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I’ve never hit a woman, but she’s making it easy to justify.
Vivian steps closer, and my fist clenches. “How do you think your new obsession would react if she knew you’re the reason your friend is dead?”
“Stay the hell away from her,” I warn in a low voice.
She shoves a fingernail into my chest. “You don’t own me. You’re an idiot if you think you’re going throw me away and then live happily ever after with some bitch.”
My peripheral vision blurs with rage as I circle around her. “You’re right, I don’t own you. I leased that pussy, and then I traded up. Goodnight, Vivian.”
* * *
The acidic threats replay in my head as I walk down the crowded sidewalk. I imagine the disgust in Phoebe’s eyes if she ever found out what I’ve done.
Then my frustration grows because I have no idea why I even care.
As I open the door to the swanky hotel lobby, I wince at the varying whispers surrounding me.
Get used to it, asshole.
Pulling my baseball hat low over my eyes, I take the key from the grinning receptionist. For once I don’t smile back.
When she thinks I’m out of sight, I hear her whisper to her coworker, “Oh, my God! That’s Julian Bale.”
Yeah, bitch, it’s me. I’m a fucking sideshow freak.
I don’t know why I’m being such an ungrateful prick…
That’s a lie. I know exactly why. Everyone’s pushed all the right buttons tonight, and I’ve fallen right back into “destructive Julian” in the blink of an eye.
Stumbling into the hotel room, I sit on the bed in complete darkness. Shit. Solitude is the wrong judgment call. I need to take my mind off the tripwire Vivian set earlier.
Turning on the side lamp, I call the only person who can calm the storm I’ve caused by confirming the seed I’ve planted.
“Hello?” she answers.
“Hey, it’s me. I know it’s late, but can you go over the plans again? I don’t want anything left to chance when it comes to her. I need to know you can make this happen for me.”
Nine
Phoebe
“Baby doll, grab a plate. The movie’s about to start.”
I’ve just opened the door when the fragrant smell of Chinese food hits me. Throwing my bag on the kitchen counter, I blow Gage a kiss and rummage through the cabinets.
Our modest, two-bedroom brownstone in Murray Hill isn’t anything you’d see in an episode of Friends. The tiny fixer-upper in Lower Midtown East Manhattan was the cheapest we could find that didn’t have leftover crime scene tape. The train lines that run nearby take us about anywhere in the city we need to go. That was a strong selling point since, unlike a native, I’m still not down with all the foot travel yet.
Anyone else would call it a dump, but for two kids who came from nothing, Gage and I love our apartment. The foyer, kitchen, and living room blend into one area, so we separated them with creative color schemes.
Initially, he’d wrinkled his nose at my eggplant paint choice and gold sunburst-shaped mirrors, claiming the look screamed “confused drag queen.” Eventually, he saw it my way, admitting it had a distinct mix of Fifth Avenue glam and beatnik chic that was uniquely us.
Eyeing an open bottle of merlot, I grab a mason jar from the cabinet and fill it to the rim. The set had been a gag gift from Gage in an attempt to “make the country girl feel at home.”
The joke ended up on him.
Due to both of us being broke-ass twenty-something singles, they’ve become our everyday crystal.
The wine warms my throat, unraveling the ball of fury that’s pummeled my stomach since Chloe’s call. Plopping on the floor next to Gage, I snatch the carton out of his hands and swipe a pair of chopsticks.
