The Dirty Series 2(106)

What can I do, boss?

Call the realtor. Have her list my penthouse for sale immediately. And have her send over a list of her top three available properties. I want to be moving on this by tomorrow.

It’s the weekend, but she’s not going to care. With enough money at your disposal, business hours have no meaning.

Consider it done.

I’d call her myself, but before I call anyone, I need to get a fucking grip.

I’m not the kind of man to sit around, holed up in the world’s most expensive hideout. I’m not the kind of man who’s going to let his chewed-up-and-spit-out heart make him into some pussy who can’t face the world.

Everything from my past life here, the life before Elisa, has to go.

There’s a thrum of electricity in my chest. A clean slate. A new life. Those fucking paparazzi will find me. The news will break. But this time, I’m going to be in control of what happens to me. I’m not going to sneak past them into my old apartment. I’m going to walk with my head high into my new place, and let the chips fall where they may.

And I’m not, under any circumstances, going to think about Carolyn Banks, and her perfect ass, and her unbelievable breasts, and the way her dark hair curled down against my chest, and the way she moaned when I stroked her, and the way she shuddered and shook against me when she came….

I’m not going to think about her for another goddamn second.

Last night was a mistake. A fucking sexy mistake, for sure, but a mistake nonetheless. And it’s over now. It’s going to stay over.

I stand up from the couch, turn the TV off, and stride into the master bathroom, stripping off the rumpled clothes.

I’m going to take a shower. I’m going to shave. I’m going to get dressed.

And then I’m going to take the rest of my life in my fists, and I’m going to make it mine.





Chapter Eleven





Carolyn



All I want is for Ace Kingsley to disappear from my life, to go back to wherever it is that he dropped in from.

On Saturday, when I get back to my apartment, the silence reminds me of a cathedral. Instead of empty and depressing, the absence of sound—except the low hum of my refrigerator in the kitchen, the blowing air from the air conditioning unit as it cycles on and off—it wraps itself around me like a blanket. After the thundering noise of the Swan and the serrated daggers of Ace’s voice this morning, I can’t even bear to put my iPhone in its dock and play background music to work.

I take another shower, stripping myself of all the scents from the Four Seasons. My hair is heavy and wet, but I don’t bother drying it. I towel it off and then brush it back, hard, into a tight bun.

I could use a trim, and it’ll be nice to have someone wash my hair and massage my temples. My favorite salon in the city is three blocks away, so before I do anything else, I text my hairdresser, Janine. She normally doesn’t do weekend appointments, but today is my lucky day.

I laugh bitterly at the thought.

I’m doing a wedding party at the salon tomorrow. Done at 3:00. You want to come down?

Hell yes.

:)

Janine is the one person I can count on in the entire city not to ask me about Ace Kingsley, and the thought loosens some of the tension in my shoulders.

That asshole isn’t going to get the better of me. Not today, not ever.

And you know what? I’m done with one-night stands. He was hot as hell, and the sex was…well, it was mind-blowing. If I think about it separately from his douchebag behavior this morning, it still makes the space between my legs heat up.

Forget about him. There’s a man out there who’s even better, and when the time is right, I’ll find him, and I’ll take him. No doubt about it.

Some doubt pricks at the back of my mind. Are you sure? Are you one hundred percent sure that somebody can top that?

The brutal truth? No. I’m not sure, and it pisses me off.

In the end, what can I do?

Ace Kingsley wants nothing to do with me. When it comes right down to it, I’m probably dodging a bullet by not getting involved with him. Past experience tells me that it would end in disaster. The memory of cheating Anderson floats into view, and I slap it away, forcing it back into the past.

Not entirely, of course. But enough that I can move on.

Well, screw him. I don’t want anything to do with him either.

On Sunday afternoon, I linger in my walk-in closet, choosing a boho maxi dress in a bright, cheery pattern and pairing it with buttery leather boots. I start with my best bra and panty set, the one that makes me feel the sexiest, and then slip the dress on over my shoulders, finishing with the boots.

Then I sit down at my lighted vanity and open my makeup case. Two weeks ago I went to the makeup megastore on 5th and 9th and filled a bag with new stuff from Smashbox and Elizabeth Arden, replenishing my stash with smooth new containers and bottles and a new set of brushes. I work my own magic on my face until there’s no sign I might have been holding back tears.