by Fields, MJ
“Hey, girl.”
I can feel her smile across the line.
“Eve?” My voice comes out tiny. I swallow, trying to get my bearings.
“You okay?” She knows something is wrong.
It’s eight thirty on a Monday morning. Typically, I’d be behind my desk right now, organizing the week and fielding phone calls.
“No, I’m not.” I break down, telling her about the shooting. The deaths. I want to tell her that Slade saved me, but I can’t even get into that right now. “I’m so anxious. What am I going to do? I can’t go back to the office—”
“Okay. Take a deep breath.”
I open my mouth to inhale and hear her doing the same.
“You need some time off. Go tell Jonathan you need a few weeks.”
“But I can’t. I’m terrified of going home and being alone. I’m … I need help, Eve.”
“Why don’t you come out to Nevada for a while? I could use you at the Center, and you could use a break. Come for as long as you can. Two weeks. A month. A year. A lifetime! Whatever you want.”
“I don’t want you to tell Vincent. Or anyone. If I come, I don’t want to see it in their faces.”
“No problem. My lips are sealed.” Her voice is confident.
I stare at a frame against the restroom wall with the words, You Only Live Once, written in lime-green script.
I’m not really living my life right now. My two brothers have both moved out to New York with big careers and families. And me? I just wake up, go to work, and focus on looking great, so I can meet a guy and get married and have kids. And then, one day, I’ll die.
I tried calling Sanam yesterday, but all the girls have scattered, clinging to their boyfriends and husbands. And here I am, all alone, with no prospect for more. Even my job is a dead end. Do I want to be a lawyer one day like my father? No. Do I want to stay as a legal secretary forever? No. So, what exactly am I doing?
“Okay,” I finally reply. “Yeah, I’ll come.”
“Good. Do you want the jet?”
I already know that the Milestone, being one of the most high-end resort and casinos in America, has a private plane.
Eve clears her throat. “You were there for me at a time when I needed it the most. Let me help you now.”
“I just need to get out of my head,” I stutter out.
“Trust me; I get it. More than you know.”
“Okay,” I say again, sounding like a broken record.
“Now, go to work. Tell Jonathan you need two weeks. Actually, no. Ask for three, so he’ll bargain down to two. The flight will be around five. Let me just make some calls and make sure it works. I’ll call you back to confirm.” Eve’s no-nonsense voice rings clear, and it chokes me up.
When we worked together, she was always tough in the office; we used to call it her bitch mode. But the thing with Eve is, she’s always a straight shooter. I’ve never had to worry if what she says isn’t what she means. It is always real. In my gut, I know being near her will help me.
“I’ll be ready,” I reply with as much strength as I can.
“Good. Talk later.”
She hangs up, and I clench my fists. I need to get through today. Just one step at a time.
The black Tumi suitcase is opened up on my queen-sized bed, filled with two weeks’ worth of clothes. My hands shook while packing, but I refused to let it ruin my neat folds.
I stare at my handiwork, feeling confident that I have what I need for this trip. Readjusting a shoe to make space for a cashmere sweater that’s waiting to be settled in, I notice a tag hanging on a shirt. I gently pull out the blouse, not wanting to upset the rest of the clothing. I turn the tag around and see it—$425.00. My jaw drops. How could I have spent this much money on a shirt? For the first time in maybe ever, I feel sick to my stomach over the amount of money I spend on material items. I pull off the tag, wondering just how much cash I have sitting in material items.
I turn from the bed and enter my closet, tearing shirt after shirt off their hangers and flinging them onto the floor. Shoe after shoe. And the bags. Thousands of dollars of Yves Saint Laurent. Chanel. Gucci. God, all of these things that I used to save up for. I used to covet these items, but what do they even mean? They’re nonsense, and right now, they’re making me ill.
My mom told me it’d get better. Will it ever?
I walk into my kitchen, taking out three extra-large white trash bags before turning back around and grabbing a fourth. With a Sharpie pen, I write Clothes, Shoes, Purses, and Shoes again on each and begin to methodically fill them, making a mental note to drop them off at my local Goodwill as soon as I return from Nevada.
