by Juli Valenti
Synopsis
My name is Ryen Macek. I’m twenty-eight years old, live in Atlanta, Georgia and live a fairly normal life.
Anyway, like most women, I’ve dated and it’s always turned out badly. Most recently that would be Aaron, who decided to trample on my heart in the form of a woman wearing a sheet. Not that I’m bitter, mind you, but, well, I sort of am.
I decided I needed a distraction. I needed to get away from this city, the men in this city, and just… live for awhile. Helllooooo, New York City. I’d stayed here with my best friend while we went to college, and, lucky for me, she kept our apartment.
In true Ryen fashion, what I’m looking for, I find… but is it more than even I could ask for?
Between the paparazzi, high society events, and mob connections, join me while I find the greatest of distractions.
Copyright © 2014 Juli Valenti
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Editing by Kristina Circelli with Red Road Editing
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Cover & Formatting by Rene Folsom with Phycel Designs
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Dedication
For Marc—
You’ll always be my greatest distraction.
Chapter one
The alarm clock blared loudly, effectively waking me up, at the same time scaring the crap out of me. Flustered and huffing, I beat at it, repeatedly, demanding its silence with my fist. I had to give the hunk of plastic some credit though … It was awfully determined, continuing its tirade until I gave up on the physical abuse and flipped the little switch, feeling like I won the final battle.
Sitting up quickly, I groaned, allowing myself to fall back on the bed, fluffy pillows cushioning my body. I didn’t feel any better today than I did yesterday; if anything, I felt worse. Yay me.
After attempting a second time to sit up, failing again, I gave up on the notion of going to work. Luckily it was a Thursday and I knew plenty of coverage would be on hand for the day. It was much easier to call out on a Tuesday or Thursday. Being sick on the other weekdays? Forget trouble, that’s more like 28 Days Later stuff right there. Well, okay, maybe not that bad, but definitely significantly more difficult and troublesome.
Snatching my cell phone from the side table, I cursed when the screen illuminated, nearly blinding me.
“Stupid thing,” I despaired, quickly tabbing the lock button to make the offending light go away. I clutched my head as my eyes readjusted to the dark room, vision no longer spotted in green, purple, and blue splotches. The thought process on how to text my boss without being blinded again seemed much more difficult than it should be.
Fifteen minutes later, the boss had been messaged, acknowledged I wasn’t coming in, and my head was buried under my pillow once again.
My eyes were tearing, permanently burned by the light of the cell phone. Okay, maybe I’m being dramatic … not permanently, but still, it felt that way. Pain was radiating from my eyes inward – how it spread from my head to the elephant on my chest, I’m still unsure. In case you didn’t know: elephants are heavy. Allowing one, even a small one, to sit on your chest is to be highly discouraged.
A noise akin to a hungry zombie escaped me – I think it may have been a groan – and I burrowed deeper underneath my blankets. I was both pleased at the prospect of staying in bed, but also completely depressed about it. I wasn’t conflicted at all, was I? Nah. It’s one thing to get to stay home from work when you’re feeling just dandy and have plans with a tub of ice cream and Judge Judy all day, but to have to stay home because you feel like death is going to claim you at any moment? Nope … not fun.
“Mediphrumpsn,” I muffled to myself, knowing that the sound didn’t make sense aloud, and completely unsure as to why I said it. It’d sounded like ‘medication’ in my head, but my brain wasn’t talking to my mouth very well.
Feeling completely melodramatic, I rolled myself out of bed and onto the floor, determined to crawl myself the few feet to my bathroom. Walking was too much work, and if I kept my head low enough, I could possibly convince my body that I was just getting comfortable in bed, playing like a mole.
With every shuffle of knee to hand, it got harder to move and I pleaded with myself to make it. I knew, in reality, that it was really only the flu and that some people still functioned easily when they caught it. Not me, though. I was a huge baby when I got sick from anything, and this illness made me feel like I was flat out going to die … or turn into a werewolf. Determined, though, my hands made the transition from carpet to freezing-cold tile, shocking me and almost making me rethink this whole thing.
Why hadn’t I thought ahead and put the bottle of Nyquil on the bedside table before I went to sleep? I think the notion had crossed my mind, but I’d waved it off, feeling like Superwoman before falling into the death-inducing sleep. The draw to the narcoleptic drug fueled me, though, and I continued on, almost crying in relief when the cabinets were at eye level with my face.
Reaching up only high enough to snatch the medication, I put the bottle to my teeth, holding it like a dog, as I snail-tailed it back to the bed. Once I’d crawled back up, I wrestled with the child-proof cap until it reluctantly unscrewed, swigging directly from the container, not bothering with the dumb measuring cup I’d already lost somewhere on the counter. The normally gross black-licorice-flavored liquid slid down my throat, warming me, but completely tasteless. This would usually worry me, but since I couldn’t taste it, I decided to ignore that fact and took another big swallow.
Content I’d taken the two-tablespoon recommendation, if not a tad more, I plopped it onto the table next to my alarm clock. I spared a thought for the cap, but since I couldn’t immediately see it amongst my blankets in the dark of the room, I ignored it, instead scooting back down onto my pillow and pulling the blanket up to my face.
