Last Heartbreak Page 4

  Decidedly calmer, I step out of my bathroom dressed in a black satin robe, a clean white towel wrapped around my wet hair.

  My mother rummages through my closet, hangers clinking together brusquely. I plaster a fake smile on my lips and greet her, ignoring her blatant invasion of my privacy.

  "Good morning, Mother!"

  She steps out of the closet, squares her shoulders and smooths her jacket. "Yes, it would appear to be an excellent morning for you. A waiter, Kienna? I'm surprised you don't have the janitor in here, too." I slowly inch my way back to my bed and flop down, face first.

  "Of course I do, Mother. The janitor is hiding under my bed, and the concierge is in my shower, washing off bodily fluids. It's been a busy day. I'm exhausted."

  "Don't be boorish. I raised you better than that." She returns to rummaging through my closet, and I sigh. She didn't raise me. She merely turned a blind eye while Father beat me into submission.

  "What do you want, Mother? Why are you here?"

  Disgust replaces her conceited, lofty tone. "I'm here to ensure you correct your blunders—and you should be thankful it's me instead of your father. If he'd seen the way you were fawning all over that young man, he'd have had him fired instantly. We are wary of the staff surrounding you and have already requested extensive background inspections. Were these people raised in the wild? Public education is in a worse state than I feared—it's positively failed them. As for you, keep your hormones in check and your legs crossed unless directed otherwise."

  Her heels tap a staccato rhythm as she talks from inside my closet, garments flying through the doors and landing in the room with a plastic rustle. I push myself up to sit cross-legged, for the first time realizing she's tossing the majority of my clothes into garbage bags at the foot of my bed.

  "Mother! What are you doing? Those are my clothes!" I jump from the bed and start emptying the bags.

  She steps halfway out of the closet, a pair of scissors in one hand, the remains of my favorite pencil skirt in the other, and a nasty glint in her eyes.

  "I'm correcting your wardrobe. Black is for funerals. You should always look young and vibrant, not like a fanged, pasty-skinned zombie. You have that gaunt, underworld look about you."

  My voice is cautious. "You mean vampires, Mother. Not zombies. What are you doing with those scissors?"

  "Zombies, ghouls, gargoyles, whatever! You clearly haven't visited the tanning salon lately, and you're losing weight in all the wrong places. Which reminds me," she points the long silver scissors blades in my direction, "I've scheduled an appointment for another liposuction session for your buttocks and a touch up on your right breast. It's sagging compared to your left. I knew we should have gone with Dr. Giovagnoli. He's a master when it comes to breasts."

  With a dreamy look in her eyes, she shoves the scissors into my skirt, the smooth sound of one blade sliding against the other as she opens and closes them.

  I pick up a blouse from one of the garbage bags and examine it. It has holes cut through it, too. I let the ruined garment fall back into the bag and sit down on my mattress. There's no stopping her when she's like this. All I can do is sit there and watch. I could scream, fight back, call security but it only makes matters worse.

  My mother's voice fades in and out as she walks further into my closet and back out, tossing more clothes to the pile. "Why can't you act more like a lady, Kienna? You slouch all day like a sulking teenager, instead of standing proud like the woman you are. No wonder Brandon fell for that skimpy excuse for a musician—she smiles. Are you taking your iron pills?"

  Of course she'd blame me. Maybe she's right. I can't stand myself most of the time. "Mother, if Brandon prefers peppy, all the more power to the new girl. I don't do peppy, and I'm not anemic.”

  "Well, something is off, but whatever it is must wait. You have a busy day. You have a photo shoot with Stephen in less than an hour. The New York Times is running an article about the man who could become the youngest elected mayor in New York City's history."

  Mother holds her hands together like she's praying to the gods of swoon. The thought of even seeing Stephen again—let alone captured in the same image with him—makes me sick.

  "You have a two o'clock appointment with a stylist for your new wardrobe, and you should schedule a dinner date with Brandon to rectify your transgressions.”

  "My transgressions? Mother, he cheated on me!"

  "All men cheat, Kienna. It's not the end of the world. I’m sure he's waiting for your apology before taking the next step."

