He scowled. “The fuck you doing, Brooklyn girl?”
“Kissing your pain away,” I whispered, not wondering, even for a second, how he knew where I lived, “Manhattan prince.”
He turned around and headed for the building silently, and I followed suit. The entire elevator ride upstairs, I thought about Phoenix. About what it must be like for Célian to see him around after what happened. About the tattoo on Phoenix’s forearm, of the smiling girl. Of Camille. And how he, too, was still dealing with the aftermath of her death. About how it must feel for Célian to spend time with his father here every day, or even look at his fiancée’s face. August. My mind reeled. He said they were getting married in August. Less than three months away.
The elevator dinged, and we both rushed out. I didn’t dare look at his face after all he’d shared, after how he’d opened up to me. Then it occurred to me that my boss didn’t know anything about my personal life—not about Dad, not about Mom, and certainly not about Milton. I arrived at my desk, sat back, and stared at nothing for half an hour.
A message from Grayson in our company’s chatroom snapped me out of my reverie.
Grayson: Reminding you to call your insurance like you asked me to.
Grayson: Another friendly reminder: I’m not your PA.
Grayson: Mr. Laurent, I know you’re probably reading this, so let me just say I admire the suit you’re in today. Not that I’m checking you out. And not that you don’t normally deliver in the fashion sense. How do you undo a message? God, if you can’t send me an Abercrombie and Fitch model as a boyfriend, at least send me filters.
Oh, yes. I’d told Grayson I had an insurance issue so I wouldn’t forget. I’d lied.
I took my phone out and dialed the collection agency to talk about different payment plans. Now that I had a real job, I needed to start working through our debt.
I gave the representative on the other end of the line my name and details, then asked if she needed my credit card number. It was going to suck to see the money finally coming into my bank account just evaporating right back out.
She snapped her gum in my ear, her voice lethargic. “No need, ma’am. Says here the account’s been settled.”
I blinked, staring at all the yellows and oranges and reds on my screen, not really deciphering her words. “Excuse me?”
She sighed. “Says here a payment has been made. You no longer owe us anything, ma’am. Anything else you need help with today?”
I raised my head and looked into the conference room, where Célian sat with Mathias and a bunch of guys in suits he referred to as bigwigs. They were probably discussing money issues and ratings. Those were the meetings the staff wasn’t invited to. I’d once heard Mathias shouting at Célian that he was sheltering us from the bad stuff, and Célian had laughed and retorted, “As your son, let me assure you, you have a lot to learn about protecting what’s yours. Take a fucking seat, old man.” Célian was talking to one of the suits animatedly, then he smiled his patronizing smile and patted the back of his hand like he was the most adorable idiot he’d ever had the displeasure of meeting.
Could he?
Did he…?
Mathias stared at him with a disdain that chilled my bones. All the other men and women in the room stared at him intently, listening to every word he said.
No.
Célian was too brutal, too callous to do something like this.
Besides, how would he even know?
Then, as if sensing my gaze, his face angled toward mine and he shot me a look I couldn’t decode. Anger? Annoyance? Desire? All three?
“Ma’am? Ma’am, is there anything else I can do for you today?”
I shook my head and got back to the woman on the phone. “No, everything is perfectly clear. Thank you very much.”
Jude never got a follow-up on that sex-a-thon invitation from this morning.
After spilling my guts all over her orange Chucks earlier in the afternoon, watching her eyes swim with emotions that had threatened to drown me into despair, I had decided it was in everyone’s best interest if we took the night to reevaluate the clusterfuck known as our office fling.
To say I wasn’t the oversharing type would be the understatement of the millennium. Yet somehow, in that kosher deli that smelled like death and looked like clinical depression, I’d talked about Camille in a way I never had before—not with Maman and not with Kate, and certainly not with my sorry excuse for a fiancée or deadbeat father.
I grabbed my coat and made my way out of my office after we finished the show. Judith was still typing away on her computer, paying her dues as a junior reporter. She actually had the audacity to look pissed again, for a reason beyond my grasp or care. Most women were content to simply spend time with me, in any capacity. Yet Jude got to get fucked, have lunch dates, and have me pay for her fucking life—granted, unbeknownst to her—and she still acted like I was public enemy number one.
After a grueling ratings meeting with the bigwigs earlier today, I’d taken my father aside and explained to him, again, that if he ever touched Jude, I was going to unleash his dirty laundry, one stained panty at a time, and kill the pristine Laurent name he’d been riding all the way to the bank.
Anyway, seeing as pussy wasn’t in the cards for me tonight, I decided to settle for going face to face with a dick.
I’d pay Phoenix fucking Townley a visit.
Phoenix lived in SoHo, which hardly surprised me. It was a great place to find any of your vices, from crack and dope to dead prostitutes. I located his new address in his HR file and took an Uber straight to his house.
He opened the door on the third knock, wearing nothing but white briefs. His blond curls fell on his forehead, his face flush with the humidity that knocked New York on its pale ass on the verge of every summer. He no longer looked like a kid, and it bothered me that he’d continued aging, while Camille stayed frozen, and that Judith might see him in that light—as a man, and not a bad-looking one at that.
“Cel.” He greeted me with no particular tone to his voice, like my presence on his doorstep was ordinary.
He left the door open, turning around and ambling back to his couch in a silent invitation. The apartment was small, new, and hip. And yes, I died a little using the word hip, even if just in my mind. I strolled directly to the red-bricked, trendy kitchen with intentions of fixing myself a drink. But the cupboards were full of bullshit ramen noodles. I opened the fridge and found nothing but root beer, pink lemonade, and nyloned wet cat food. Not a drop of alcohol in sight.
“Just because you’re a pussy doesn’t mean you need to eat like one.” I slammed his fridge shut, groaning.
“There’s a stray under my building that I feed. Lost souls connect to one another in a quiet way. If you’re looking for booze, hate to break it to you, but I quit.” He freefell to his couch with a thud, slouching and flipping channels on his TV. Was he expecting a medal? A bright sticker? Or maybe just for me to not punch him in the face.
Phoenix settled on BBC America. I hated that he wasn’t stupid. It made hating him more difficult.
“Mouthwash?” I asked.
“Nope.”
“Pot?” Everyone had fucking pot, even my fifty-seven-year-old Eastern European housekeeper, who also had a crucifix the size of my bathroom dangling on her meaty neck.
“Quit everything,” he said. “The alcohol, the drugs—”
“The whores?” I cut in, swiveling around and cracking open a can of root beer. I took a sip, decided it tasted like rotten anus, and dumped it in his sink.