Hell on Heels(25)

Kevin made a funny sound in the back of his throat. Probably because he knew I never missed an email, especially not one regarding anything to do with the foundation or gala. That meant I was definitely not okay and he was worried.

“Okay, well I was going to run over and drop it off this afternoon, but I can’t find the contract on your desk. Do you have it with you?”

Shit.

Leaning over, I rummaged through the files on my passenger seat.

“Yeah,” I snipped. I was frustrated that my personal life was erupting my professional life.

“I can come get it from your place and then take it?” he offered.

I shook my head to the inside of my vehicle and sighed. “No, I have it here and I’m already on Dunbar. I’ll take it in.”

He knew about Doctor Colby, which meant he knew her offices were on Dunbar Street. “I’ll text you the address.”

“Great, thanks,” I said, rolling the engine over.

“Call me later?” he asked, and I knew the man was relentless. He’d never let it go if I didn’t.

“Yeah.”

“Later, babe.”

I laughed and the phone clicked off.

Often, I think there were misconceptions made of women who enjoyed male attention in its purest form. I’m not a hustler. I’m not a man-eater. I’m not a gold digger. The only thing I’d ever wanted from a man was the emotional high he could provide me with, sometimes more, but rarely less.

I was a goal digger. Everything I had, from this car to my business, I earned. Day in and day out, in movies and in life, there was still this illusion that women needed men. There was this notion that we couldn’t be as great without them, and thus we learned to manipulate that.

Women needed to stop using men for what they could give them and learn to provide it themselves.

Doctor Colby was right; a woman could be great without a man, but only if she was capable of filling that void on her own.

The void that instead of filling with self-love, we filled with the love of another.

Was I a hypocrite? Possibly.

I’d never learned how to manufacture my own high, and I didn’t know how to remedy the natural lows of life and love. Instead, the only thing I’d learned was how to self medicate with an abundance of male attention.

I was a living nightmare of the female persuasion—hell on heels, if you will.

Maybe I was just scared, but could you really blame me?

There’s something terrifying in the fickleness of hearts. For as fair as the heavens come, just as quick and cold do the worst of nightmares follow them home.

I burdened my fear with my body.

Even today, while I remained in a living hell, I was dressed well enough to make an enemy of the state jealous. My ripped jeans were faded and worn, offset by the smooth lines of my black stilettos adhering to the perfect contrast. Thick grey wool hung low on my chest in the form of a sweater, and a black leather jacket kept the cold at bay. My hair was down and wild like my soul, and the only thing trying to control it were the sunglasses on my head.

Beauty was my armour.

It protected the parts of me that couldn’t be smoothed over with concealer or prettied up with lipstick.

I needed that shield in place so my heart didn’t take a stray bullet and leave me bleeding out on the street.




I looked at the address Kevin had texted me for the second time.

Kevin: 2212 West Broadway.

Well, this had to be it. I looked at the matching address on the building in front of me. I was surprised. I’d expected to arrive at a high-rise with an impressive doorman, or something that radiated power, but instead, I was parked outside a two level renovated heritage home.

I collected the files from the passenger seat and folded out of my Range Rover, assessing the house as I approached. At first glance, it would appear to blend into the upper class street of old homes, but if you looked close enough, you could see the hint of modifications.

The outside was equipped with motion-censored spotlights affixed to panelling in a subtle way. Curtains showcased curtains inside, but for a woman whose father had built houses for a living, I could tell the glass was thicker than two-pane, and perhaps bulletproof if I had to guess.

If you pictured a safe house, that’s what it would remind you of.

Stepping up onto the porch, I noticed a buzzer system installed next to the front door and pressed it.

It was a fortress disguised as a home.

It was pretty but strong. I liked that.

The buzzer sounded three times before a female voice came through the little speaker. “Ah. Miss Smith, we’ve been expecting you,” she said, and I looked up to search for a camera.

“It’s in the door, dear,” the speaker spoke again.

I smiled. Whoever this lady was, I liked her.

“Come on in.”

There was the sound resembling the moving of bars and the door unlocked.

Inside was a second set of glass doors with the words Hart Securities etched into them. Pushing through, I marvelled at the design of the building. The wood floors were no doubt original to the home, but the walls were painted a crisp white; nearly the entire office was monochromatic.

“Good afternoon, dear.” I placed a face to the voice as I approached the older woman sitting behind a modern desk on the right side of the room.

“Hi.” I smiled, stretching out my hand. “Charleston Smith.”