  I stare incredulously at her. If the blank stare she's giving me is any indication, she's fucking serious. Oh, God!

  I push myself off the bed, take in a deep cleansing yoga breath, and try to summon some steel into my spine.

  "Mother, I'd rather swim naked in the Hudson than crawl back to Brandon. We are done. He's a backstabbing manslut, and she's, well, the jury is still out on her. I say, let them be happy. As for Stephen, don't you care that he propositioned me at the party? You were there. You saw what he was doing!"

  She slams the scissors on the dresser inside the closet with such force it makes me flinch. I poked the bear. Her jaw clenches tight and her eyes narrow to slits. "What I saw was a daughter neglecting her family duties by pushing away opportunities to secure our position of power in this city. Influences are shifting, and we need to be in the right place, with the right people. For now, your mission is to align yourself with Stephen. You will do whatever it takes to stay close to him."

  "I don't see how working as attaché to the new mayor of New York City will help us gain any power. I'm nothing more than a gopher, phone operator and, if Stephen had it his way, a disposable sex toy. Without this job, I could start my own business, or better yet, give my time to charities unable to afford compensating someone with my skill set. There is so much I could do, Mother."

  "What skill set is that? Your ability to pose for the camera and entice men into your bed? Those are highly desirable talents. When you establish a brothel, please, invite me to the grand opening, but right now, remember your goal."

  She claps her hands twice, turns on her heels, and leaves the room, pulling her cell phone from her handbag as she closes the door behind her.

  I drop my robe to the ground, kicking it at the closed door. I pull on a matching lace panty and bra set from the drawer, then enter my closet to assess the damage. The remains are blinding. It looks like the Easter Bunny puked over what's left of my clothes. All of my blacks are gone. All that remains are light, pastel tones. I grab the first outfit within my reach and tug it on, reluctantly.

  CHAPTER 9

  An afternoon with Stephen reinforces my belief that all men are scum. I banish the thought, focusing on the one guy that doesn't seem to suck—Graham.

  I wouldn't hold it against him if he says no again. As the clock approaches three, I feel hope swell within my chest.

  I'm pacing the floor in the foyer when the elevator dings. The doors slide open, but the cab is empty. I step in and look around. It's not like there are many places to hide in an elevator, but you never know. I look up at the mirrored ceiling and notice the reflection of the note on the ground, next to my foot.

  It's hotel cardstock, folded in two. Creamy thick paper with the hotel's logo embossed at the top. Ice reaches up my spine, tugging at my lungs, stealing my breath.

  Not again.

  With trembling hands, I crouch to pick it up and step out of the elevator. Part of me wants to light a match and burn it up, not bothering to read it at all, but the other part of me needs to know what's written inside. I take a deep breath and unfold it to reveal crisp black lettering.

  Socialite Spy Girl,

  Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to meet me at the corner of West 58th and 7th for some much-needed caffination. This message will self-destruct. Eventually.

  G.

  "Thank God!" I smile with relief. I burn the note and dispose of the ashes before cal
ling the elevator back and heading for the lobby.

  The doorman greets me with a smile in his deep voice, pushing the door and holding it as I pass. "Good afternoon, Miss Delacroix."

  "It IS a good afternoon!" I step out into the sun and place my sunglasses over my eyes. A driver quickly runs to open a car door for me, but I wave him off. "No, thank you. I think I'll walk today."

  I pause, looking both ways, wondering how the hell to get to 58th and 7th. I've been living in the city for months, and I still don't know my upper west side from my lower east side. I stomp my foot on the ground, determined to find my way through this jungle of high rises and rapid walkers. "All right, New York. Let's do this."

  Walking along the streets, I catch my reflection in a store window. My mother destroying my clothes gave me the incentive to choose replacements I like even more. After the stylist had assaulted me with selections Mother would like, I binge shopped in the punk store next door, making sure to match each pastel-colored item with something she'll hate more than the ones she hacked into—which makes me love them even more. The air is turning cold, and I'm grateful for my new leather trench coat and warm hood. It has big metal clasps going all the way down the front and laces up at the back with a black satin ribbon. Feeling comfortable out of my pumps and in my new, knee-high combat boots, I stomp the few short blocks to my rendezvous with Graham. Knowing he's waiting for me puts a little skip in my stomp.

