The Dirty Series 2(143)

Would that be the worst thing in the world? The thought bubbles up before I can stop it.

Yes, I think, but I’m not convinced.

My heart is beating so hard that I put a hand to my chest, then expend all the rest of my energy putting it back down to my side. The last thing I need is for anyone here to think I’m having a fucking heart attack and make a scene.

The doors slide open….

To reveal Mrs. Hensley, the woman who was outside that night, asking about her husband.

“Well, hello!” she cries gaily as she exits the elevator with a slow shuffle. I put my hand on the doors to keep them from sliding shut too early, and she beams up at me.

“You are too handsome, young man.” She wags a finger in my direction as if I’ve done something awful, which I have. But she follows it up with a grin. “Where’s your lady friend, Carolyn? You two are so gorgeous together.”

She’s fucking right, and I hate it. I shake my head, my lips curving upward just slightly. “Not here.”

Mrs. Hensley didn’t care much for the answer to her question because she’s already making her way over to the doorman. “Lovely,” she says, maybe to me, maybe to nobody. “Lovely.”

I step into the elevator and the doors slide closed, and once again, I have to stop myself from sagging against the walls.

Yes, accepting Eli’s invitation was the right thing. I’m going to have to accept even more invitations if I don’t want this apartment to become a gilded prison like the Four Seasons.

The nagging voice in the back of my mind whispers again. It’s always going to be a prison without Carolyn.

The elevator moves upward and I try to ignore the thought, but it repeats itself like a drumbeat until I want to press my hands against my ears, anything to make it stop.

It’ll take more than that to stop this.

It’ll take everything I have.





Chapter Forty-One





Carolyn



I wake up the next morning with a head weighted down with the after effects of last night’s drinking and a dry mouth, tacky from all the sugary alcohol.

“Shit,” I say into my pillow.

What time is it?

What day is it?

It’s an effort just to reach for the phone on my bedside table.

It is eight o’clock on Wednesday morning, and I am a wreck.

Looking at my phone makes me dizzy, and I collapse back onto the pillow, the phone on my chest.

Jesus Christ. What did we do last night?

I remember drinks. I remember dancing. So much dancing….

And I remember my lips pressed against a man’s. Not Ace’s. Someone else’s.

I remember laughing hard because they were nothing, the kiss meant nothing, it felt like nothing compared to the electric connection I feel with Ace.

Like I’ll never feel again.

My stomach flips over, but I’m not convinced that it’s all from the copious amounts of alcohol I consumed last night.

Nothing makes you sicker than guilt.

Another wave of nausea washes over me, and I squeeze my eyes shut tight, willing it to go away.

There’s no way in hell I can sell anything at the boutique today. A woman who looks vaguely green and is unsteady on her feet will not a good saleswoman make. Especially not next to all the lovely clothes we’ve managed to restock since the theft.

I write out a text to Natalie—she’s the one who’s on this morning, I’m sure of it—telling her I won’t be in today or tomorrow. Then I follow it up with another text.

If you just want to close down the store and take a couple days off, that’s fine too.

I just don’t care.

I just don’t care about the store right now.

I care about Natalie, and Sara, and making sure they get a paycheck, but I can’t bring myself to do anything about it right now.

Maybe by Monday I’ll feel better.

With my phone on my chest, I drift back into a restless sleep. At one point, I think I hear a knock on the bedroom door and my heart leaps—Ace?—but when I jerk upright and listen, there’s nothing but ringing silence.

Shit.

It’s awful.

My phone vibrates in my lap, making me jump. It’s a text message.

I turn the screen to face up with shaking hands.

It’s from Jess.

Make yourself decent, woman. I’m coming over in forty minutes.

No….

Yes.

Really, I’m too hungover

No excuses. See you in 38!

Damn it.

I drop my face into my hands. If I get out of bed right now, I might be sick. If I wait any longer, I’ll never get up.

I put my legs over the side of the bed gingerly, taking several minutes to ease my toes to the carpet.

So far, so good.

It takes twenty minutes just to get into the shower and wash my hair, so I’m scrambling—albeit in slow motion—when there’s an actual knock on the door.