The projection of the time seemed bright on the ceiling, the red numbers almost looking angry as they glowed five twenty-two. Sighing, I rolled over, happy that daylight savings time had made it still dark at this hour. If the sun was shining through my window, I wasn’t sure what I’d do. As content and comfortable as I was likely going to get, I closed my eyes. The last thought that passed through my head before I fell asleep was that I wished I had a boyfriend to come hold me – completely forgetting about Chris.
A loud beating noise woke me, and after several moments of slapping at the alarm clock again, I realized it was coming from the front door.
“Gah! Sorry,” I said to the clock, feeling silly that I was apologizing to an inanimate object. Shrugging inwardly, I pulled the covers back, trying to decide if I could actually get out of bed. Maybe if I just ignored them, whoever it was would go away. Granted, it could be important…
“Damn it!” I swore when the sound continued, getting progressively louder. Swinging my feet around to the carpeted floor, I stood quickly before I could change my mind. The world swam, my vision coloring in hues of yellow, orange, and red, courtesy of the sunlight coming in through the blinds.
Swallowing hard to regain some semblance of composure, I willed myself up and onward, stumbling
over my own feet on my quest to the door. Once there, I leaned against it, shivering as the coldness from the wood seeped into my body. Makes a good resting spot, despite the cold, I thought, leaning my head against the peephole, not really looking to see who was still knocking.
“Huh?” I asked loudly, as the person in question rapped again. It was amazing, the sound of knuckles on the door was just in time with the throbbing in my head. Neat.
“Ryen? Is that you?” a masculine voice came in, muffled by the still closed door. He sounded familiar. I knew that I knew him, just couldn’t place him. To be honest, I didn’t really care – I was just happy the incessant pounding had stopped.
“Uh … yeah?” I answered, half wondering what a stupid question that was. I mean, he was knocking on my door, after all. Who else would be at my house answering the door, without opening it?
“You sound weird … Are you going to let me in, babe?”
The endearment caught my attention. The only person who called me ‘babe’ was Chris, the guy I’d been dating. Suddenly, I was even more exhausted.
“I’m sick,” I told him through the door, holding tight to the handle as if to keep him from opening it. Realistically, I knew he didn’t have a key, thank God, but still. I could barely stand, for goodness sake; he was the last person I wanted to deal with right now.
Don’t get me wrong, Chris was a nice guy, obviously, or I’d never have dated him. Just shy of thirty, he was certainly good looking, with floppy blond hair and mischievous hazel eyes. He’d been blessed with good genes, too, built tall and lean without needing a gym membership. Quite a catch, right? Well, for all his positives, he had a couple really big downsides. Or one, really, that snowballed into about a dozen.
See, laziness sort of bothers me and Chris has the monopoly on it. At his age, and with the brains I know he has, somewhere, he should have at least a semi-successful job. Hell, any job would do … Instead, though, he sat on his cute butt and played video games. He was crazy lucky that his parents had left him a trust fund. If he had to actually work, try to support himself instead of live the lifestyle he did, I shuddered to think what would happen to him.
“Ry … Ry! Are you still there? Wow … this is weird, talking through the door like I’m a stranger, or a salesman, or … something.”
“Sorry … I spaced out. Like I said, I’m sick,” I said again, holding my head with one hand, the other clutching my stomach. I will not throw up. I will not throw up, I mentally chanted, hoping my body would listen.
“I don’t mind–” he started, but I cut him off.
“Chris, I mind. Please … I’m seriously trying to not lose the Nyquil in my stomach. What. Do. You. Want?”
My patience was officially gone, kaput. I couldn’t promise that I could remain standing, albeit fully propped up by the door, for much longer. I had maybe two minutes left; I didn’t even want to think how I was going to get back to my bed. Maybe teleportation?
“…for the Black Ops tournament, did I leave it here?”
Leave what here, I thought, almost desperate for him to leave.
“Nope, it’s not here. I don’t see it,” I answered, praying it would be the right answer.
Silence met me and I held my breath. It probably wasn’t a good idea since it made me even more nauseous.
“Um … okayyyy,” he said hesitantly, obviously unhappy with me, but I didn’t really care. “Do you want me to bring you some soup? Or some tea?”
“I’m good.” I knew I sounded short with him, but I just couldn’t help it. The poor guy was well meaning, but I just wanted to lay down. At this point, even the floor was looking good to me. The comforting coolness of the door had gone warm, amplifying my fever tenfold.
“Um … I guess I’ll just … err … alright. I’ll check on you later, if you want.”
When I didn’t respond, I heard him sigh before stomping loudly away. I knew that he was confused – I’d never been flat-out rude to him before, always trying to handle him with kid gloves. He’d probably be text messaging me within ten minutes, asking what he’d done wrong. Yes, he was just that type of guy. Annoying.