  I find the corner of 58th and 7th, but there's no coffee shop and no Graham. I stand and wait for him to show up, while hordes of people walk around, milling under scaffolding. I look from one side to the next, trying to spot Graham in the crowd of tourists and locals.

  "Socialite Spy Girl, are you ready for your mission?"

  Soft, warm breath tickles my ear from behind, and I respond like any New Yorker standing on a street corner would—I hold my purse tightly in one hand and swing to punch the mother-fucking mugger standing behind me. The hit is practiced, powerful, and right on target. My assailant bends over at the waist, putting a hand to his battered cheek.

  The mugger doesn't scream or retaliate. He simply says, "Ow."

  I recognize the soft, kind voice a little too late.

  "Oh, no! Graham! I'm so, so sorry! I thought you were a mugger. Are you okay?"

  Graham straightens himself, settles his glasses, and rubs his jaw, opening and closing it repeatedly to make sure I haven't dislocated it. He has a cut on his cheek, where my ring must have nicked him. I feel horrible. I quickly rummage through my tote and retrieve a tissue. I dab his face, soaking up the little drops of blood seeping from the cut.

  Graham places his hand over mine and takes the soft napkin away from me. "I'm fine. I guess I should have known better than to sneak up on you. For an uptown girl, you have a solid right hook. Where did you learn to punch like that? I thought you hired bodyguards for that kind of stuff." His accent seems thicker today, dropping its Manhattan edge. It has a slight edge to it, dropping occasional vowels, whereas, at the hotel, his speech packs more polish. It's almost as if his accent is part of the job. Replace his pressed uniform and crisp jacket with denim and his speech reverts also. I have to admit I like this version of him.

  "Don't look so surprised. I took a kickboxing class a few years ago while it was the big fitness trend."

  Graham takes my elbow and ushers me to cross the street with him. We weave our way through the mass of people walking toward us. I'm a step behind him, trying not to lose him in the crowd. I steal a moment to appreciate the view. His snug jacket hugs his shoulders, and the things those jeans do to his ass should be considered illegal. He looks back over his shoulder, catches me ogling him, and smirks. "You're tougher than I thought you'd be." He stares me up and down, his turn to assess me. "And more Goth. I'm digging your new look."

  "For a nerd, you have great hair. Aren't you supposed to have a horrible middle part, pinned down with a ton of hair gel and a pocket protector to secure your mechanical pencils and calculator?"

  He stops in the intersection and face-palms himself so abruptly I bump into him. "Damn! I knew I forgot something! I never leave home without my pocket protector. See what you made me do?" He grabs hold of my elbow again, and we resume walking at New Yorker speed—fast. "For what it's worth, I'm not a nerd, Goth Girl. I'm merely knowledgeable in many areas of interest."

  We soon arrive at a little local coffee shop, and Graham opens the door for me. When I pass by him, he looks at me and grins. "You know, for someone so pretentious, you have a beautiful smile," he says.

  I just shake my head. "Worst pickup line ever."

  "Trust me, I'm not trying to pick you up."

  "Good. I'd hate to have to turn you down."

  We shoulder our way through the crowded coffee shop and order our drinks at the counter. Once our drinks are ready, we take them and find a table for two in a quiet corner. Our conversation flows freely, ebbing and flowing in a comfortable manner, light and happy. A brief silence falls over us and I see him preparing to broach a heavier subject.

  "Tell me something, Kienna." He narrows his eyes and rubs his chin with his fingers. My spine stiffens. This is the part where he calls his price. I inwardly kick myself for not having seen it coming.

  He straightens in his chair and leans his forearms on the table, lacing his fingers together and looking at me intently. "I see two sides to you. The perfectly constructed, yet completely fake persona you wear in public, and the real you I see whenever I go up to your apartment. Even now you're doing it. When you're at home, you slouch. You don't care about what the hotel staff thinks of you, so you don't bother being fake around us. Right now, however, your posture is perfect. I see you every day, Kienna. It's part of my job to observe our guests, to make sure I'm there the moment they need anything. You rarely deviate from the magazine version of yourself. Why don't you want people to see the real you?"

