The Note

by Natalie Wrye

  He sighs, a lofty sound that echoes through the phone in my empty apartment. “Ah, yes. The eternal bachelor strikes again. Mr. Pristine doesn’t like anyone coming in and muddying up his perfect world,” he mocks. “You ever think you might be too uptight there, bro?”

  “Obviously not enough…since I let your ass even throw these parties at all. If Maria didn’t spot-clean the place after each one, I’d swear I’d get an STD just by touching the walls.”

  “Probably not the permanent kind, though.” He chuckles. “And I wouldn’t worry; no one knows how to dodge a bullet better than you, Noah. Isn’t that what you did with good old Abercrombie and Fitch a few years back?”

  Don’t go there, my mind screams. I try not to bite my tongue.

  “Ainsley,” I correct. “Her name was Ainsley, Lachlan.”

  “Yeah, just like I said. Good old Anthrax. You dodged that old ball-and-chain like a bail-skipper. Hell, you give me something to look up to. And I thought I was bad when it came to women.”

  The mention of Ainsley leaves my skin prickling, and suddenly I’m over this conversation. I move on as quickly as I can.

  “Christ, how do I always feel worse even when you’re complimenting me, Lach?”

  “Don’t get used to it,” he scoffs. “I have to save my compliments for the women in my life.” He pauses. “All four of them. But if I can help out, bro, in any way, just let me know. I swear I haven’t been to your place in a long time, but I’m willing to help donate for anything you might be missing. Like, the essentials. Lubricant. Ball gag. Condoms…”

  “Right. I think I’m good on that front, Lach. And I guess that was all I wanted.” I start to finish the call, but my little bro stops me, calling out before I can cut the line. His voice takes on a slightly panicked pitch. “Hey! Noah…”

  “Yeah?”

  He hesitates a beat or two. “Are we going to be alright, mate?”

  I squint, staring at nothing but open air. “What would make you ask that question?”

  “It’s just… I don’t know. I had a feeling.” He stammers again for less than a beat. “Guess it’s me just losing my mind though. Or maybe it’s because you’re back in New York. For longer than I can ever remember you being. Feels like Hell might be freezing over as we speak.”

  “Lach, we both went to high school here. I was fifteen when we left Sydney. You were nearly thirteen. We’ve spent half of our lives here in Manhattan. I’ve been in New York City plenty.”

  “Yeah, I know. It’s just… I’ve never seen someone so eager not to stay in one place.”

  “Yeah, because when you suffered for eight semesters in Finance at the same university as Cyn, getting out of Manhattan feels like breaking out of the penitentiary.”

  He snorts. “Yeah, Cyn’s the toughest, isn’t she?”

  “You’re saying this to the man who wound up as the unwitting, NYU-equivalent of a ‘prison bitch.’ She owned my ass.”

  “She’s good at that, you know…The ass-owning.”

  “Stop. I just got a visual of Cynthia ‘owning’ some ass. And now I need to scrub that image from my brain with bleach.”

  Lachlan laughs. “And to think, that ass could have been Jase’s. He was crazy about her for so long I thought it would be. Mindy’s the safe choice.”

  “We’re talking about Jase here. The human equivalent of a ‘safety belt.’ Mindy was the only choice.”

  Jase may have been the older brother. But the responsibility and risks taken for my family, our real estate company, and our livelihoods had always fallen on my shoulders. And they always would.

  I’d stepped up when Jase wouldn’t (or couldn’t). And I was stepping up now.

  I’d find my father’s watch. Because I didn’t have a choice.

  Talking to Lachlan reminds me of that. I’d find a way to fund the deal on the Luxe building… If I had to wring every ounce of blood from my body to do it.

  I take a calming breath, the air blowing from my nose slowly. My jaw sets. “Safety belts, ass-owning or otherwise, Lach, everything’s going fantastically. I’m not back in New York because it’s the apocalypse. Hell is still pretty warm this time of year; just ask Cynthia. And you’re not losing your mind. But you might lose your hair, if you don’t quit worrying. Just leave that stuff to me. Have I ever let you down?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Because that’s what I’m here for.”

