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I grab my sweatshirt off of the chair behind my desk and look at the time on my phone. It’s still not too late to head over to Denise’s house. I’m almost out of the door when my cell vibrates. I look to see who’s calling, and it’s an unknown number.
Weird.
“Hello?”
“She’s pretty,” a female says on the other end.
“Hello? Who’s this?” I stop in the doorway.
“Your new plaything. She’s pretty. But it looks like you’re slumming it, Mil.”
“Becky?”
“Ding. Ding. Ding.”
“Becky, what are you talking about?”
“Her place is kinda dumpy though, don’t you think?”
“Becky, where are you?”
“Oh, you know, just hanging out.”
“Where are you?” Today is the day of fuckery, it’s never ending.
“What’s her name? Is it just as ordinary as her apartment?”
“Becky, what are you doing?”
“She’s a waitress too? Oh, Miller, Miller, Miller. Are you bored?”
“Becky, don’t make me repeat myself. Where are you?”
“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that. But I would like to see you.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Honestly, Mil. You and are unfinished business. I would like to see you.”
How can this day get any worse?
“When and where?” I ask with resignation.
It’shard to believe that I’m actually entertaining this idea. The moment I heard her voice, I knew she was the one. My personal information is in the hands of reporters because of her. I am certain about it. Consequently, she has violated the non-disclosure agreement.
I shouldn’t be going to meet with her. I should be sending my lawyer over to her instead. But right now, I’ve got to make sure I ask her the questions directly. I don’t want to hear her answers through a third party. I want it straight from the horse’s mouth.
My driver pulls up to the address that Becky gave me. I look out the window and notice that it’s a bar. I walk inside and it’s dark with a musty smell inside. I look around. There is people all over the place. Yet, there is one woman who is noticeably different. Despite being a dive bar, it’s surprising to see Ms. Rebecca Winchester, Heiress to a top NYC clothing brand, here.
We dated for a year, if you could call it that. She wanted marriage, and I wanted a steady fuck. We did little outside the walls of either of our homes, and when her birthday came around, and I didn’t give her a ring, she blew up at me. She stood up in the middle of a quiet restaurant and threw a tantrum. That was the last time we were together. I ended things as soon as my driver stopped in front of her building.
I see her long blonde hair, pulled tight into a ponytail. She’s sipping on a drink with an umbrella, looking casual as she watches the bartender move around in front of her.
At one point, I considered her to be attractive. She maintains a poised and polished appearance. Despite having no worries, she dramatically reacts as if the world is crumbling when things don’t go her way. She is the ultimate example of a spoiled brat.
I stride to her and take the empty seat beside her.
“This better be good,” I say, staring straight ahead.
