by Shandi Boyes
“Honestly, no. I don’t have a clue.” Realizing there are products that require refrigeration in the basket, I pry open the saran wrap and gather them in my hands. “I’m going job hunting this morning,” I advise, pacing to the fridge.
“Around Montclair?”
I place the orange juice and cream into the fridge before spinning on my heels to face him. “Anywhere, really. A job is a job. I’ll take what I can get.”
Dexter scrubs his hand over the stubble on his chin as he stares into space. Not wanting to interrupt his train of thought, I start packing away the items in the basket. Although most are products I’ve previously used, they are much fancier brands than the ones my grocer stocks.
I’ve just finished stacking the banana and walnut muffin mixture in the pantry when Dexter asks, “You studied personal relations, right?”
I screw up my nose. “Yeah, but just as a filler class as the creative writing course was full. I wasn’t overly good at it.”
“Did you pass?” Dexter asks with an arched brow.
I giggle before nodding. “Just.”
Dexter checks his watch before questioning, “Do you have any plans next Friday?”
“Christmas eve?” I ask, certain he has his dates confused.
He doesn’t.
“Yeah, my father’s lifelong friend is attending Global Tens’ Christmas Eve ball. I think he is someone you’d really like to meet.”
My brows scrunch from the ambiguousness of his reply. It isn’t what he said; it's the way he said it. It was showy and teeming with attitude, very unlike Dexter.
“Thanks for the offer, but I’m not interested in attending a function overrun with reporters.” That's the last thing I need.
“Why not? The opportunity would be immense, Cleo. You could be walking away from something—”
“I’m not interested, Dexter,” I interrupt, my tone stern and to the point. “I appreciate you looking out for me, but I don’t want to work in that industry anymore. I can’t handle the stress right now.”
Even with my worry at an all-time high that I’m weeks away from being homeless, I’m not so desperate I’ll fall to my knees and beg the people responsible for the demise of my career and relationship for any scraps they’re willing to throw me. I’d rather scrub toilets for a living than lower myself to those standards. Furthermore, discovering I’m pregnant ensures I need to limit my stress. My baby doesn’t deserve to be bombarded with out-of-control hormones and soaring emotions. If I don’t lower my stress, the poor baby will have a mental breakdown before it's even born.
Dexter’s lips twitch as he struggles to hold back further debate. I issue him a glare, warning him I’ve reached my quota on our conversation.
“Alright,” he eventually breathes out. “But if you change your mind, I’m only a phone call away.”
“Thanks, but there is no chance of that happening.”
I lied.
23
“No luck?”
I shake my head before closing our front door, blocking out the nagging questions from the paparazzi still following my every move. After placing my portfolio on the entranceway table, I sling off my coat and pad into the living room Lexi is gawking at me from. My steps are slow, weighed down by the intense amount of pressure I’m under.
I slump onto the sofa next to Lexi so I can pry my stilettos off my aching feet. Air whizzes from my thin, grim lips when I spot the mountain-sized blister on the back of my heel. I knew trekking the streets of Montclair in a pair of heels would be a tortuous feat for my ego, but I had no clue it would cause physical pain as well.
“Ouch. I’ll get the iodine,” Lexi offers, rising from the couch.
I’ve barely skimmed off my second shoe when she reenters the room, clutching a bottle of iodine and a box of Band-Aids.
“I think it's time to devise a new tactic,” she suggests, handing me the items she gathered.
Before I can announce a protest to her suggestion, she continues talking, foiling my attempt. “I’m not saying you have to accept Dexter’s offer, but I think you should use his invitation as a way of confronting Mr. Carson. Your leave is not negotiable, Cleo. You earned those hours by working your ass off for his company the past five years. The least he could do is hear you out.”