  The call ends shortly. But so does my patience.

  In the sanctity of my loft, with nothing but a lot of scotch on the bar and a little Sinatra on the radio, I throw my phone down, listening to the black mirror crack.

  Fuck the universe for playing such a cruel trick.

  The only tie to my biological father is missing and so is the fortune I, as his son, am entitled to. Because of a gift I never wanted in the first place.

  Clenching my fingers into fists, I bow my head towards the floor. With no one around to hear, I unclench my teeth…and let out a primal scream.

  The sound is empty, hollow to my ears.

  But so are my chances at finding that fucking watch.

  —

  SOPHIA

  “Sophia!”

  “Jesus, Rick, I’m right next to you. You don’t have to scream.”

  “Oh yes, I do.” The Alchemist’s general manager turns to me behind the bar. He places the phone back on the receiver, his eyes as bloodshot as the vein on his head. He sighs.

  “What the hell happened earlier?”

  I tilt my hand, slipping the tray in my hands onto the mahogany bartop. I lean closer. “With what exactly?”

  He crosses his arms. “With who, you mean.” He points at the phone. “I just got a call from a Mr. Stockton. Says he just checked his receipt from his breakfast meal. Says you charged him a hundred extra dollars on his bill for ‘quote,’” he glances down at a notepad beside the phone. “‘Being a surly asshole.’” His eyes slant back up at me. “End quote?”

  I roll my eyes, strolling to stare down at the pad myself. I read the chicken scratch there. “That’s not true.”

  “No?” He presses.

  “Nope.” I plant a finger on the page. “I charged him for being a burly asshole. Not surly. But it makes sense why he wouldn’t have made the distinction with all the fuzz in those oversized ears of his.”

  I turn back to my tray, picking it back up as Rick continues talking to my back, a habit he’s grown quite good at.

  “Christ, Soph. How the hell are we supposed to keep customers when you talk to them like this?”

  I spin, meeting his veiny eyes with mine. “I don’t know… Maybe when you stop marketing to the sleaziest clientele you can find? We never used to have these problems. Now every time you look up, we’re dealing with these…these ‘suits’ who are living, breathing warts with wallets. I can’t take any more.”

  “Those guys are paying customers. It’s not our fault that we just so happen to be in spitting distance of Wall Street.”

  “Yeah,” I counter. “And every entitled prick in a suit thinks they can treat the staff however they like because they have money. You should have heard the way this guy talked to Sarah.” I round the bartop, heading towards the open floor of the restaurant-pub. “I’ve met poison ivy bushes that were nicer.”

  The atmosphere inside the bar practically whirs, alive with talk and the intoxicating smell of Chef Raphael’s homegrown southern cooking as I speed-walk through my customers’ tables, balancing a tray larger than my whole body.

  The honey-colored glow of the overhead lights lead the way, and with our brand new late-night hours, the taste of bacon and frustration linger on my tongue, souring with each passing minute.

  Even the caffeine turns to poison in my mouth.

  Goddammit, the espresso I inhaled earlier isn’t working fast enough.

  There's tension at my temples as I swipe strands of my dark hair behind my ears, and honestly? If one more drunken pissant tugs on my apron, I’m going
to lose my shit, not to mention my tips.

  I’ve barely made enough money to cover my apartment’s power bill, let alone keep the water running.

  Late on rent for the fourth month since my roommate Kayla moved out, I’d actually felt lucky when I saw how packed The Alchemist was tonight.

  I no longer feel that way.

  I’m still waiting for the dark elixir I drank just an hour ago to work its magic when, to no one’s surprise, douchey patron number fifty-four snatches the edge of my black apron, his fingers finding the fabric and tugging hard.

  I nearly spill over.

  With drunken haze in his red eyes, he flashes me the sort of smile that only works on Wall Street, and I manage a tightened one of my own, counting to ten.

  “Uh, hi…there. Do you need help or something?”

  “I sure do, sweet lips,” he slurs, his blue eyes sparking underneath sandy hair, an expensive dark suit on his slumped shoulders. “How’s about helping me to your number? I’ve been watching you all night.” He tilts his head, sizing me up from head to toe. “And I think you are very pretty. You could be a model.”

