Page 42 of The Accident

“So what now?”

He quirks an eyebrow. “So you finish breakfast and then leave.”

I stare at him.

“But like I said, I have no clothes with me. So what am I supposed to do at 7:54 in the morning?” I ask, glancing quickly at the clock.

He almost smiles, then doesn’t. “That’s what you wanted, right? The walk of shame?”

My vision goes blurry for a second. I stand up, fists clenched.

“Fine. I’ll get dressed and go,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.

He doesn’t stop me. He doesn’t even move.

I stalk down the hallway, every step louder than the last, the cold marble burning my feet. The guest room looks exactly like I left it—bed unmade, a tangle of sheets and pillows, my dress from last night in a heap on the chair. I pull it on over my head, not bothering to smooth it. My hands are shaking so bad I drop my phone twice trying to shove it into my purse.

When I come back through the living room, Trevor is still in the kitchen. He’s cleaned up, the dishes stacked neatly, the counter wiped to a shine. The eggs are gone, like they never existed.

I stop for a moment, and then move on to the front door. My heels are in my hand, and I realize I’m barefoot, but I can’t bring myself to put them on.

I wait, just for a second, to see if he’ll come say goodbye. Maybe he’ll crack a joke, or apologize, or even just look at me.

He doesn’t. The kitchen is silent.

So I open the door, step into the bright, silent hallway, and close it behind me.

The latch clicks, louder than a gunshot.

Fortunately, the elevator comes right away, doors yawning open like a trap. I step inside and catch my reflection in the mirror: blonde hair wild, party dress wrinkled, heels dangling from my fingers. Red-rimmed eyes that suspiciously look like I’ve been crying. This is the true walk of shame, I think. Not leaving some random guy’s apartment at seven a.m., but leaving your own stepbrother’s, after he’s made it perfectly clear that you don’t mean a thing.

I press my fist hard against my chest and let out one short, ragged breath.

Then I pull myself together, square my shoulders, and watch the numbers light up in the glass.

Ground floor. Lobby. Sunlight blinding, cars whipping by on the street, everyone with somewhere to go.

I step out into the world, and I promise myself: I won’t let him be the thing that ruins me.

Not for anything.

Not even for this.

15

MY HIDDEN PAST

Trevor

The North Side Country Club has always reminded me of a mausoleum for rich men’s bad decisions. It’s nothing but stone and glass, massive windows framing the golf course and city lights, chandeliers like inverted candelabras dripping from twenty-foot ceilings. Tonight the place is packed—auction night, one of those obscene society events where people donate to charity by purchasing humans, and everyone acts like that’s not the most on-brand thing for old Minneapolis money to do. Even more unfortunate, I’m the product tonight, and it fucking sucks to be me.

I park the Mercedes in front, leave the keys with a valet who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. The drive over was a blur—no music, just the hum of the engine and a single, looping thought: I should have kissed her. I never should have sent her away. I should have kept her, ruined her for good, and never let her leave my bed. It’s pathetic, the way Kayleigh’s been under my skin, and yet there’s no antidote for it. All week, I’ve been waking up at 4am, hard and sweating, the imprint of her pussy on my tongue, her laugh echoing off the stone counters of my kitchen. I see her every time I close my eyes: on her back, on her knees, legs folded over her head, a smile on her lips and that wild, hopeful light in her eyes.

But we can’t. I can’t, and I put her out of my mind, at least temporarily. After all, I’m here to do a job. I’m here to be auctioned off in front of a crowd of squealing ladies who will range anywhere between the ages of 21 and 85. And I look the part: black tux, hair swept back, face shaved to a blue-shadowed jaw. The effect is deliberate. Predatory, but safe. The kind of guy you’d trust with your money, and your daughter—for one night at least.

Inside, it’s all color and heat. The bar at the entrance is five deep with cocktail dresses—plum, turquoise, wine red, every color calibrated to catch the eye in a sea of black. Most of the men are clumped together like cattle before a slaughter, tuxedos and pinched faces, a few recognizable assholes from the local startup world who look everywhere but at each other. The women are different: they glide, they cut, they move in packs or on the hunt, heads turning like sunflowers toward any source of heady cologne. Oh yeah, they’re on the hunt tonight, and the periodic squeals of joy make my heart sink.

But I keep my hands in my pockets, move through the crowd with a smile that feels exactly like the one I wore at my father’s third wedding. Women brush against me, hands on my arm or the small of my back, all of them with the same look: Is this the asshole from the magazine? Is he actually single? Is he worth the price? One of them—blonde, somewhere between forty and ageless—catches my eye and holds it.