Hell on Heels(27)

His dark chuckle radiated wickedly through my bones, the sound giving way to the traitorous heat engulfing my senses. “I look forward to working with you,” he drawled. “Perhaps I’ll get a chance to see just how much of me you can take, Miss Smith.”

Working vigorously to keep my jaw from hitting the proverbial deck, I drew my lips together in a tight purse. “Perhaps not,” I deadpanned, taking the file and tossing the contract onto his desk. “E-mail me if you have any questions regarding the scheduling or layout.”

“No kiss goodbye?”

I’d never had anyone in my life treat me the way he did. He pushed my buttons, just because he liked to see the reaction.

“Fuck you, Maverick Hart, and the horse you rode in on.”

Walking out of his office, I wanted to roll my eyes at the subconscious way my hips swung in a flirtatious, exaggerated manor.

Great, now I’m even annoying myself.

I waved a muted goodbye to Gladys, pushing through the double doors of Hart Securities. I growled obscenities under my breath. The steel in my spine was dependant on having the upper hand with the men in my life. It was a necessary exchange of power to maintain my functioning addiction.

It’s much too easy to lose control of the high, or in this case, the man, if I can’t control the dose.

Maverick Hart is absolutely the kind of man I could overdose on.

Reaching my Range Rover, I pressed a hand against the glass to steady my body as I kicked the five-inch pumps off my aching feet. Snatching them up off the ground, I momentarily wished I’d launched one of them at his pompous ass mid-conversation. Regretfully, I dropped them onto the passenger seat instead, alongside my purse, and padded barefoot to the driver’s side door.

My hands shook a little as they finally closed around the steering wheel. Subsequently, I swallowed against the anxiety crawling it’s way up my throat. Making slow fists, I dug my nails into my palms before stretching my fingers wide and repeating the motion.

It was a bad habit.

It was a way for me to ground myself back to reality with just a little bit of pain.

Glancing up, the woman I saw in the reflection of my rear-view mirror infuriated me.

She’s the weak one, the one who wanted love, and I hated her hope.

Her hope crippled me time and time again, and left me like this.

Waiting for my iPhone to connect to Bluetooth, I hit shuffle on a playlist, turning up the dial up on my sound system.

Music helped me decompress.

Like the hand movements, it too grounded me.

My ill-timed run-in with Mr. Hart had left me feeling unbalanced and needing another physical high to even out my internal playing field.

With the emotions he provoked and my memories of Dean, I knew I couldn’t handle the type of high another man would bring me, not like this, not while the hope in the weak parts of my subconscious lingered so close to the surface.

My addictions were like trying to fill a bottomless pit that never became full. In the moments where I acted with hope clouding my judgements, I was subject to a risky level of vulnerability. One I had yet learned to manage effectively, despite Doctor Colby’s encouragements, and thus, chose to shut it down immediately, if possible.

Perhaps if I was someone who liked the gym, I would pound the quiver from my body with a hard workout or a run, but I didn’t. I hated the gym, and I didn’t know how to burn the need out of my system, not like that.

Instead, I shifted into drive and hit redial on my cellphone. The music replaced with ringing.

“Smith & Co Productions, Kevin speaking.”

“Meet me out front in ten minutes. Bring your coat,” I blurted, as his voice came on the phone.

“Char?” he asked, confused.

“Yeah. Ten minutes,” I repeated. “And shut down, because you won’t be coming back today.”

I hung up the phone, pressing my foot onto the gas.

Kevin was late, as per usual, and I checked my mail app while I idled outside the building.

Dave had responded to my email. He agreed to check in with me before allowing any workers into my apartment. He also let me know there was only minor damage to a small patch of insulation in the ceiling above my living room, but that it shouldn’t take more than a day to remove and reinstall. However, due to the damage in the rest of the building, the construction company would be onsite for the better part of a few months making repairs.

This was not something that appeased me, nor my heart.

Kevin climbed into the passenger seat, pushing my mess over. “What the hell, Char?”

“We’re going to the farm,” I told him, as I pulled back into traffic.

He groaned, pushing his head into the seat rest. “Not this again.”

Kevin hated the farm.

Actually, Kevin hated almost anywhere that people didn’t need to iron their clothes.

I made one stop at home, careful to watch for a black hardhat, and picked up what I needed from the safe in my bedroom closet.

“Can’t you get, like, a normal hobby to deal with your emotional baggage?” He rolled his eyes when we pulled into the driveway of the farm thirty minutes later.

Kevin was a yuppie. Born, raised, and proud of it.

“I mean, there’s knitting and there’s reading…” He looked over at me. “You like to read. I mean, reading is fun, right? You can read instead. You can even read with those earmuffs on if you want.” He gestured to the backseat.