  My voice is gravel when I respond, my feet shifting inside my black flats. I reposition the tray. “Well, gee…thanks for the, um, the assault. But no thanks. I’m afraid I don’t do that.”

  “Why?” He presses, his hand still at my hip. “Is there a company policy against giving out your phone number?”

  “Nope.” I shrug, trying to step out of his hold. “It’s my phone. It has a ‘No dickhead’ policy, actually.” I glance over the rest of the table, at the other pairs of greedy eyes still stuck in my direction. My skin grows cold. “But can I get you anything else?”

  Lucky me. Douche number fifty-four has a friend just as vocal. And he chimes in from a nearby seat, his deep voice bitter as he leans forward beside him. “Wow. You’re funny. I like funny in a girl. But ‘funny’ won’t get you any extra tips.” He fishes a hundred out of his slacks pocket. “What will, uh, this baby get us that’s not on the menu?”

  He winks in my direction, and the breath I take is so strained I think I might choke on it.

  Reason number thirty-two why working at The Alchemist isn’t enough anymore?

  The drunken bankers.

  Every Harvard slime ball with an American Express card wanders in after-hours, half of their money still stuck in some stripper’s crotch.

  Ivy League grads or not, these guys sure don’t know the difference between servers and strippers. But I need the money.

  God, do I need the money.

  My longtime love of fairytales tells me, in the back of my mind, that these guys are nothing but minions destined to die in the third Act, but it’s far too early in my evening to guess how the ending of this story will be.

  I never had the knack my Aunt Roberta had for predicting the next scenes.

  Dirtied dollar bills and messy dishes perch on the edge of my newly painted nails, and I re-balance my tray again, secretly imagining myself chucking it at potential kill-off character number fifty-five when I hear an unknown voice over my shoulder, low and deadly. The timbre of the stranger’s voice is deep enough to run a chill along my spine, but the sound of his words are so soothing I find myself calming in seconds.

  I release the tight breath choking me.

  “A hundred dollars? Wow. Big spender.” The sarcasm slides off each word—words that are accented and deep. “Hmm, well, let’s see…” he muses. “It sounds like enough money to prevent me from shoving that fried chicken down your throat for talking to your server like that.” His full lips spread into a smile when I look over. “But I can’t make any promises.”

  With a nod of his head, the stranger is off, back to wherever he came from, and the inebriated bankers—instantly sober—glance at me, their ruddy eyes expectedly wide.

  And just like that, there’s a twist at the end of Act I.

  And I didn’t even get a good look at my temporary hero. My Mr. Cloak and Dagger.

  It’s a fact that hits me hard when Prick Number Fifty-Five starts to speak again, the tip of his red nose as cherry-colored as his red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes. He swallows. “Was he serious?”

  “No. Of course not.” I shake my head, grabbing his plate of half-eaten chicken. I sniff it, smiling. “By the way, if you do place another order, just ignore the scorching feeling you might feel in your throat. I’m sure that’s just the chef’s new spices.”

  I roll my eyes all the way back to the bar where my boss and co-owner Nancy meets me, reaching over to slip the tray from my fingers. She groans.

  “Christ, what have you done this time?”

  I hand her the tray, knowing I’ve just screwed up every chance at making rent tonight, wondering if the snark was worth it.

  It definitely feels like it.

  In fact, the only part of tonight I regret is not talking more to Mr. Captain-Save-a-Waitress over there.

  In the land of shitheads and suits, I think I just met the only man who might not be both. And I may have blown it by letting him walk away.

  Chapter 3

  NOAH

  Walking away is necessary. But fuck, I wish I weren’t.

  Not when my thoughts are still on that cute-arsed waitress.

  My father’s watch was still on my mind as I wandered from my Midtown mess of an apartment to Manhattan’s dark streets, the taste of nicotine and scotch still on my lips.

  A glass of my best dark liquor couldn’t erase the worry. Neither could the cigarette.

  One hand in my dark slacks, the other tangled in my dark hair, I don’t even look up from the uneven pavement under my feet until I hear the sounds of sultry music on the street.

