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So we’re quits, I guess. Or we were, until I decided I can’t do this anymore.
I can’t. Need to remember that, and not run back to him next time he calls. If he calls.
Damn man has spoiled me for anyone else, not that I’d ever tell him that. My best friend Dorothy would tell me—like she told me a thousand times already—that sex isn’t the most important thing in a relationship. That a boyfriend has to be foremost attentive and gentle and affectionate.
Hawk and I, we’re not in a relationship. So that doesn’t count. My last boyfriend was a dork and a jerk, and the sex sucked. In my experience, boyfriends and good sex don’t go hand-in- hand. Maybe one day I will find the guy who can do both, but for now…
For now I can’t do as my dad asks and dump Hawk, because he’s not mine to dump, first, and second and most important, he won’t return my calls.
What do I know, maybe he’s dumped me already and didn’t care enough to tell me. Maybe it’s a done deed. Or he’s super busy with his company or flying abroad on his private jet. That’s what you get when you’re addicted to a hot millionaire-slash-bad boy.
The wind is biting into my cheeks as I walk along the warehouse, and I shiver in my thin, stylish jacket. It’s a gift from Mom, and I love it, but today is particularly cold. Feels like a storm is brewing, and the morning is dark like early evening.
There’s a green staff door, and I huddle under its built-in awning, fishing inside my purse for my scarf and gloves. Jeez. You’d think it’s January instead of early May.
Voices from behind the door make me pause. Turns out the door isn’t completely shut but open a tiny crack. This is none of my business, and I finally locate my scarf, which I wind around my neck, getting ready to brave the wind and go find my car—only what the voice closest to me says stops me in my tracks.
“Don’t touch him again, not before the Boss sees him.” It’s a rumbling male voice. “Sometimes those knocks to the head can be damn lethal. I’ve seen a video about it on YouTube.”
Knocks to the head?
“He was egging us on, man. Bastard thinks he owns this city. I was itching to punch that smirk off his face.”
The voices are right behind the door now, I suddenly realize, and I stumble away, putting my back to the wall and waiting.
The two of them stroll past me, not even glancing my way, still talking, the wind whipping their words right back at me.
“Fucking rich boy,” one of them, the burly one, says. “Let’s see how he squawks when I have another go at him. He won’t know what hit him next time.”
“Save it, Johnny. Scare him all you want, but Boss-man said we need him alive.”
I blink. I misheard. That must be it. It’s quite windy, after all.
I mean, come on, these buffoons wouldn’t rough up someone, not in my dad’s warehouse, right beside his office, right?
Does Dad even know about this?
Time to hightail it. Return to Dad’s office, tell him about this, make sure it’s nothing. Misunderstanding or not, better play it safe.
Always playing it safe. That’s what my mom taught me. Taking risks leads to broken hearts—or broken bones, if this proves to be real.
And yet, when I realize the door is still not completely closed, I sidle toward it, and push it to enter.
I need to know what’s going on. Besides, going to Dad with this tale without even knowing my ears weren’t playing tricks on me would be embarrassing.
Hey, Dad, I overheard two guys say they were using a rich guy as a punching bag in your warehouse, I don’t suppose you know anything about this?
Don’t be hysterical like your mother, Layla, Dad will say. You heard what? In my warehouse? You think I’m a thug? Didn’t I tell you to get out?
Right.
Let’s just say I’m still stung. He’s never thrown me out of his office before. We’ve had our fights, but he’s never been so cold to me.
Sheesh.
Stalking in an echoing warehouse in high heels quietly is near impossible, so I slip my shoes off and shiver when the cold of the concrete seeps through my sheer tights.
I know every nook and cranny of this place. I didn’t actually grow up in here, but I’ve hung around the place since I was seven or eight, slipping through my parents’ guard to watch the workers pack up merchandise, stack the crates, load them onto forklifts and then onto truck beds driven by bearded, beer-bellied guys.
