But I didn’t.
“Have a nice life, Vicious.” I turned off the faucet, sashaying to the door.
He grabbed my elbow and jerked me in his direction. A jolt of panic and excitement ripped through me. There was no point in shaking him away—he was twice my size.
“Do you need help, Help?” he whispered in my face. I hated him for calling me that.
And I hated me for responding to his gruff tone the way I did, even after all this time. Goose bumps prickled my skin, and a hot wave crashed inside my chest.
I was breathing heavily, but so was he.
“Whatever it is I need,” I said, my voice a hiss, “I don’t want it from you.”
He pinned me with a wolfish grin. “That’s for me to decide,” he said, releasing my arm like it was dirty and nudging me to the door. “And I still haven’t made up my mind.”
I turned around and bolted out of the bathroom, leaving my high school crush turned nemesis alone in the bathroom.
I contemplated asking Dee to serve their table for the remainder of the night—knew she’d have probably said yes, seeing as they reeked of money—but my stupid pride made me want to see this evening through. It somehow felt important to show him, and myself, that I was indifferent to him, even though it was a lie.
Around three rounds of drinks and an hour later, Sharp Suit stood up. He looked frustrated, annoyed, and defeated, feelings I knew all too well from my year in Todos Santos. The man extended his hand across the table, but Vicious didn’t shake it or stand up. He just glared at the stack of papers between them, silently urging Sharp Suit to pick them up. The man did, and left in a hurry.
I rushed to place their bill on the table and turned around before Vicious had a chance to talk to me again. He paid with a credit card and vanished from what used to be my lucky corner. When I picked up the signed receipt, my hands trembled. I was scared to see how much he’d tipped me. Pathetic, I knew. It shouldn’t have mattered. But it did. On one hand, I didn’t want to feel like a charity case, and on the other, I wanted…heck, what did I want?
Whatever it was, when I picked up the receipt, I knew it wasn’t this. My eyes flared when I saw what he’d written at the bottom:
For your tip, go to 125 E 52nd. 23rd floor.
—Black
A crazy laugh fizzed from my throat. I fisted the note into a tiny ball and dunk-slammed it into the trash behind Kyle.
“Lousy tip?” He looked up from his book, confused.
“He didn’t leave one.” I motioned for him to pour me another shot.
He grabbed the neck of the Vodka bottle. “Asshole.”
Oh, Kyle, I wanted to say. You have no idea.
PLOT TWISTS. GUESS THEY KEPT shit interesting.
I’d be lying if I claimed I’d forgotten about Emilia LeBlanc. But I hadn’t expected to see her again. Sure, I knew she was in New York. New fucking York, the home of over eight million people who weren’t Emilia LeBlanc.
I’d come to the city a week ago with the intention of doing one thing and one thing only—to make the jerk I’d met at McCoy’s drop his fucking lawsuit against my company. He had.
Did I enjoy intimidating him? Yes.
Did it make me a bad person? Probably.
Did I care? Not even one bit.
Sergio had caved, but not because I metaphorically squeezed his balls so tight his future children screamed in agony. He’d done it because I pulled out a detailed draft of a counter lawsuit, one I’d written myself the night before, on my flight from LA to New York. And I’d aced this motherfucker.
Lawyers had the potential to make the best criminals. That was a fact. The only thing that separated me from being an outlaw was opportunity. I had plenty of those within the law.
But Help wasn’t far off. I was a bad person, a good lawyer, and to some extent, yes, still the same asshole who made her senior year miserable.
Sergio was going to drop the lawsuit, let us keep the client we allegedly “stole” from his firm, and all was going to be well. I was a partner in a company specializing in high-risk investments and mergers. The four of us—Trent, Jaime, Dean and I—had founded Fiscal Heights Holdings three years ago. They worked the money side while I was the company’s lead attorney.
Sure, I liked numbers. They were safe. They didn’t fucking speak. What wasn’t to like? But I liked arguing and pissing people off even more.
And now I’d found Help.
She wasn’t part of the plan, which made the surprise so much sweeter. She was the missing piece. Insurance in case things went south back in Todos Santos. I came here for a merger deal, but I also needed someone to do my dirty work. Originally, I wanted my ex-psychiatrist to help me reach my goal. He knew the whole story and could testify against my stepmother. But fuck, dealing with Help was going to be so much sweeter.
It would probably shatter her innocent little soul. She didn’t do revenge. Was never cruel or selfish or any of the things that were the essence of my being. She was kind. Polite and agreeable. She smiled at strangers on the street—I would bet she still did, even in New York—and still had that faint Southern drawl, welcoming and soft, just like her.
I hoped she didn’t have a boyfriend. Not for my sake, for his. Whether he existed or not didn’t matter. I’d figuratively shoved him out of the picture the minute I set foot in McCoy’s and looked up to find her peacock-blue eyes staring right back at me.
She was perfect.
Perfect for my plans and perfect to pass the time with until they materialized.
A ghost from my past who was going to help me haunt the demons of my present. She had the ability to help, and it was obvious she was in a financial pit. A black hole I could fish her out of, healthy and in one piece, except for her scruples.
I was prepared to throw in a lot of resources to get her to agree to my plan. She was mine again the minute I saw her in her next-to-nothing outfit.
She just didn’t know it yet.
My heart was my enemy. I’d known that since I was seventeen. That’s why I couldn’t stop thinking about him—despite my recent unemployment—when thunder cracked and rumbled above my head.
It had been twenty-four hours since I’d seen him, three hours since I’d thought about him and an hour and fifteen minutes since I’d debated, for the hundredth time, whether or not to tell Rosie about it.
At home, I wormed out of my soaked clothes, changed into dry ones, and ran back down to Duane Reade because I’d forgotten to pick up Rosie’s meds. By the time I got back, I was soaked again.
I opened the plastic bag and placed everything on the counter in our tiny studio apartment. Mucus thinners. Vitamins. Antibiotics. I unscrewed all the tops because Rosie was too weak to do it herself.
My sister had cystic fibrosis. Some diseases are silent. But cystic fibrosis? It was also invisible. Little Rose didn’t look sick. If anything, she was prettier than I was. We had the same eyes. Blue with turquoise and green dots swirling around the edges. Our lips were soft and plump, and our hair the same shade of toffee. But while my face was round and heart-shaped, she had the sculpted cheekbones of a supermodel.
To be a supermodel, though, Rosie would have to stride down the catwalk, and lately, she couldn’t even make it from our third-floor apartment down to our street.