I wasn’t thinking about work.
Normally by now, Nick had texted me. Told me when I was free to come over. Usually sometime around six and usually including telling me what he was going to be cooking.
No text.
I waited. I worked. I worried.
I went home at close to seven and still there was nothing from Nick.
I made myself a big salad, ate it all alone in my huge kitchen, and close to nine, texted, Are you okay?
I eventually went to bed.
It was the first night in three weeks I’d hit my bed without first hitting Nick’s so Nick could hit me.
I tossed and turned all night, my phone by my bed.
Dawn came.
And from Nick, there was nothing.
*
8:36 p.m. – Three Days Later
I knocked at Nick’s door.
The Jag was there. The huge windows that, on the stairs, in his recessed entryway or even from the street I could not see into, were lit, the soft glow from the bedroom, a brighter glow from the living room.
I heard nothing.
He didn’t answer the door.
I looked to the large signature bows of the black Valentino platform, peep-toe pumps I wore.
Those bows, so simple, still a thing of beauty.
At least there was some beauty in the world I could own.
I looked to Nick’s door.
He was in there.
But we were over.
He was the smart one.
The strong one.
Thank God one of us was.
I walked down the steps with my head held high. We were friendly. He’d stopped communicating. Now I was just an acquaintance he’d fucked who was checking on him.
I had no proof but still, I knew he was fine.
I could move on.
Yes, I would move on.
Nothing to look forward to, not anymore.
But that was okay. Naturally, I’d keep breathing.
It was habit.
I made it to the bottom of the steps, went to my car, got in and drove away.
I didn’t even look up to Nick’s unit.
He was already a memory
*
Nick
Nick stood at the window, teeth clenched, muscle jumping in his cheek and he watched her walk to her car.
Total poise.
Like a princess.
His princess.
The adult one.
“Shit,” he whispered.
She got in her Range Rover and drove away.
And she did that not once looking up.
Not once.
That was good.
If she’d looked, he wouldn’t have been able to stop himself going after her.
It was better this way for everybody.
Especially Olivia.
*
7:19 p.m. – That Next Friday
Nick stared at the texts on his phone.
Are you okay?
Missed yesterday. Tonight?
Sebring, is everything okay?
After that, nothing.
His head shot up and his mouth got tight when he saw Turner had slid on the stool next to him. He’d slid off that stool five minutes ago to use the bathroom. He’d returned and Nick was so deep in thought about Olivia, he didn’t feel him come back.
“Responses kinda slow, Sebring,” Turner murmured, eyeing him closely.
Nick didn’t reply. He looked away from his friend, lifting his drink to throw the rest of it back, his eyes catching on a woman’s at the end of the bar who was looking at him.
She gave him the smile that was his opening.
He looked away and threw back his whisky.
He returned his attention to Turner.
“I need another way to get at Harkin and Shade,” he told him.
Turner held his gaze, his lips now thinned.
They unthinned so he could ask, “Are you serious?”
Nick saw the bartender pass, got his attention and jerked up his chin before tipping his head to Eric.
The bartender nodded.
Nick looked back to Turner. “Olivia’s not gonna work.”
“Because she doesn’t know dick that’ll help you or because you like havin’ your dick in her too much to use her to help you?” Turner asked.
“We’re not discussing that,” Nick stated. “You don’t have any ideas, all right. You got thoughts on Olivia you feel like sharing, that’s not happening.”
“Seems there’s a pattern with you, work a job, get * during it, you fall for it.”
Nick turned fully to Eric.
“Careful,” he warned.
Turner tilted his head to the side mockingly. “Careful, me talkin’ trash about Hettie or careful me talkin’ trash about Olivia fuckin’ Shade?”
“You hear me say we’re not talkin’ about this?” Nick asked.
“I hear you say we’re not talking about Olivia fuckin’ Shade,” Eric returned.
“Yeah, that’s what I said,” Nick confirmed.
Turner’s expression shifted from seriously annoyed to pissed before he clipped, “Jesus, brother. She’s Olivia fucking Shade.” He got close and bit out low, “The daughter of the man who ordered Hettie executed.”
Nick’s response was just as low. “I might be wrong but I think I remember that better than you.”
“Seems to me, you protectin’ that bitch, you mighta forgot it.”
“Careful,” Nick repeated, this time in a whisper.
Turner leaned back. “Are you fucking serious? Hettie was yours but she was also a member of my team. She got whacked under my watch. And you get that, Nick. I know you do since you were a member of that team too.”