Nighttime is the worst; my bed without Jameson is cold. There’s a void where he’s supposed to be.
My heart is aching.
I’m losing hope for us . . . I miss him.
I lie on the couch and stare at the television. The cushion beneath my head is wet with tears.
It’s been three days since Jameson was hit by a car.
Six days since I’ve seen him . . . I can’t eat. I can’t sleep.
I’m in hell.
To make matters worse, I embarrassed myself last night by going to his apartment and crying into the security camera, begging for him to let me in.
He didn’t, and after half an hour his doorman ushered me out of the building.
I’m ashamed.
I don’t know what to do . . . he won’t see me; he won’t speak to me.
All the love and laughter we shared, reduced to nothing.
It’s like I never meant anything to him . . . maybe I didn’t?
I knew he had a reputation for being cold, but this . . . this coldness is next level.
How could he watch me on camera sob and beg and not even let me in?
I pick up my phone and text him.
I miss you.
I stare at my phone, and then I see the dots. I sit up . . . he’s typing something. My heart begins to race. This is the first time. I watch the dots roll as I wait . . . and then they stop.
Wait . . . what? Where is the text?
I wait.
The dots start again, and I smile through tears . . . yes. He’s replying. I wait and wait.
Then the dots stop once more.
“Send the text, damn it,” I snap.
I wait, and nothing comes through for half an hour. My anger starts to bubble. How dare he not even acknowledge me? Who the fuck does this asshole think he is?
I angrily text back.
At least have the guts to say what you want to.
A text immediately bounces back.
Move on, I have.
I read the message and then read the message again through tears . . . what?
Just like that . . . move on?
Fucking asshole.
I get up and throw my phone as hard as I can. The screen smashes on the coffee table. I’m so fucking furious that I have absolutely no control of the situation. I storm into the bathroom, I get under the shower, and, unable to help it, I cry . . . and cry . . . and cry. Howling sobs, and my chest is heaving hard as I hold myself up against the tiles.
Tears of anger, tears of frustration, tears of heartbreak.
I knew it was coming . . . deep down, all along, I knew it was coming, but holy fuck . . . it hurts.
Jameson
I drop my shoulders in the back of my limo as I steel myself for what I’m about to do.
“Are you sure about this?” Alan asks as he opens the door.
“Yes. It is what it is; I’m not hiding any longer,” I say as I climb out of the car. I look up at the New York Police Department sign above the door, and I walk through.
The policeman at the front desk smiles. “Can I help you, sir?”
“Yes, my name is Jameson Miles, and I would like to hand myself in.”
The policeman’s face falters. “You are wanted?”
“I was involved in a fistfight with a man named Gabriel Ferrara and then went to the hospital. I was unaware until late last night that you were looking for me. My apologies for taking so long to get here.”
The policeman smiles. “Thank you for coming in.” He opens a door at the side of reception. “Please come this way.”
Five hours later, I stand on the pavement outside the Ferrara building and look up to the top floors. I dial a number that I’ve had for years but have never called.
“Gabriel Ferrara,” the deep voice answers.
“It’s Jameson Miles. I’m out in front of your building. Get down here now.”
I hang up and inhale deeply. I lean my behind on my limo.
After having spent the last five hours in the police station, I am not in the mood to wait for this prick, but I need to say what I need to say, or it’s going to keep festering inside of me.
I told the police that my punch on Ferrara was self-defense and that they need to check the security footage. I’m not sure if it will stick, but it will give me some time. The police were actually okay and told me that seeing he flicked the cigar at me first, I will probably only be charged with common assault and given a good behavior bond.
That, I can deal with.
Gabriel Ferrara appears through the front door, flanked by four security guards.
His eye is black and his cheekbone swollen. I smirk as I see his fucked-up face.
“You look like shit.”
“Yeah, well, a madman attacked me,” he mutters dryly.
I step forward as my anger resurfaces. “I know what you’re doing.”
He glares at me.
“You don’t scare me. It’s laughable how underhanded you have become.”
He rolls his eyes. “Fuck off, Miles.”
“If you think that underhanded criminal behavior can take down Miles Media, you can think again,” I sneer.
He narrows his eyes.
“Miles Media has been the market leader for thirty years, and we will continue to dominate. Tell me, does your father know what you’ve stooped to?”
He lifts his chin in defiance. “Criminal behavior—what the hell are you talking about? That hit and run has left you delusional.”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
We glare at each other; hate hangs in the air like poisonous pollution.
“I know what you’re doing,” I whisper.
His eyes hold mine.
“And as soon as I prove it, I’m going to fry your fucking ass in court.”
“I’d like to see you try.”
I stare at him as I remember how good it felt to hit this fucker. “Is your cheekbone broken?”
He glares at me, and I know it is.
“Let me tell you this—disrespect Emily Foster again, and next time . . . I won’t just break your cheekbone. I will kill you,” I sneer.
He raises his eyebrow as if surprised by my statement. “Is that a threat, Miles?”
“That’s a fucking promise,” I growl. “Leave her out of this.”
I turn and get into my limo, and we pull away. I watch Gabriel Ferrara storm back into the building, flanked by his security.
The day I bring that asshole down is going to be a sweet victory.
I run down the street in the dark. It’s just midnight. I haven’t been here in a while, and for some reason, tonight I need to be.
Emily’s apartment building.
I count the windows until I get to her apartment, and I stare up at it.
What’s she doing?
Is she missing me as much as I’m missing her?
I get a vision of ringing the doorbell and asking to come up, and we would hug, and I would feel happy . . . like I used to.
But then I remember the hurt I felt last week when she lied to me, the out-of-control feeling that I have whenever I’m with her.
The way my enemies are using her to get to me, the way she’s handing them the ammunition like candy.
And I know that nothing could bring me undone . . . except her.
She’s my only weakness.
And weakness is something that I can’t afford to have.
Not now, not ever.
I stare up at her apartment for a long time, and then with a heavy heart, I turn and begin the depressing run home.