Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 78765 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78765 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
“Whatever, it’s fine.” she laughs. “Don’t include me in your plans. I’m used to being left behind, right? My parents didn’t even come to my parole hearing.”
“Parole hearing,” I echo, cymbals crashing in my ears.
Nicole hums. “I thought I was calling to give you good news, but maybe you want me to stay in here and rot while you’re ‘starting over’ in New York.”
I lean back against the building, my legs no longer able to support me. “You got parole?”
The robotic recording starts to play, telling us we only have thirty seconds left.
“That’s right. Guess they decided to be lenient with me, too. It’s about time something went my fucking way, right?” She pauses. “Do you have a car?”
I shake my head even though she can’t see me. “No.”
Her sigh fills my ear. “Guess you won’t be able to pick me up.”
She leaves it hanging there. Automatically, my mind scrambles for a solution. A way to get me to Connecticut so I can be there when she walks out. So I can help her. I had someone there, didn’t I? My father might have been tight-lipped and distant, but he showed up. Brought me home to Pennsylvania, gave me enough money to start me off in New York. It’s an advantage that Nicole doesn’t have. I’m selfish if I don’t do something to help. I can’t just pull up the rope ladder and leave her trapped in the basement. “I mean, I can send some money. I don’t have a lot left and I won’t get my first paycheck for another week or so—”
“You got a job? What is it?”
I shake my head, even though she can’t see me.
No. No, I won’t tell her about this. I can’t. She’ll hate everything about it. If I think I’m dealing with imposter syndrome now, her reaction to me having such a high-end job will take the cake. Score another one Stella. Some people are born with it all.
Our time is running out.
“Ten seconds remaining,” chirps the voice.
“I’ll send the money,” I mutter, right before the line goes dead.
Nausea pitches in my stomach as I stare down at my phone. It’s not that I wanted Nicole to stay locked up forever. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. But I had my chance to establish my intentions to move on without the stickier obligations of our friendship and I blew it. The opportunity passed and now…now I don’t know what’s coming. I suspect Nicole wants to pick up right where we left off, though. She has no choice. Nowhere else to go. What am I going to do if she comes here? I can’t turn her away.
The rear door opens with a loud creak, making me jump. One of the sales girls steps out and lights a cigarette, waving the smoke away so it doesn’t cling to her black uniform. I catch the door behind her and she smiles wearily at me when I pass. I don’t realize how much the call has thrown me off balance until I step into the rear merchandise room of Vivant and everything looks fuzzy around me, a conversation between two stock delivery guys sounds unnatural. I need to make a list of art supplies and props for the next window I’ll be designing. It’s my first day as a real employee and the morning is already getting away from me. My legs are like gelatin, though. Am I shaking? Pull it together.
I’m almost to the door of the merchandise room when Aiden appears in front of me.
And wow. Wow. He’s beautiful and strapping and familiar and bright. Like orange slices and coffee after weeks of being served cold oatmeal and lukewarm water. Just like the night he saved me from the locked window box, I want to throw myself into his arms again and cling for dear life. A hug from him would fix everything for a little while.
“Stella?” He’s holding something in his hand—a small stack of envelopes—but when he sees me, his face transforms with concern and he drops them into his jacket pocket, coming forward. His hand reaches out to cup my face and I’m poised to moan at the welcome contact, but he hesitates. Looks around at the employees coming and going from the room, some of them openly watching us, and lets his hand drop away.
If the phone call with Nicole drove a dagger into my middle, it has just been yanked out, sending blood spurting from the wound.
“Are you okay?” he asks quietly, brows knitting together. “You look upset.”
Of course I’m not okay. I had this man in my apartment last night. I had his beautiful mouth on mine, his presence warming me, making me feel secure and happy and hopeful and treasured. But he couldn’t be corrupted. I should be ashamed of myself for trying. I am. I almost made him do something he would have regretted. Something that would have compromised his rare, genuine integrity. He was right to leave. He’ll be right to move on. And I’m definitely not going to take advantage of any more kindness from him. Or lean on him about my best friend and the ominous tone of our phone call.