Avoiding Intimacy (Avoiding #2.5)(38)
She gave the man her apartment address in Italian and was quickly whisked away from Marco’s. Without knowing why, she swiveled in her seat and took one more forlorn look over her shoulder at the place of the man she had been with for the past month and a half. She wished she could have said that she saw the door open as he came running out after her, but no such thing happened. She turned back around, and with a deep sigh, she hugged her dress.
***** Her roommates were still sleeping when she returned. She wandered through her closet, wondering how the hell she was going to get all of this home. Coming here, she had traveled with nothing more than a carry-on suitcase, and she would leave for home with nothing more. The company was supposed to ship all of her stuff for her when she finished, but she wasn’t sure if that would still happen under the circumstances. Grabbing only her most favorite clothing items, she stuffed them into her Louis Vuitton carry- on along with her star dress, Marco’s sheer purple button-up shirt, her Christian Louboutin red lacquer–soled pumps, and three five-by-five black and white–framed photographs Marco had taken of Milan.
At her insistence, the taxi had waited for her to transport her to the airport. It wasn’t a short drive nor would it be a cheap fair, but she really couldn’t care less in the moment. She was waiting for her phone to blow up, for someone to notice she was gone, for Marco to pitch a fit about her disappearance. But, the hour- long drive out of the city produced nothing, just silence.
Her flight home was atrociously priced, but then again, so was her cab fare. Money hardly mattered at this point.
She was just ready to be home.
She boarded her flight without any problems, and she checked her international cell phone one last time to see if anyone was going to contact her.
She had expected at least some kind of snide remark from Marco, something to know that he had read her note. All she wanted to do was leave him before he had the chance to leave her.
It was easier that way.
***** Chyna dozed off on the flight. She was awoken eight hours later by a flight attendant speaking obnoxiously into the speakers about landing and putting seats in their upright position. She yawned and stretched her arms overhead, adjusting the kink in her neck from sleeping on the plane. She flagged down a stewardess as soon as she saw one.
“Yes, ma’am? Can I help you?”
“Can I get a Maker’s on the rocks?”
she asked, feeling a headache coming on.
“Ma’am, we’re too close to landing for that,” she said with a curt smile like she was used to dealing with bitches in first class.
“Are you serious? Alcohol. Anything.
Thanks,” Chyna said, throwing herself back in her chair and ignoring the woman’s insistence that she couldn’t provide alcohol at the moment.
A couple of minutes later, an older male flight attendant dropped off her drink while glowering at the other attendant.
“Don’t mind her. She’s new,” he said with a wink.
“Thanks,” she muttered, taking a shot of the bourbon straight out of the first bottle before adding the second one to her glass. There—her headache was already going away. She sipped on her drink, thankful that someone had shown her some mercy.
The plane touched down at JFK Airport long after she finished her drink.
She had another man help her pull her bag down. She hadn’t eaten anything in nearly twenty-four hours, and the Maker’s Mark was hitting her stomach stronger than it normally would have.
It was eight o’clock in the morning in New York, and her stomach growled, ready for her afternoon lunch in Italy. The time change was going to be a real bitch to get used to. She had informed Carl that she would be arriving in New York that morning and was thankful when she saw his scruffy-bearded face appear among the individuals waiting with signs for their passengers. He ushered her out to the car, taking her carry-on in his hand. He didn’t ask any questions as to why she was arriving two weeks ahead of schedule.
“To your apartment, Miss Chyna?” he asked as he veered into traffic.
“Alexa’s apartment would be wonderful, Carl,” she said, curling up into a ball in the back of her town car. Her phone had never gone off, except for the return message from Carl, and it died shortly after she landed. She felt sick, tired, hungry, and exhausted, and she wanted nothing more than to lounge around with her best friend.
“Of course,” he said, swinging around traffic toward her apartment.
They arrived forty-five minutes later, having evaded most of the Sunday traffic.
“Want me to wait?”
“No, Carl. Thank you. I will catch a cab if I need a ride. Hopefully, I’ll be here all day and night,” she murmured the last part, not wanting to freak him out more than she already likely had.
“Are you alright, Miss Chyna?” he asked as she popped open her door.
“Fine, Carl. Go take your wife to church,” Chyna added with a smile.
“Thank you. Hope you feel better,” he told her, not believing her.
She slammed the door behind her and took the elevator to Alexa’s floor. It was a rickety old thing that made her uneasy, but she didn’t think she could manage the stairs in her state. She traipsed down the hallway and knocked on the door. She had a key…somewhere. It was probably buried in her penthouse. Maybe Frederick knew where it was. He knew more about the design of the apartment than she ever would.