Owned: A Mafia Menage Romance(175)

Chicago really sizzles in July, and a few pedestrians glanced at me as I strode down the blazing white sidewalk with my sweater hugged tightly around me. People quickly averted their eyes as I approached.

Oh great, they probably think I’m a bag lady run amok. Nice. I probably look completely nuts.

I fished for the keyfob in my purse as I walked, gracefully unlocking the security gate without breaking my stride. I ducked and waved at the postman who was rolling his cart up to the building just before mine, hoping he couldn’t see the seeping stains across the front of my body.

Keying into both heavy doors, I breathed a sigh of relief when the cool air blasted into my hair and the ring of coffee-scented sweat around my neck. I jogged lightly up the stairs and down the nearly silent hall, pausing at our door to pick the next key out of the bunch, then stopped.

A voice inside the apartment was laughing, getting louder. I looked up in surprise. The bolt snapped open and the doorknob turned.

“--Oh, I know, right?? Ha ha ha!” came a voice as the door swung inward.

“Whitney?” I said dumbly, squinting at her shadow in the sudden blare of light.

My friend Whitney spun around at my voice. I cracked a smile at her automatically, though I was confused. Did I get the wrong door? Why was she here? Whitney’s mouth opened and then closed. She went pale around the rust-red stain of her lipstick.

“What are you…” I stammered, confused. Then I realized I knew the look on her face. She was surprised to see me. In my own house. I was not supposed to be here.

“Oh no,” I growled, the wave rising in my belly. “Not again! Oh, no no no!”

Stepping forward, I pushed the door the rest of the way open. Whitney put her hands up and backed against the hallway wall.

“Where is Carl?” I demanded, my voice a crazy bleat. “Carl?? Carl!”

Carl stumbled out of the hallway in a pair of baggy pajama pants and no shirt, skidding on the shiny wood floor in his bare feet. His eyes flew wide and his mouth opened as though ready to offer some explanation. Then he looked me over with shock and concern.

“What happened? Are you OK?”

I saw myself briefly through his eyes: sweat-soaked, coffee-stained, and red-faced from the hot walk. I probably looked terrifying. I sure hoped so.

But when I opened my mouth, nothing would come out. Whitney edged toward the hallway and I spun on her, pointing. She stopped in her tracks. Carl held out his hands.

“Listen, this is not what you--”

“Stop!” I said, finding my voice again and disappointed by how thin it sounded. “This?” I asked nonsensically, my hands flapping toward Whitney, toward the apartment, toward his shirtless, skinny torso.

A thousand things rushed through my head in a swift, torrential monologue - how could you? How could you do this again? Why Whitney? To hurt me more? Why not just leave? After everything? After I moved here to be with you? After I get up at 4am every day to work your stupid lame coffee house you ungrateful pig? WHY?

But instead I looked from one to the other and said nothing.

Fighting is what he wants. And I am not giving him what he wants.

I took a deep breath and glared furiously at each of them, then turned on my heel and stalked to the bedroom. I dragged a rolling suitcase from the back of the closet and stood with it in my upraised arms. The bed was unmade, the blankets scrolled into an S across the rumpled sheets. The pillows were bunched and sideways. I felt like I could smell them, all oily and curdled like it a fog in the room.

Biting back a groan of pain I flung open the case on the bed, yanking the drawers out of the dresser and just dumping everything inside.

“Brienne,” Carl called meekly from the doorway. “Can we talk?”

I refused to open my mouth, afraid of what might spill out. The taste of blood coated my tongue as I bit my lips closed. I threw my jewelry box in the case and got another suitcase from the closet.

“Bree, it really didn’t mean anything…”

The urge to vomit surged in my belly, a rusty orange swell of anger and confusion. I swallowed it back and pulled two drawers from the bathroom cabinet, then upturned them into the case.

“It’s just, things… I mean you have to know that things haven’t been good for a while…”

Shoes? The suitcases were getting pretty full. I grabbed some flipflops and two pairs of canvas sneakers. Melita would keep me in trashy heels forever if she had her way.

“Bree, say something, please,” he pleaded from the doorway.

Handbags? Fuck it. I’m just taking the Coach ones.

I grabbed a new t-shirt and jeans from the bigger bag and laid them aside on the bed.

Wait, Plain Jane? No I do not think so.