When Martin excuses himself to make a phone call, I pick up my laptop. I stare at the typed words which only have a paragraph into chapter twenty-nine as well as the notes as to what to write next in this chapter.
But suddenly, I’m not feeling it.
Not the subject matter, but the writing.
My thoughts drift and, instead I open the main Kindle Direct Publishing tab. I haven’t been here in a few days.
Yesterday was the end of the month and it would be nice to tally up the total sales.
My heart pounds as the main page loads. What if the books that I sold is suddenly zero? I click on Reports, holding my breath.
Oh.
My.
God.
No, this can’t be right. I stare at the screen. There are little bar graphs across each day of the month. I hover the mouse over each one to see how many sales I’ve had.
I quickly make a note of how many total units I sold on Amazon before clicking over to Apple, then to Barnes and Noble, Google Play, and Kobo.
From a book priced at $3.99, I make about 70% (there’s an additional delivery fee as well from Amazon).
So, I take home about $2.70 from each book. This month I sold a total of 1,391 books for a total of $3,756 across all retailers!
I stare at that number in disbelief. Almost fourteen hundred people bought my books during these thirty days.
My eyes light up and a big smile grows on my face.
Of course, I also spent some money on Facebook advertising in order to generate those sales. I click over to the Ads Manager platform to see how much the total damage was.
I spent a total of $1256.
Wow.
That’s a big number, of course.
But Jackson assured me that I needed to spend money on advertising in order to find readers. I mean, how else would anyone find out about me?
And given the results, that money really paid off. I spent $1250 and generated $3756 in total sales.
My profit for the month is $2,506 with a 66.72% return on investment.
Still unable to believe the numbers completely, I stare at the calculator on my phone and run through them again.
Is this right?
Did I really just make twenty-five hundred dollars in profit off my writing?
Another thousand and I will be more than able to cover all of my bills without getting a proper job.
More than that, I’ll be able to pay Jackson back with the money that he had ‘lent’ me.
It wasn’t really a loan, it was more of a gift, or maybe a pay-off. But when I accepted it, I promised myself that I would pay back every last cent and now, I’m actually on my way to doing that.
My stomach growls and I place my hand over it.
“I’m actually going to be able to support you doing what I love,” I whisper under my breath. “I’m going to be able to be home with you, watch you grow up, and do the one thing that I have wanted to do since I was a little girl.”
31
Jackson
When I have to work…
Being forced to work somewhere you do not want to work, to do something you don’t want to do, is one of those mundane parts of life.
Many people have to work at places they hate just to make a living, just to pay the bills, just to keep the roof over their heads.
But I am not someone who is used to this.
I have always made my own way in life. I never worked jobs I hated. I survived on very little, a lot less than most, just to live according to my own rules.
And now? Now, sitting at my desk, talking to the heads of departments and pretending that I am still in charge, it feels a lot like torture.
I keep glancing at the clock and the hours go by at a snail’s pace. Every time I look at the time, only a few minutes have passed.
And it’s just the second day.
No, I can’t keep at it this way. Something has got to give.
I try to go through the motions. I try to think about what the best thing I can do for this company is, but Minetta no longer feels like it belongs to me at all.
It’s like this foreign thing. Some place that I once worked, that once meant everything to me.
During a conference call, my mind wanders and I catch myself thinking about Harley.
This isn’t unusual, of course. I think about her all the time, but even more so now. How can I keep working here?
How can I stay on as CEO when I hate everything about my current position? But watching my employees give their presentations on the video screen, I know that I can’t just leave them.
If I were to step down now, then they would all be fired.
Andrew Lindell isn’t someone to fuck around with and I refuse to leave them at the mercy of that asshole. No, I will stay here and fight.
He made promises, many of which he has not kept. That’s fine. That’s the kind of person that he is. But I am not. When I make promises, then I do my best to keep them. I cannot let these people lose their jobs. I will do everything in my power to stop it. But how?
I don’t know the answer to that any more than I know how to get Harley back. The reasons for pushing her away seem as stupid and ill-advised as the ones I once made with the Lindells. That’s the thing about being foolish; you never really know when you’re doing the wrong thing until you have already done it.
I can’t turn back time, but I can do my best to remedy this situation now. I thank everyone for their time and say my goodbyes.
I do all of this in a daze.
I can keep this up, but it won’t do anyone any good. I need a plan to take back my company. But first, I need a plan to get back my girlfriend and make her my wife.
I change into my sweats and run down the stairs and out of the front door. I haven’t gone on a run in a long time, and at first my lungs burn.
I keep running, not at a very fast pace, but at one that’s good enough, and my body quickly adapts.
