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And then, because he’s making no effort to move from where he stands, looking all relaxed and gorgeous and unruffled, I whirl around and head to the building before I can think about it.
I bound up through the big door where the doorman stands in his natty suit and hat and I say, “I’ll give you twenty bucks if you let me go inside for five minutes.”
I ended up giving that doorman—Fred his name is—a cool fifty for letting me do that. When I came out, I peered up and down the street and Fred said the gentleman had gone.
With a wave, I’d taken off, hobbling down the street to the subway station because now that adrenaline had ebbed away, my feet hurt like I’d performed some kind of torture on them.
Now I’m in bed, my covers up under my chin and Mr. Figglesmort in a death grip. He’s used to it, and I need the comfort from the old bear.
I try to sleep and can’t, so by the time morning comes I drag myself out of bed and into the shower like I drank ten of those terrible martinis—actual martinis, not Hudson type martinis—instead of half of one.
“You look like you had a night.”
Amber is pointing a perfectly manicured finger at me in an accusing fashion and I swallow hard, wishing I’d stayed in bed, but she’s not usually up at six a.m., even on a work morning. She has one of those hipster jobs that starts at eleven.
“I have a night each time the sun goes down,” I say, scurrying into our tiny kitchen and searching for sustenance. There are Cheerios, which I hate, but I grab a handful and crunch them down dry, anyway.
She crosses her arms, blocking the door. “Oh, very funny. Who is he?”
“Who’s what now?”
“The man you keep borrowing my clothes for.”
“I’m not. There is no man.”
But heat is burning in my face again and she gives a triumphant, “Hah! Liar! Tell me all…or I won’t let you wear that.”
I look down. “This is mine.”
“Hmm… Cute little black pants, perfect for boots or strappy heels and a poppy red blouse with a black pussy bow. Are you sure?”
“Yes. You made me buy these because you said every girl needs an outfit that’s office chic and ready to party on the down low. Whatever that means.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “You’re trying to change the subject.”
“I have a new job. It pays well. That’s all.”
“There’s a man. I can tell.”
“You always think there’s a man,” I snap, taking another handful of Cheerios and nabbing her overly sweet coffee that’s sitting on the bench and take a big swallow. It’s warm because she forgot it and it’s creamy and sweet and very caffeinated, so I drink some more. “But…”
I stop talking.
“I knew it,” Amber says. “Who is he?”
“It’s not…it’s not like whatever you’re thinking. It’s to do with work.”
She clutches a hand to her generous breasts. “You’re a high-class hooker. I should have known when you started taking my clothes.”
“Are you saying you wear high-class hooker clothes?”
“Hey, they do very well.”
“I’m not.” And with that I hand her the coffee and push past with words of trains and running late and new boss and hard ass.
I know I didn’t get away with it, not really. Amber’s got her claws out for the story and she knows there’s one. But I can’t tell her anything.
This is way more complicated than I thought.