I’m sweating by the time the work is done, but I feel amazing and somehow lighter. Relieved. That’s when I decide that I’m going to get through this. I will take a little time and figure out what I’m going to do next, but no matter what, I’ll be okay. This incident is causing me temporary suffering. Still, it’s temporary. It might change me, but I’m still me, and I always will be.
Six
Lauren
I’m drinking a beer with Eve at a restaurant and bar called The Blue. It’s pretty cool, styled like an old-school New York City deli. With a long and high counter lined with red leather stools and dark wooden booths on the main restaurant floor, it’s the kind of place to relax. I enjoy the comfort of my surroundings as Eve chats about a woman and her three kids who came into the Center this morning. The woman’s husband, who’d randomly dropped into their home during the week for check-ins, physically abused her. The cycle was endless—until she came to Eve for help.
“Have you filed the restraining orders?” I flip my hair to the side and immediately feel oil gathered by my roots. Whatever. I can add it to my list of Things Gone to Shit in the last two days.
“Yes, of course I filed them. But you know,” she continues, straightening her black tank top, “I can seriously use some help. It’s crazy busy, and sometimes, I get so bogged down in filing the necessary legal paperwork that I don’t have enough time to spend with these women. I need to do more than the legalities, but I don’t have the hours.”
An idea sparks. “What about clothes?”
“Clothes?” Eve’s face spells confusion.
“Well, I bet a lot of these women are trying to get back on their feet. They need to interview but don’t have the right wardrobe. Everyone knows that dressing the part is half the battle for both confidence and getting the job. While I’m here, I can work on that.”
“I love that idea!” she exclaims.
“Oh, you know what else?” I’m excited! “A haircut. I mean, imagine how these women must feel after the abuse they’ve endured. A fresh cut would give them that quick boost. I can speak to some stylists in the area. Maybe I can arrange for someone to come once a week.”
“Brilliant idea.” Eve claps her hands together. “I’ll handle the legal elements, but you can handle the personal ones. We’ve always made the best team, right?” Her eyes shine, genuinely.
“Too bad I’m only here for two weeks.” I shrug. “Luckily, I did as you said and requested three. Jonathan negotiated down, obviously. I’m just praying this break will be enough to get me back on my feet again.”
“Maybe you won’t go back to him at all. Crier is toxic. And, at the Center, you can use all your skills to actually better people’s lives. Great for the résumé when you go back to California. Imagine what we can do together.” She raises her hands together in prayer.
“But …” I sigh, trying to figure what I should say. “It’s not that I don’t want to stay here longer, but I’m just not ready to throw down and quit work and tell my landlord I won’t be back. It would be a huge change.”
“Let’s use these few weeks as a trial run.”
“I don’t know.” I lean my head in my hands and exhale. “I can’t make any choices right now. Of course, I’ll help you while I’m here. I just need to get back to myself before I make life changes.
”
“There’s something in the air here that’s healing. And, remember, my door is always open, and the Center would love to have you. But still, Lauren, you deserve more than that bullshit law firm. Jonathan is such an ass—” Her voice breaks off, and her eyes move to the door before lighting up.
I turn to see what she’s looking at. It’s Vincent. But wait …
Oh shit! Shit, fuck, shit, shit, shit!
Beside Vincent is a wall of a man. A six-foot-something, tatted-up, military man. I knew I’d see him while I was here, but I figured it would be a few days into my stay and after I got myself together—or at least did my hair, wore some makeup, and put on a cute outfit. Instead, I’m a mess.
The men stride toward us, their presence shrinking the entire bar and restaurant. Has Slade always been this big?
“Hi, baby,” Vincent murmurs, putting his nose in Eve’s hair after sliding into the booth.
I haven’t seen him since the wedding, and I’m absolutely struck stupid at how handsome he looks. Hair like black ink, dark eyes, and tan skin. Sure, he’s got a deep scar down his face that wasn’t there the first time I saw him. But, somehow, it only adds to his dark and dangerous appeal.