  I run my finger around the edge of my cup, collecting the leftover froth and cinnamon sprinkles. "Loaded question." I lick the creamy cinnamon off my finger not offering anything else.

  He waves his hand, brushing off his question. "It's not my business. But listen, it'd be nice if you had one place you could be you—uninhibited, no strings. Let's hang out." He smirks and leans confidently back on his elbow. There's no arrogance in the gesture. He's sincere.

  My eyebrows crawl up my face. "You want to hang out with me?"

  "Only if you want. I enjoy hearing your laugh—and I've observed you long enough to know how rare it is. When you're with me, laughter seems to fall out against your better judgment. I'm guessing you need more of that kind of thing. Hell, we all do. Besides," he lifts his massive mug to his lips and sips, "this is mighty fine tea, and I don't want to sit here alone."

  I suppress a giggle. "You're drinking tea?"

  "Earl Grey tea. Hot." He waggles his eyebrows at me mischievously.

  "You're such a nerd!"

  "You wound me, Miss Delacroix."

  "Kienna. Please." I shift in my seat and look around, relieved no one heard him.

  His hand jumps to cover his heart, and he feigns hurt. "Oh, you have no idea. You think I'm nerdy? Wait until you meet my friends. When they see I'm hanging out with someone like you, they'll sculpt marble statues in my honor and program video games with me as the hero—Graham Gothcraft." His smile fills his whole face, warming every inch of him. The guy is more sincere than Santa Claus. How can he be like this all the time? It's like he's dropped his guard with no intention of bracing for impact.

  I'm always on alert, walls up, defenses ready. It blows.

  I tap the rim of my cup with my finger.

  "You want me to meet your friends?"

  "Why wouldn't I? You're..." He trails off blushing slightly at the ears.

  "The stuff nerd dreams are made of?" I raise my cup of coffee in a salute, and he mimics the move. "Deal."

  "Wait, seriously? You'll be my out-of-my-league plus-one at a gathering of geeks?"

  "Yup!"


  "Sweet!"

  Our conversation falls into an easy rhythm, and I forget myself for a while. I lean back in my chair and feel like someone else. Graham has some cute mannerisms. His eyes light up whenever I laugh and his mouth curls to one side in a sexy smirk. Graham is in the middle of explaining some computer game he's passionate about when his cell phone rings. He glances at the screen, and his face lights up.

  "Sorry, normally I wouldn't ask, but do you mind if I take this?"

  "No. Go right ahead." I pick up my lukewarm coffee and take a sip, letting him answer his call.

  "Hey, Lori! Yes! I'm ready if you are. Great, I'll be there in ten minutes. I love you, too." Graham clicks his phone off and puts it back in his jacket pocket. His voice is cheerful when he talks to her, and his eyes fill with affection. There's no doubt he's a man in love.

  "I have to go, Kienna. I'll see you tomorrow morning, and we can discuss plans for later this week." He gets up, removes his jacket from the backrest of the chair and slips it on. Our little non-date is over, but it's not the end.

  Graham lifts his mug in the air for me, waiting for me to tap it. We clink glasses together to toast the beginning of a new friendship.

  We say our goodbyes, and Graham heads out to meet with Lori. I wonder who she is—his girlfriend maybe? A gust of wind musses his hair, and he flips up the collar of his jacket. Maybe this isn't a good idea, but I need a friend like him, and he seems to need me, too.

  CHAPTER 10

  The night air is crisp, and my face is frozen by the time I make it back to my building. I'm almost to the elevators when someone calls out my name. I glance around and see Mindy standing by the front desk. She waves and slowly walks toward me, taking fast, tiny steps in her six-inch heels and tight, short skirt. She rubs the underside of her nose once. I can't tell if she's just done a line or not. She used to do that right after she'd snorted, but now it's a nervous tick. She's continually rubbing at her nose, trying to hide any traces of her addiction.