At Jackson’s suggestion, I reached out to Mr. Carson after contacting my bank to ensure there wasn’t an error processing my paycheck. There wasn’t. I was informed by Mr. Carson’s PA that he will be unavailable until next year, so I spent my week job hunting. I’ve yet to secure a position. It isn’t because the companies believe I lack the skills for the job, nor am I overqualified, they just don’t want the stigma attached to my name to negatively impact them. I can’t say I blame them. Having a prospective employee arrive at an interview with half-dozen paparazzi in tow would have to be a major deterrent for any employer.
“When this dies down, come back and see me,” is a quote I’ve heard on repeat the past five days. Little do they realize by the time the media’s interest in me ends, I’ll be homeless.
“Mr. Carson is on leave, so I doubt he’ll be attending the gala,” I reply, issuing any excuse to avoid being lured into agreeing to this plan.
Lexi leaps off the couch, startling me. “If the news printed by his own company is right, he’ll be at that gala.”
She hands me a front-page article on Mr. Carson and a mystery blonde he was seen with at a racetrack event last month. Although the blonde’s face in the photo is anything but pleasant, Mr. Carson’s hold on her implies they are more than friends. He is holding her like a groom would when carrying his bride over the threshold.
“Rumors are they’ll be attending the event together.”
I peer at Lexi, stunned by her snoopiness.
“What? My nosey-nancying is encouraging the media to shift their focus away from Marcus. . . which in turn will shift their focus away from you as well.”
My heart rate turns calamitous when I flip over the paper to discover Marcus’s handsome frame. With the recovery time of his hand being critical, he has been photographed entering and exiting a well-known physical therapist’s office in lower Manhattan the past week. If the gossip articles are anything to go off, the band will resume their world tour as early as late January.
Lexi removes the article from my hand, practically prying it from my death-clutch hold. I’d like to say as the days roll on, my grief over losing Marcus is fading. It isn’t. I miss Marcus just as much now as I ever have. I always thought the saying “absence makes the heart grow fonder” was a crock of shit. Now, I’m a believer. I miss Marcus for every second of every hour of every day. Years will pass, and I don’t see that logic changing.
My eyes lift to Lexi when she hands me my cell phone. “Accept Dexter’s offer.”
My brisk headshake slows when Lexi adds on, “Or I’ll sell my Kalydeco medication on the black market.”
I stare at her, blinking and confused. “You can’t do that. It’s illegal.”
“Yes, I can,” she confirms, her tone firm. “With the price being so high, people are desperate. But you don’t need me to tell you that, do you, Cleo? As you already know the steps people will take to protect the ones they love.”
I huff. “I only considered it once. It was still out of my price range,” I admit, unashamed. I’m not deceitful when I say I’ll do anything to protect my sister, even going as far as risking prosecution for purchasing medication on the black market.
I lick my dry lips before accepting my cell from Lexi. My hands shake uncontrollably when I punch Dexter’s number into the screen from the business card he handed Lexi last week. As the sound of ringing buzzes in my ear, I stand from the couch and pace to the front window to peer outside. The media’s numbers have halved the past week and a half, but their presence is still highly notable.
“Cleo,” Dexter greets, proving he has my number stored in his phone. “How are you? Good? I hope you’re calling to accept my offer?”
/> I wait a beat to ensure his interrogation is over before replying, “Hi, I am good; thank you for asking, and in regards to your offer, if your plus one is still available, I’ll happily tick the box.” My words come out in a flurry, spurred on by the nervous butterflies taking flight in my stomach.
“But just as friends. I’m not ready for anything more than a friendship right now,” I clarify, wanting to ensure he doesn’t mistake my acceptance of his olive branch as a date.
Dexter chuckles. “That’s understandable. It’s not every day you’re dumped during a live broadcast, so I don’t blame you for being turned off at the idea of dating again.” Although his tone comes out playful, it doesn’t stop his words from brutally stabbing my heart.
“So. . .umm . . .” I cringe at my inability to produce words. Dexter’s laidback approach to my public humiliation has me a little stumped for a reply. “What time do you want me to meet you there?” I force out through the unease gripping my throat, silently asphyxiating me.
“I’ll come pick you up around 6 PM.”