Slade effortlessly moves his huge body next to mine, maneuvering over two hundred pounds of muscle with ease. My body is completely rigid and awkward from nerves. Slade, on the other hand, looks barely affected by the fact that I’m here.
“Lauren, hey,” he says calmly, casually draping an arm behind my chair while looking back, presumably to find the waitress.
I glance at Eve, finding her eyes pinging between Slade and me. She smirks before turning to Vincent, whispering something in his ear. Moments later, they both stand.
“I’ve got to call my sister, and it’s too loud in here. We’ll be back in a minute.” Eve winks.
“So, how’ve you been? We didn’t get to talk after … you know. You ran out on me.” The rumble of his voice is firm, eyes creased in the corners.
“Things have been hard the last few days, obviously.” I clear my throat. “So, I came out here for a little break. Was planning to message you later tonight actually.” I do my best to keep my voice and body steady.
The art of bullshit and acting calm when there’s a riot in my chest is second nature to me at this point. I try to find something about his face that bothers me, that should settle the ache between my legs and the awkwardness in my heart. His nose is too straight. His lips are too full. His jaw is too chiseled. Damn him!
“Yeah. It was pretty crazy.” His gaze moves down to my lips and back up again. “Still doesn’t seem right though—to run away. You had me pretty worried for a minute there.”
“Well, I didn’t think you’d mind, considering the fact that you’d rather sleep on the floor—which was probably dirty as hell, by the way—than sleep next to me.” My voice comes out snarkier than I intended as I hold back a glare.
His eyes? They darken. There’s more he wants to say, but the man is in complete control of every word that comes out of his mouth, and for whatever reason, he decides not to answer.
Slade is the kind of man who doesn’t spew bullshit. If he says something, it’s because he thought about it and chose to talk. And, if he doesn’t speak or respond, it’s him consciously deciding to refrain. I haven’t known him long, but this is a trait of his I picked up on right away. Slade’s ability to control himself is both frightening and powerful.
I take another gulp of my beer, reminding myself that I have nothing to worry about. Sure, I ran away with my ego bruised instead of sticking around and thanking him like a proper adult. But, in my defense, the situation was stressful. And what would any woman think after seeing a man she threw herself at sleeping on the floor of a hotel room instead of in the huge and plush king-sized bed? I mean, please!
Suddenly, the image of his huge, hulking body cleaning me in the tub flashes before my eyes, and I feel like an absolute jerk. I can’t believe I ran out on him after what he did for me. Guilt runs over my insides. I could have bought him breakfast or, at the minimum, left a note.
Another swallow of my beer, but this one goes down over a pit in my throat.
The waitress brings another large pitcher, setting it on the center of our table. Before I can refill my glass, Slade picks it up and begins filling mine just as Vincent and Eve come back to the table. They are still preoccupied, talking quietly to each other.
“Listen, angry girl,” he starts, lip twitching, “you were under a tremendous amount of stress. Don’t worry about the fact that you wanted to fuck. Lots of people do after something like that.” His mouth quirks fully upward.
Is he messing with me right now or serious?
I turn my gaze to Vincent and Eve. Did they hear? Luckily, they’re focused only on each other, seemingly in deep conversation.
My head swings back to Slade. “I—what—you—”
He slowly nods his head, looking all cocky and laughing under his breath. He’s making light of the whole thing while I’m guilt-stricken.
Asshole!
“I did not—I mean—of course not!” I whisper-yell under my breath.
“Yes.” He fiddles with the watch on his wrist. “Yes, you did. You wanted me pretty damn badly. If I remember correctly, you pulled off your—”
My hand slaps against his mouth, shutting him up. His warm breath coats my palm with his laughter.
“You finished now?” I grumble.
His eyes are green with flecks of blue, and they’re amused. I’m either going to slap him or straddle him, but the jury is still out.
I peel my hand away, and a smile fills his face.
