The Dirty Series 2(82)

“No.”

She takes in a breath like she’s going to ask another question, but changes her mind.

It doesn’t matter. I’m gone.



I end up at a piano bar on 47th with my hand wrapped around a cold glass, which contains something called the Hell’s Kitchen. I’m not entirely sure what’s in it, and I don’t really give a damn.

There’s no music playing right now, but one of the pianos is being tuned and the man doing the work occasionally lets a note sound long, then fiddles with it. Aside from a couple of tourists—from the Midwest, judging by the accents and the way they gleefully order every appetizer on the menu and giggle their way through each one—I’m the only one at the bar.

I’m halfway through my drink and just beginning to relax when the bartender leans against the bar across from me. I’ve been staring at the polished hardwood bar top and thinking about Angelica. When I raise my eyes to find out what he wants, he’s looking at the tourists in the corner booth.

“They’re having a great time,” he comments smoothly, like we’ve been having a conversation all along.

The pair of them have moved on from the basket of popcorn they started with to a ham and cheese sandwich and a second cocktail. “Yeah.”

“You think they’re going out tonight?”

The woman is wearing a black sheath dress and the man has a button-up shirt—I can’t see if he’s wearing pants, but I’d guess cargo shorts, just by the looks of him. “They’re tourists,” I shrug. What the hell else do tourists do except go out?

What do you do except stay in?

“Fifty bucks says they get discount Broadway tickets to the first show on the list.”

I laugh, but it sounds bitter and hard. “I’m not stupid enough to throw away money on that kind of bet. We both know you’re right.”

The bartender, a tall, skinny guy with red hair, smirks, then waves his hand between us. “I can’t judge them too much. They help pay the bills.”

“Damn right.” They help pay mine, too, even though they probably don’t know it.

There’s a pause.

I sip my drink.

It’s three-quarters gone, so I down the rest and push the empty glass toward the bartender.

He raises his eyebrows at me. “More of the same?”

“Surprise me.”

He putters around behind the bar, mixing, stirring, and then presents me with another glass. “My signature.” I don’t ask. I don’t care. From the taste of it, it’s either highly alcoholic and this man is a master of disguise or he’s watering it down in case I start to lose it.

A legitimate assumption.

“So, what’s your deal?”

I take another swig of the drink. Rum. It has rum in it. “My deal?”

“Yeah. Guy like you, expensive suit....” His eyes flick along the lines of my jacket. “Your type isn’t usually in here at noon.”

Why the fuck not?

“I wanted to get out of the office.”

He nods, the corners of his mouth turning down. “This is better than an office.”

“Agreed.”

“Did you get fired or something?”

That’s funny. “No,” I say, a wry smile on my face. “I just couldn’t focus.”

He cups his hands around his ears. “You can tell me. I’ve got all afternoon, and it’s empty in here.”

I shake my head. “Are you a living cliché? Is that what this is?”

“I just like to talk.”

“I don’t.”

“You don’t have to.”

I swallow. The thoughts that have been hammering around inside my skull all day are begging to get out. Even if I have to tell....

“What’s your name again?”

“Ryan.”

“Ryan.” Another sip of the drink. I don’t want him to know who I am—you never know who is in cahoots with the gossip websites. “Have you ever met a woman who seemed like the perfect fucking person for you, and then they turn out to be....” I can’t begin to describe it. My heart clenches, turns inside out.

“Yeah, man,” Ryan says sympathetically. “You end things with her?”

If I were sober, I’d never answer. I’d never be talking to this guy like he’s Connor, or one of my other friends from the Swan.

If I were with Angelica, I wouldn’t be here at all.

“I did.”

“Do you regret it?”

His words cut into me, punch a hole through my already bleeding heart.

I finish the drink in two gulps, pull out my wallet, and toss a hundred on the bar.

“No.”





Chapter Forty-One





Angelica



In the middle of Monday morning, there’s a soft knock at my apartment door.