I wish I could say that I stayed where I was so I could hear his truck start up, but the truth of the matter was I was afraid to move. I’d let my thoughts go back to the playbook, how to get myself back to the bed; play number four just wasn’t an option and I was slowly losing hope I’d ever get back there. Using momentum from pushing off the door, I let my feet lead me, stopping short when I was directly in front of the microfiber sofa in my living room.
Hmmm … maybe this could work, I thought, my eyes trailing over the faux sheepskin blanket folded across the back. There were plush accent pillows against each armrest, and though I’d probably hate myself later for denting them – hush, I’m picky about my throw pillows– I figured it was as good as I was likely to get. Besides, at least here I’d have a pillow AND a blanket. That’s more than the hallway carpet was offering me.
Sighing, I face planted onto the cushions, completely content now that I was no longer vertical. I draped the blanket over my body, did a little wiggle to make sure I was comfortable, and hoped sleep would take me soon. I was lucky, it didn’t take long for me to fall asleep. My last conscious thought before I fell, though, made me smile. My cell phone was still in the bedroom; Chris wouldn’t be disturbing me any time soon.
Chapter two
I awoke for the third time, my head half hanging off the sofa, completely famished. My stomach was roaring like a starved tiger and my brain hurt – whether due to the lack of blood flow from being half inverted or from low blood sugar, I’m not sure.
Sitting up, I tested my equilibrium, curious to see if I was going to be immediately seized by the need to upchuck. Luckily, my world stayed solid. I still didn’t feel too well, but at least the thought of standing didn’t make me cringe. Food, the draw for food was strong.
Making my way into the kitchen on shaky, yet decently solid, footing, I was depressed by the contents of my cabinets. It hadn’t been that long since I’d gone grocery shopping, but Chris had been here since then.
“I should charge him for the food he eats,” I grumbled, grumpy at finding two cans of cream of chicken soup, a half-eaten box of Cocoa Puffs, and peanut butter, no jelly or bread. Sighing at my choices, I snatched the box of cereal down, pouring some into a bowl before reaching for the door to the fridge.
“Ugh, for the love of Batman,” I swore, finding only a couple drops of milk left in the gallon. “Really? I mean … why does this always happen to me?!”
I was starving and now my only options were soup that wasn’t meant for just eating, spoonfuls of peanut butter, or dry cereal. Of course, I could always go to the grocery store to get some more – after all, it wasn’t that far from my condo. Contemplating the notion, I snatched my keys off the counter, ran a brush through my hair, dropping it into my purse when I was done - I may need it later - and marched out the door before I could change my mind.
Luckily for me, it was a super-short trip, seeing as I forgot my glasses on my nightstand, despite going in to grab my phone. Yep, I was running on all cylinders.
I pulled into the parking lot, sighing in relief as the engine shut off, and threw the keys in my open bag. Going inside to get groceries was just about the last thing I wanted to do, but since there was no milk in the house, I didn’t really have an option. Groceries versus sick me, round one, goes to groceries.
Accepting my fate, I climbed out of my car, for the first time second guessing my attire when the chilly wind blew right through my clothes. Changing into more people-appropriate attire had been too difficult a concept to grasp and I steeled my back as I lived with my choice of black yoga pants, pink lace top, and hot-pink zip hoodie. So what if they were pajamas and I wasn’t wearing a bra … The world was lucky enough that I wasn’t wearing my adult Superwoman pajamas, with matching attachable cape.
Double pressing the lock button on the key fob, I waited impati
ently for the horn to alert me that the alarm was set. It seemed to take forever, especially when I was just trying to get in and out before my slight burst of strength failed me. As always though, the world had plans for me that it knew I wouldn’t like, and my life took a turn to crazytown.
“Hey, you!” a voice called faintly in the dusk-lit parking lot. I spun, recognition pinging my subconscious, but also curious if I was the ‘you’ that was being called upon.
Spotting the man hanging out of the window of his car, I froze, struck dumb. Everyone has ghosts in their closets, memories of people and choices made. You know the ones I mean, the ones that were such important parts of your life, the ones that could have changed your entire life, had you chosen the door on the left rather than the one on the right. Here, on this random Thursday evening, sick as a dog, I was coming face to face with one of mine.
“Hi!” I answered, trying for enthusiastic, though I failed. I couldn’t wipe the shock or surprise from my face any more than I could hide it in the tone of my voice.
“How have you been?” he asked, face lit by the lamppost he’d pulled up under.
“I’ve been good … I’ve been good,” I answered lamely, saying the words repeatedly, completely lost as to what to say. Me, with all of my strengths and skills, had no defense for this. All my conversation abilities had flown from me, as effectively as air being expelled from lungs. I blamed it on being sick.
“Good! Me too,” he answered, his smile wavering at the lack of return from me. “I, um, I’ve thought about you a lot … It’s really good to see you again.”
Despite the slight stutter, his words were matter of fact, genuine. A part of me relished them, soaked them in like a sponge … but another part of me resented them, hated them. It had been three years. Count them, three, since we’d mutually turned our backs on each other. I say mutually, but I really mean ‘he’ … not that I’m still bitter about it.