  That’s when I glanced up to find a street sign reading The Alchemist overhead and decided I could do worse. I strolled in, new knots working into my shoulders as I slumped in a worn leather stool at the bar.

  I just needed the liquor. I didn’t care what flavor.

  Until I overhead the conversation several tables over.

  The drunkards didn’t catch my attention. But she did.

  A voice, velvety sweet and full, found my ears, and I glanced over to find the sort of figure you only saw in movies.

  A mass of dark hair tumbled down tiny shoulders and over a stark white shirt situated just above a small black skirt. Stockings covered the shapely legs beneath, but did nothing to hide the gentle curve of each delicate calf. The top of taut thighs showing underneath the skirt hinted at the possibility of other tight things beneath, and I could no longer focus on ordering from the bartender.

  I had to say something.

  Especially when Tosser Number Two decided to chime in.

  I was out of my seat in seconds, the anger that had simmered on the city sidewalks having followed me in.

  I turned on the dickheads with a swiftness that scared everyone within earshot.

  Including me.

  But damn it felt good to give those wankers what they had coming. If only Cynthia wasn’t calling at that very moment.

  The surface of my skin is still hot with ire when I walked away from the tables, ducking into the dimly lit back hall with the bathrooms. I pick up the call, a growl stuck in the back of my throat as I answer.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know that I called the local ‘dog kettle.’” Cynthia scoffs. “You want to turn down that bark just a bit?”

  “What’s up, Cyn?” I lean against the sturdy wooden wall tucked away from the rest of the bar. My voice lowers. “I really don’t have time for this.”

  She sighs, and I can imagine her running her nails along her blonde hair pale under the fluorescent light of her tiny desk, her earthy eyes rolling. She continues talking anyway.

  “I just wanted to apologize…to you.”

  I snort. “To me?”

  “Yeah, to you, ‘Cujo.’” She exhales a deep, long breath. “I didn’t have to snap at you like that earlier. It was uncalled for.”

>   “Right. And do you think you calling me by a vicious, fictional dog’s name is going to make this conversation go any better?”

  “Says the man once nicknamed Sydney’s biggest ‘root rat.’”

  My back stiffens. I switch my phone between hands. “Who told you that?”

  Cyn laughs lightly. “From your reaction, I’m going to guess those rumors are true, then.” My shoulders straighten as I push away from the wall, my back bristling. “Stephen King might have made Cujo the most famous dog in Hollywood cinema. But you’re definitely the most famous dog in Australia. Congrats…on being a complete hound.”

  “And on that note,” I mumble, my finger hovering over the ‘End Call’ button, “feel free to snap your fingers wherever you’d like, Cyn.” My tone lowers. “Preferably, in several places.”

  Her laugh is back. But there’s nothing sardonic about it this time. “I don’t mean to snap at you, Noah. Really, I don’t. It’s just…habit.” She sucks her teeth, creating a “tsk” sound. “C’mon. Give me a break. I’ve barely seen you since you stepped back into the New York office two months ago. Barely caught a glimpse of you at all. I mean, Jase lives here at the office. I see him all the time. Lach is mostly between here and London.”

  “But you? You’re like a ghost. Mr. Untouchable.” She inhales sharply, the sound an audible bite. “And I know you’re just getting adjusted to being back in the City. But it’s hard as hell to get a hold of a man in your position. Even harder to get your attention when you’re in one of these, you know…” She hesitates, stumbling over the words, unsure of herself for the first time I can remember in my twenty-eight year-old life. “These modes.”

  I sniff, not giving Cyn an inch. “What modes?” I ask, knowing full well what she means.

  I can’t help it sometimes. In ‘go’ mode, I’m a dickhead. And Cynthia knows it more than most. She doesn’t let me get away with it, though.

  “The ‘fuck everything but what I’m working on’ mode, Noah. I’ve seen it plenty of it when we were fifteen. Not much has changed in the last thirteen years.”

  Despite my irritation, her warm change in direction thaws some of my frost, and I close my eyes, controlling that fiery temper that once made me one of the best real estate developers in the world…and one of the most stubborn.