“Did you tell her I was there?” His eyes flash to Eve before he leans back into the seat, completely nonchalant and in charge.
“No. I didn’t mention that,” I reply, shrugging. “I told her not to tell him”—my eyes quickly flicker to the couple—“what happened to me either. I need to feel like myself right now and don’t want pity or questions.”
“Good. Let’s keep it quiet, yeah? Don’t need anyone meddling in my business either.” His voice comes out slightly hurried.
I tilt my head, confused. What does he have to hide?
I didn’t mention anything to Eve because Slade’s part in the story was almost too much to discuss. For one thing, Eve doesn’t know we had sex at her wedding. It didn’t feel necessary to tell her, considering the fact that he never even called me afterward. And his role in the shooting just hasn’t come up. At least, not yet.
Vincent leans forward. “You should help Eve at the Center. You can probably get a lot done for these families. She’s always chirping in my ear about how you do more than most attorneys she knows.”
I try to ignore the fact that he’s barely said two words to me since he sat down. Vincent isn’t warm. As I learned at his wedding, he isn’t even nice. He’s all serious, all the time. Unless, of course, he’s with Eve, who he’d kill for.
“Let’s start again, Vincent.” Slade shifts his heavy body, elbows leaning on the table. “Hey, Lauren. Good to see you again. Have you thought about possibly staying longer and working with Eve at the Center?” He opens his hands. “See, it’s easy.”
My mouth drops in happy surprise. I can’t even remember the last time someone stood up for me. My life in LA is an animal farm; everyone eats who they must to climb socially.
“What are you? The manners police?” Everyone laughs, and Vincent turns to me, his demeanor noticeably softer. “Hello, Lauren. So great to see you again. Love your earrings, by the way. Tiffany?”
“Ha!” I laugh out loud. The smile on my face wouldn’t wane even if I tried.
The man behind the rough exterior is the man Eve loves. My heart lurches with want. Not for Vincent, of course, but for what they have. I want someone to love, who will love me in return.
Where is he?
Slade’s thigh shifts against mine, but my head turns down. I continue to smile, trying to cover up
the sadness blooming in my chest. I know I’m blessed to have my health. My family is supportive and wonderful. And I have one good friend, Eve, which is more than a lot of women can say. Maybe I’m being too expectant. Maybe God sees that I’ve been given enough, and my limit of his goodwill has been reached.
Keeping the emotion from my voice and sitting tall, I reply, “Thank you, Vincent. It’s good to see you, too. I’ll help Eve while I’m here.”
I turn to Slade, as if to say, Did we do well?
He smiles.
“Vincent has this way of pressuring people,” Eve explains, opening her palms to the ceiling.
“Why not? Pressure can be good. Come on, Lauren, stay longer.” He pulls Eve closer to his side. “I bet we can get you to extend.” He kisses the top of her head with so much gentleness.
Seeing them together … it’s almost too intimate to watch.
“I’m not so sure. Jonathan only gave me two weeks, and, you know, I’ve got things to do at home.” I stare at my nails, doing my best not to notice Slade’s tatted-up, muscled forearms.
“Everything you need, you can find here. Trust me.” Vincent’s voice is so commanding that I can do nothing other than look up. His eyes are so serious and knowing that it makes my stomach churn.
I need to divert this conversation. “So, Slade, do you also ride a motorcycle?” My voice is higher-pitched than usual.
He nods. “Sure do.”
“Oh shit.” Vincent sighs, eyes shifting to the front door. “Stalker incoming.”
We all turn at the same time to see a girl strutting into the bar with low-slung jeans and a silvery crop top. She looks like she’s in her twenties with that young and carefree attitude and pierced belly button. While she might not look like she stepped out of Vogue, she’s hot in that trashy, stripper sort of way. She makes eye contact with our table, her long, pin-straight black hair swaying and eyes blinking blue. Her beauty is startling.
“Hey, baby.” She places a hand on Slade’s huge shoulder and rubs up and down.
