Fall (VIP #3)(8)

With that amount, and not having to worry about rent for months, I could save up a huge nest egg. I could finally buy the car I need and not have to rely on the train to get out to Long Island, always having to ask Hank to pick me up at the station. I wouldn’t have to hustle for every job that comes my way. I could breathe a little easier.

Mr. Scott is still talking. “We’ll need you to take immediate occupancy as there is a storm coming and my client is already out of town.”

Ah, yes, the blizzard. It will be here tonight.

“I can do that. It won’t take me long to pack.” I can clean out my apartment next weekend.

“Very good. An instruction packet will be couriered to your residence within the next hour.”

Wow. Efficient has been taken to another level. “I’ll be waiting for it.”

“One last thing. The penthouse shares a wall with another unit. My company owns both. Should you have an … issue with your neighbor, I would appreciate it if you contact me directly before engaging with the occupant.”

Okay … that’s a whole lot of formal oddness.

“You make it sound like there will be issues, Mr. Scott. Is there something I should know about this new neighbor of mine?” Like is he or she a knife-wielding psycho? And, what the hell? Issues? What kind of issues? Starts fires when irritated? Watches porn on full volume? Who are these people?

“He tends to travel frequently. In all likelihood, you’ll never even know he’s there, Ms. Grey,” Scott says smoothly. “It is merely a precaution. You have your clients, I have mine. Mine require a great deal of privacy, that is all.”

I’m beginning to wonder if his clients aren’t international criminals. But someone who names his pets after celebrities and does it with puns can’t be all bad. As for the neighbor—He Who Must Not Be Disturbed—I’ll have to take Mr. Scott’s word.

Besides, I have better things to dwell on, such as penthouse living and a cat named Stevens.





Chapter Three





John



* * *



I made a mistake staying in the city. At the first word of a blizzard coming, I should have hopped on a plane and left town. Gone to my place in London. Or, hell, gone south where it’s warm and sunny. A week or two on some beach, drinking beers and fucking a willing woman would have hit the spot.

But no, I had to trap myself alone with nothing but silence as company. It is not a good thing for me to be alone for an extended period. Some might call it a weakness. For me, it’s simply a facet of my personality; if I’m alone for too long, my thoughts can easily take a dark turn.

“Damn it.” I rub my eyes and pace over to the wall of windows. I can’t see anything other than a white blur and the snow mounding against the bottom pane. A sudden sensation of being completely lost has me resting a hand on the cold glass. Intellectually, I know where I am—New York City, in a thirty million dollar penthouse that I bought with pocket money. King of the world, right?

A king who cannot stand rattling around in silence.

With a grunt, I turn away from the window. I’m hungry and should eat something. Staring in my fridge doesn’t help. All I can think about it the mint chocolate chip that got away. A smile tugs at my mouth.

That sweet, chaste kiss my mint thief planted on me lingers. Libby, Sophie, and Brenna are the only women in my life who don’t treat me like a revered god or some sad case who might blow up at any second. But they’re basically an unruly bunch of sisters who poke and prod and butt into my business. I’d almost forgotten what it feels like to interact with a woman who doesn’t know who I am.

That oddball button of an ice cream thief fought for her ice cream like a warrior. Cute as hell, really. And this is where I am in my life—having more fun arguing with a crazy redhead in a grocery store than going to a club or party filled with famous people.

I laugh a little, trying to picture how it would have gone if I’d asked her to come hang out. Not to fuck, but to have dinner, watch a movie, share that ice cream. Grammar school stuff.

The concept is so far removed from my life, I can’t even fully imagine it. I’d never actually do something like that anyway. Not when the possible result would be tabloid fodder. I am who I am, and my life doesn’t include random friendships with strange women.

Stick with those you know. It’s a lesson learned early on, and painfully.

Slamming the fridge closed, I pull out my phone. There are at least fifty text messages waiting for me.

Hey, babe, you in town. Love 2 c U again!

I keep thinking about our nite. Need you bad.

Jax, you rock my world.

I stop scrolling and hit delete instead, my insides suddenly cold, my skin clammy. I don’t remember a single one of these women, and that seems tragic. I love women, I do. I love their softness, the way they smell, the sound of their laughter, how they feel when I’m sinking into them. I love sex. Fucking is an essential part of my life, a stress relief—a way to forget. And though I’ve slowed down lately, the opportunity for quick sex was always there if I needed it.

Right now, it’s totally gone, stripped away with a few test results. I have never judged others based on their past sexual history. One of my mentors contracted HIV in the late ’80s. He survived, and I find that brave as hell. Then why can’t I stop from feeling as though I’m coated in sticky dirt? I’m ashamed. It’s there, on my skin, this dirty, wrong sensation of failure.