The labored breaths disappear after a while, taking with them the pounding headache that has dominated my mind for most of the day.
I run past old women pushing strollers full of groceries and young moms holding their toddler’s hands as they cross the street.
I run past a corgi in a knitted vest and booties and a greyhound leading his owner by the leash.
I run past a doorman who nods his head slightly in my direction and a homeless man who doesn’t even look up at me.
I run past numerous cars waiting for the light to turn green as well as a few motorcycles and couriers on bicycles.
I’m not going anywhere in particular, at least that’s what I think at first. But then I discover that actually I am.
My legs are taking me somewhere very specific and it’s only when I’m a few streets away from her house that I realize where I am.
I am going to see Harley.
Or at least, I’m going to see her call box.
The closer I get, the more I realize that it is quite unlikely that she will let me in again or give me any sort of time to explain myself.
So, what can I do?
How can I make her understand?
How can I make her give me a chance to even say a word?
Then other thoughts start to creep in.
Maybe I should put this to the side.
Maybe I should respect her position and not try to force her to talk to me. I mean, isn’t that a sign of respect? She wants space and I should give it to her, right?
Parker didn’t think so. He wanted to make sure that she listened to him. He fought for the right to speak to her and he just made things worse. I can’t follow in his footsteps.
But when I see her building and look up at the window that I know belongs to her, I can’t force myself away. It’s like there’s some sort of magnetic force pulling me closer to her.
I don’t want to be a stalker. I don’t want to disrespect her position. I don’t want to frighten her. I don’t want to push myself on her. But I have to take anoth
er chance. I am not Parker. I am just a man who made a terrible mistake. I love her and there was a time when she loved me and then I fucked it all up. Now, I just need to make it right.
I am tempted to go up to the call box and press the button of her apartment again, but something stops me.
She will see my face, and she won’t let me inside. If she doesn’t then Martin or Julie will and they won’t let me up.
So, what then?
No, if I want to see her then I need an element of surprise.
And that’s when the opportunity suddenly presents itself. The front door opens and Martin and Julie walk out. He takes her hand to cross the street and they disappear around the corner.
32
Jackson
When I make my way inside…
The irony of the situation isn’t lost on me. I hired Harley protection services that I now have to evade in order to talk to her.
I watch the corner to make sure that Martin doesn’t come back at the same time as I’m watching the front door to her building. I need a way in.
I can either press the number of one of her neighbors and make up some story to get in, or wait for someone to come out. Before I can make a decision one way or another, an older woman pulling a cart behind her comes to the door.
“Here, let me help you with that.” I quickly jump to her aid, nearly knocking her over in all of my excitement. Stay calm. Don’t make her suspicious. Just breathe.
“Thank you very much, young man,” the woman says in the coarse voice of a lifelong smoker.
“You’re very welcome,” I say, holding the door behind her. I wait for her to get a little bit further away from me so I can slip in without notice.
“Aren’t you going to close that?” she asks, turning around at the last second.
“Um…actually, I’m going up to see a friend of mine.”
“Oh, yeah? What apartment?”
My mind goes blank. The only number I can think of is the one that belongs to Harley, so that’s the one I say.
“I don’t know how those two girls live in that small space,” she says, shaking her head. “But then again, I wasn’t the one who got along well with other girls, if you know what I mean.”
She laughs at her own joke and I laugh along with her, even though I don’t quite know what she’s getting at.
“I used to be a dancer. Back in the 60s. I danced at all of the big clubs in mid-town. People came all the way from Vermont and Montauk to see me.”
“That must’ve been great,” I say, still holding onto the door, hoping that she will let me go before Martin and Julie come back and find me here.
“I didn’t always look like this, sonny. There was a time when I had all the curves and all the moves to make men go wild.”
I have to change my approach. Maybe flattering her will move this whole thing along faster.
“Oh, c’mon now,” I say in my most relaxed voice. “You are quite a looker. I bet you still bring men to their knees.”
She throws her head back in laughter. For a moment there I can see her as she was all those years ago. Young, beautiful, and full of life.
“You are a keeper!” she says, waving her finger in my direction and heading down the street with a newfound pep in her step.
“It was great talking to you! I yell after her.
Right before I disappear into the lobby, I hear her say, “If one of those girls doesn’t want you, you come knock on apartment #417!”
When I get to Harley’s apartment, the smile that her neighbor put on my face vanishes.
My heart jumps into my throat.
What the hell do I do now that I’m here?
I run my fingertips over the grain in the wood and try to gather my thoughts.
I should just knock. I make a fist and lift it up into the air. But something stops me.
Fear? Of course.
