitching, lights flicking on or off.
Anger simmers in the pit of my stomach. Or, you know, smoke coming out of your double-breasted chimney.
I stomp round the side of the house, muddying the pristine lawn with my heavy boots, and peer through the French windows at the side.
“You little fucker,” I snarl, taking in the sight of Peter Ashburn reclining on his couch, throwing up popcorn in the air and trying to catch it in his mouth.
I don’t bother knocking; I already tried that. Instead, I pull my jacket sleeve over my fist and punch through the window, sending the glass crashing through the pane. It shatters into a thousand pieces onto his plush carpet.
Ashburn chokes on a kernel when he hears the commotion.
Then he turns pink when he sees me crawling through his window.
“A-Atlas,” he stammers, tugging at his boxer shorts in embarrassment. “Where did you come from? Was you knocking? I didn’t hear you—”
“Cut the shit, Ashburn,” I snarl. “You said that last month, too. And I can’t see any hearing aids.”
The pink rash is spreading across his beefy arms and down his hairy chest, disappearing underneath his yellowing T-shirt. With all that money you borrowed from Romanov, you couldn’t buy yourself some decent pajamas?
“Listen,” he starts, sinking down on the couch and sticking out his palms. He’s trying a different tactic from last month. Instead of hurling a door stopper at my head before running out the back gate, he’s trying the open-and-honest approach. Nothing I ain’t seen before. “I’m really trying to get the money, man. I just need a little more time—”
“You’ve had fourteen months, Ashburn,” I interrupt coolly. “I’ve already been very generous with extensions, don’t you think?”
Romanov has shoot-to-scare, not a shoot-to-kill policy. He’d much rather have his money than a dead body on his hands. Because dead bodies can’t pay their debts. But Ashburn is really trying my patience. It’s the same back-and-fourth, every fucking month.