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27
Cady
The condo is too quiet when they leave.
I try yoga.
I have a shower.
I make myself a tea and take my book out to the balcony overlooking the beach, but even the distant sound of the waves isn’t enough.
I don’t even have a phone to play music.
I don’t remember the last time I had a day with nothing to do. My to-do list is long and involved and there’s no way I will ever get to the bottom of it. Not that I want to, because work is my world.
It’s always been like that. When I started dancing, when I finally had a place of my own, the first thing I did was get my GED, and after that, college courses on anything from business to website coding to the philosophy of sexuality.
When I started charging men for more than private dances, I was always thinking of creating something with the other dancers as a way to stop relying on Paolo and the bouncers to find clients.
When Paolo was killed, I started looking at buying the club.
I’ve had a never-ending to-do list, a plan of making the most out of every opportunity. I see positives when others would have curled up in a ball. I should be looking at this weekend as time to regroup and recharge, because I never get that opportunity.
I should be with Max, trying to find out more about Sandflower’s bid for Tingel Island.
When they invited me to go with them, I was tempted for a brief moment. But a flash of what happened the last time I was on a boat stopped me cold. The memory of those men jumping into the icy-cold lake to rescue one of their friends has prevented me from visiting the island, but I’m going to have to get over that soon.
Also, seeing the boys together. They would have fun together. They needed to be together.
They didn’t need me. I wouldn’t have fun.
The boys—and I can’t stop thinking of them as boys—are puppies. All three of them are puppies and I’m a cat. One of those pretentious, naked cats who look down their noses at the rest of the world.
But I was still tempted to go with them, and I really wish I did because I have no idea what to do with myself.
Not stay indoors, that’s for sure. The condo is beautiful, but the world’s best beach is right outside. I push up from the table and go to put on my bathing suit.
Ten minutes later, wearing a black bikini under my cover-up, skin slathered with fifty proof sunscreen, I step onto the beach.
Warm, white sand, with umbrellas and lounge chairs waiting in polite lines. The water is bright blue with white-capped waves rolling in.
More like crashing—the wind whips my hair and creates bigger waves than I expected. A few people have ventured in the water, but most walk along the sand, keeping a healthy distance so they won’t get splashed by the waves.
A few birds, boats in the distance, and empty lounge chairs make it as close to perfect as I’ll ever get. Just stepping onto the sand seems to release the tension in my shoulders that’s been building since I found out about Noam.
He might not approve of me being here, but for the first time, I couldn’t give a shit.
I couldn’t give two shits.
Throwing my towel and book onto a chair, I start walking with a smile on my face. Noam will never again be able to dictate what I do. He’ll never get a say in my plans.
Yes, he’s gone, and the willingness to advise and encouragement he always showed me is gone as well, but being here, getting some distance from it all, I can start to see the relationship for what it was.
Not a great one.
But that’s over now. And a weekend away with Maximus Steele should prove to Preston that I had nothing to do with Noam’s death.
It’s not the worst place to hide out.