“Oh, no that’s not necessary. You live in New York. I’ll come to you. It will be easier this way.”
“Come on, Cleo, the gas prices are astronomical at the moment, let alone the parking fees. Are you sure that’s an expense you want the day before Christmas?”
My ego absorbs his brutal maiming without a smidge of hesitation. “Fine. I’ll see you at 6.” Stealing his chance to reply, I disconnect our call. Okay, maybe my annoyance was late to the party.
Riddled with guilt that I’m being a cow to a man who deserves nothing but my admiration and respect, I quickly send Dexter a message.
Me: Sorry, bad reception. I’ll see you Friday at 6. Thanks for the invite.
Dexter replies not even two seconds later.
Dexter: I look forward to making you smile. That's one asset void of a monetary value, but also the most priceless.
His reply has my worry sitting on edge, but I shut it down, too overrun with hormones to decipher cryptic riddles.
Me: I look forward to once again smiling, thank you for taking up the challenge.
My phone buzzes, indicating another message, but I ignore it, my mind too busy unscrambling why I feel so guilty. I have nothing to feel guilty about, but there is no doubt that was the emotion thickening my blood during my phone call with Dexter.
“Done?” Lexi queries, glancing up at me.
I give her an unenthusiastic nod. “Yes. Now I just have to find something to wear and work out a way to convince my heart it isn’t wrong to go out with the man who aided in ending my relationship.” A loud grumble spills from my lips as I flop onto the couch. “Oh, god, this isn’t a good idea, Lexi. Maybe I shouldn’t go? This will look bad.”
“Bad to who?” Lexi argues, straightening her spine. “You’ve seen the articles, Cleo. Marcus has been on more dates the past two weeks than he has the past two years.”
I grab one of the cushions from the couch and mash it into her face, muffling her heartbreaking words. Although everything she says is true, I still don’t want to hear it. I’d rather keep my head stuck in the sand than believe the rumors circulating about Marcus’s new playboy status. The idea of him with previous subs was an uphill battle, but it's nothing compared to seeing him night after night on E News with a new beautiful woman on his arm.
“I swear on our parents’ graves, if he attempts to have our little boo-boo call one of those bimbos Mommy, I’ll cut his balls off,” Lexi warms, nudging her head to the TV broadcast of an exclusive interview with a woman whom Marcus went on a date with last week.
My heart swells and painfully squeezes at the same time. I love that Lexi calls my baby “our little boo-boo.” She has done it numerous times the past five days—even Jackson caught on to the trend. But the gouging sensation inflicting my heart is from her admission that another woman could be a part of my child’s life. That wouldn’t really happen, would it? Stepmothers and fathers only enter the equation if the child is an orphan, right?
Right. So why is a horribly bitter taste scorching the back of my throat?
“Oh no,” I mumble, fighting to hold back the sludge in my stomach racing to my lips.
Realizing I have no chance of ignoring the ghastliness of Lexi’s admission, I slap my hand over my mouth before I go running into the bathroom for the third time today.
“Do you have wet wipes and mints?” Lexi queries.
I stop rummaging through my tiny purse and peer up at her. “Why would I need either of those things?”
Lexi rolls her eyes before gathering breath mints from the vanity cabinet in the bathroom and wet wipes from under the sink. “You vomit a minimum three times a day, Cleo. Today you're only at two. Breath mints are essential.”
I arch a brow. “And the wet wipes?”
“Who wants to dance with a girl with vomit on her chin?” A big shake hampers Lexi’s tiny frame. At first I think it's caused by laughter, but I soon realize it's vileness. Lexi can’t stand the word vomit, much less actual vomit.
“I need a bigger clutch,” I mumble, glancing down at the tiny black sequin purse I’m holding.
Lexi nods in agreement while pacing to the clutches stacked in my closet. “What's he doing in here?” Lexi twists her body so I can see Mr. Bunny clutched in her hand.
