“There’s nothing to explain.” I glower at him. I see my red suitcase tumbling down the chute and onto the carousel and I let out a sigh of relief. There is a god! And she’s clearly a woman.
I rush over to grab it so I don’t have to hear whatever sweet-talk comes out of Jake’s mouth next, then drag it to the exit at a sprint while he’s stuck stranded waiting for his bags. I haul ass into a cab, and slam the door behind me.
“Brooklyn,” I tell the driver. “And step on it.”
I sit back and check my phone, home to about a dozen concerned texts from Della, Melissa, and my sister, all wanting to know if I’ve seen the bounty and how I’m holding up.
Not good, Bob. Not fucking good.
The pain hits me again, now that the booze is wearing off. The betrayal, the disappointment, and most of all, the hurt. That Jake could play me like a goddamn fiddle. I thought our connection was real, but it was all a lie—every bit of it. The look in his eyes as he brushed the hair away from my face, the feel of his hands on my skin..
I feel the tears rising and have to swallow them back. No. I’m not crying over that smooth-talking son of a bitch, not anymore. Why should I be the one sobbing when he’s the assrat who treated me like some kind of trophy? Him and his friend Miles, and that stupid magazine.
I feel the hurt turn to anger, and yes, that’s more like it. The rage flooding my body is so much better than caffeine—no need for coffee anymore. I mean, who does this Miles guy think he is, anyway? And what gives him the right to mess with my life like it’s some sort of sick game? I open up my browser and search for the Dapper webpage, clicking on the “contact us” button.
“Forget Brooklyn,” I tell the driver. “We’re making a stop in Soho first.”
The Dapper offices are on the twelfth floor in a predictably phallic building of glass and steel—windows everywhere, framed magazine covers with the likes of Sophia Vergara and Kate Hudson half-naked and smiling down at me. I stride through the main office to the reception area, where a bottle blond sits behind a desk, punching the keyboard with nails so long and red I’m surprised she can actually function with them on, much less type anything legible.
“Is Miles in?” I ask sweetly.
“He is,” she says, looking startled. “But he’s in a meeting right now.”
“Not anymore.” I stride past her, making a beeline for the corner office at the end of the open-plan layout.
“Hey!” she calls after me. “You can’t go in there! I told you he’s—”
I throw the door open dramatically and stride inside. “I want a word with you!” I declare loudly, but my big entrance is cut short as my heel catches on the edge of the huge rug. I trip, falling right into the arms of none other than Jake Weston, who’s standing near the door, looking at me with a bemused expression on his face.
Whoops.
I tear away from him like I’ve been burned.
“I should’ve known you’d come here,” I spit. “Calling in your report? Sorry to say, he didn’t close the deal,” I glare at Miles, who’s cowering behind his desk. “And if he tells you otherwise, he’s a fucking liar.”
“I didn’t lie.” Jake sounds put out, and I quell him with a look. “Seriously.” He keeps talking, which shows a serious lack of concern for his bodily safety right now. “I came here to make him call it all off. The bounty, everything. I said from the start it was a stupid idea.”
“Nice try,” I snort. “But it’s a little too late for that.” I turn back to face Miles, who’s edging towards the phone. “What, are you going to call security?” I demand. “Because I could call someone too right now. My lawyer!”
“Now, now, there’s no need for that,” Miles quakes.
“Why not?” I say, pretending like I’m the kind of person who really does have a lawyer on speed-dial, instead of just five different take-out restaurants. “I could sue you for emotional distress, fraud, who knows what else?”
“I’m sorry! It was just good fun,” he protests. “My wife’s been driving me crazy on this strike, and I’ll do anything to make it end. You weren’t supposed to even know!”
“Because when you post something on the internet, it always stays a secret,” I scorn. “Did you really not consider the fact that I’m a living, breathing person and that what happens in my vagina is nothing to do with you?”
“Lizzie, I wanted to tell you,” Jake interrupts, and his face is so sincere, I want to believe him. But right now I just can’t.
Even if those blue eyes are beseeching me, and he’s running a hand through that rumpled mop of hair, and he looks way too good to have just been stuck in a tin can in the sky for the past six hours.
“Don’t even get me started on you,” I say, my voice quiet, but the hurt rings out for anyone to hear. He looks at the floor, chastened. This is a Jake Weston I’ve never seen before—humble and apologetic. Too bad I’m only really meeting him now. He seems like he’d probably be a nice guy.
“You are going to take the fucking bounty down,” I say, stabbing a finger in Miles’ direction. “And you are going to stay away and never speak to me again.” I glare at Jake. “Unless it’s about work, or the words out of your mouth are limited to, ‘Here, I have an extra doughnut for you,’ ‘Yes, I’m total scum,’ and ‘Can I please have the honor of bringing you a venti latte?’ Got it?”
They both nod, looking guilty.
“Good.” I stalk back to the door, careful not to trip this time. “Oh, and Miles? If you want to figure out why your wife won’t fuck you, maybe ASK HER, instead of paying men to seduce a total stranger!”
I slam the door behind me. The secretary glares at me as I walk out the big glass doors to the gleaming bank of elevators, but even though I’ve managed to take some of my power back, I don’t exactly feel any better about the whole thing. Vindicated maybe, but not better. Not by a long shot.
I text Della. “911 EMERGENCY GIRLS NIGHT. MY PLACE.”
I need some moral support, fried food, and three bottles of red. And not necessarily in that order.
25
Lizzie
“You’re not saving this, right?” Della says, pulling a bottle of wine from my rack and pulling the cork out before I can so much as protest.
“That was my emergency rations!” I say, then pause. Fuck it, if this doesn’t qualify, I don’t know what does. “Go crazy,” I tell her, which is probably redundant, considering she’s already pouring herself a glass.
Friends. Can’t live with them, can’t shoot them.
“So what happened out there?” Melissa asks, sinking into the couch cushions. There’s junk food spread on the coffee table, the best the Ming Tsun Palace has to offer is on its way, and there’s three quarts of Ben and Jerry’s waiting in the freezer.
When we go hard, we go hard.
Della pours me a glass of wine, too, and I plop down next to her on the couch.