There are only so many times that you can ask someone to talk to you and hear no. There are only so many chances and after that?
I have to respect her position. If I keep trying to get her to listen to me against her will, well, at that point I’m no better than Parker. I get it now. That feeling of desperation that he must’ve felt.
The first few times he made contact, they had friendly exchanges. He was led to believe that she might actually be interested.
No, I’m not foolish enough to blame her.
She was just being nice and polite, the way that women often are when they are put into an uncomfortable situation that they don’t know how to extricate themselves from.
The last thing that I want to do is to become a stalker.
The last thing I want to do is to scare her or cross any boundaries. I love her and I want her to be happy.
But I also want her to be happy with me. I want her to give me another chance even though I don’t think I deserve it.
I should just knock.
She’s home.
She will answer.
And then…then I will finally see her face. Then she will finally see mine and things will be different than they are through the camera downstairs. I make a fist again. I bring it to the door.
But then I pull away just before making contact. The thing is that she had already seen my face. I am sure of it.
She saw me pleading for her to open the door and she didn’t.
What if that means that she never wants to speak to me again?
Does this mean that I have to accept that we are over…for good?
I take a step away from the door and turn around.
My shoulders hang down as reality starts to set in. Perhaps, this is it for us. I’ve done my best and she still doesn’t want me.
What else is there to do?
My eyes drop down to the floor. The wood is old and scuffed up, torn up by years of shuffled feet. How many other people have stood right here in this same spot fighting their own demons just like I am fighting mine?
“Here, let me help you.”
His voice stops me in my tracks. It belongs to Martin and it’s coming from around the corner. Shit. What do I do now?
33
Jackson
When it’s almost all over…
Martin is with someone. I can hear their muffled voices along with his. Something is holding them all back, giving me a moment to think.
But time is running out. I glance over my shoulder at the window at the end of the hallway.
It’s as old as the rest of the building with thick elaborate molding framing the ancient glass.
To open it, you have to pull it up by the little hooks at either side of the ledge, but no matter how hard I pull, it doesn’t open.
Years of gunk and grime has permanently sealed this relic and I stare at the fire escape on the other side, wistfully.
I take a deep breath.
They are going to come around the corner any moment now and see me. There’s nowhere to go now, so I stand right next to Harley’s door and brace myself for impact.
I wait.
Then I wait some more.
For a second, I’m almost tempted to go out there and see what’s taking them so long.
But instead, I run my hand down the frame of the door and over the handle. When I try it, much to my surprise, it turns.
“Thank you again for helping.” I hear a female voice say as I slip inside.
Despite the age and the disrepair of this building, the door surprisingly doesn’t creak and I’m able to close it without making a sound.
From the foyer, I see her. Her hair is piled on the top of her head and tied up in a loose messy bun.
She is sitting at her desk, facing the screen of her laptop.
Before slipping through the open bathroom door into the only other room in the apartment, I watch her.
She types fast while bobbing her head slightly from side to side while listening to music on her wireless earphones.
It takes all of my energy not to call out her name and take her
into my arms right there. But that would be the worst thing I could do right now. When I hear the keys going into the doorknob, I close the bathroom door behind me and wait.
“Harley, the front door was open,” Martin says, coming in.
She doesn’t respond. He calls her name again and she shrieks. The sound is loud and high-pitched. It sounds exactly like the one I heard outside of my door the first night we met. I ball up my fists and fight the urge to go out and help her.
“Oh my God, you scared me!” I hear her say.
“I distinctly remember locking the door,” Martin lectures.
“Yeah, Mrs. Crawford stopped by for a second and I guess I must’ve forgotten to lock it after I talked to her.”
“You really have to be more careful,” Martin insists. I hate the way he speaks to her. As if she is ten years old and he is her father. But he’s just doing his job. And he’s very good at it. Except for the fact that he did leave her unattended today, which he wasn’t supposed to do without getting another person to fill in.
“Detective Richardson,” Harley says. “I didn’t see you there.”
A gulp forms in the back of my throat. What is she doing here?
The walls of the bathroom aren’t very thin and I can’t make out the majority of what is being said. While I try, my thoughts start to swirl around my head.
I should not be here.
It’s one thing to ring her doorbell. It’s another to knock on her apartment door. But this?
Hiding out in her bathroom?
How can I possibly explain this?
Regret grabs ahold of me and wraps its cold hands around my throat, tightening its grip.
They are going to find me here. I’m trespassing on private property stalking a victim of a kidnapping.
And if Detective Richardson finds me here?
I look around the room. To say that it’s cramped would be the understatement of a lifetime.
Tangled up in Hate Page 11