“I don’t know. I swear he has a mind of his own lately.” I remove him from her grasp and place him back on his rightful spot on the shelf above my desk. The dust circle where his fluffy backside sits reveals he hardly moves from my shelf, but I’ve noticed him in weird locations the past two weeks.
Shrugging off my confusion as Jackson playing tricks on me, I help Lexi hunt for a clutch to match the dress I’m wearing to the Global Ten Media Christmas function. My pulse accelerates when she pulls out a plain black clutch from the very back of my closet. I shoved it in there, hiding it from the world as I wish I could my face. It's the purse I used at the fundraising gala I attended with Marcus.
“It’s just an accessory, Cleo; it has no sentimental value whatsoever,” Lexi assures my mortified expression.
“Here. Look.” She clicks it open and yanks out all the crap hiding inside. Most is the standard accessories every girl has: lip gloss, compact powder, a few loose notes, tampons, and an emergency condom stash that's so outdated it expired two years ago.
“Guess you won’t be needing these anymore.” Lexi jeers, turning the clutch upside down to dump the dreaded products without having to touch them.
In the flurry of dumping my possessions, a burst of white captures our attention when it flutters haphazardly in the air. Our eyes follow a folded-up piece of paper as it slowly floats in the air, its pace so whimsical it has trance-like qualities.
When it lands on the ground, Lexi’s eyes rocket to mine. “What’s that?”
“I completely forgot about it,” I admit, bending down to gather the item. “It’s from Andy.”
Lexi’s brows stitch. “Andy? As in Andy who broke into my room when I was sleeping Andy?” she queries, her voice fretful. “The same Andy who broke into Marcus’s house? What ever happened to him?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I never got an update. I’m assuming we’ll be informed of his hearing date when his case goes to court, but other than that. . .” I stop talking, having no real explanation to give.
“What does the note say?” Her interest is notable.
My lips quirk. “I never read it.”
Lexi snatches the paper out of my hand before hotfooting it to the other side of the room. I don’t bother chasing her. I can barely walk in my heels, let alone chase down my barefoot and more energetic sister.
My eyes swing to the side when Lexi sighs heavily.
“His phone number?” I’ve hardly dated the past four years, but I never have any trouble gaining a collection of phone numbers when I do go out.
“No,” Lexi replies, shocking me. “It’s some sort of riddle.”
Peering down, I rea
d the note.
The master commands. The submissive obeys.
Look closer, Cleo.
The people surrounding you aren’t who you think they are.
* * *
There is an address for a property in East Village scribbled under the handwritten quote.
“That’s not a riddle. I’ve heard that before.” I stop talking, giving my brain time to summarize. The air brutally sucks from my lungs when reality dawns. “Richard said that to me in the hours leading to his death.”
“Something like this?” Lexi only speaks three words, but her eyes aren’t as reserved. They hammer me with questions so hard and fast I’m nearly knocked onto my ass.
I shake my head. “No. He said exactly that.”
“What does it mean? Shian said Richard and Andy were as thick as thieves; do you think he is playing games? Or. . .” Lexi leaves her question open, hoping I can fill it in. I can’t. I have no clue what this message means. I’m assuming the address at the bottom doesn’t belong to either Richard or Andy, as they lived in the same apartment building in East Harlem, so I’m truly at a loss about what this means.
“Maybe you should cancel tonight. Something about this doesn’t feel right,” Lexi discloses.
Before I can reply, the sound of knocking booms into my room. I drop my eyes to my watch; it's three minutes to six.
“It’s too late to cancel now,” I mumble, grabbing the clutch from Lexi’s grasp and harshly shoving my belongings inside.
Although my intuition is screaming as loudly as Lexi’s, my curiosity is also piqued. With Global Ten’s function being held in the financial district, with a little persuading, I may be able to convince Dexter to detour past the address on the note Andy handed me.
My fast strides out of my room are halted by Lexi seizing my wrist. No words spill from her mouth, but her eyes issue her doubts.
“I’ll be fine,” I assure her before wrapping her up in a big hug.