The Note

by Natalie Wrye

  There’s something seriously wrong with the fact that he’s not kissing me, touching me, teasing me, tasting me, and before my eyes are even open in his gigantic California king bed, I know that I’m hating myself even more than I had last night.

  What was I thinking not sleeping with him? When the chance was right in front of me? Literally.

  If only I hadn’t inhaled enough tequila to drown the entire city of Tijuana…

  On a night that should have been one of the worst of my life after leaving my job, the man whose apartment I was currently coming to life in made it incredible, that much was sure.

  And I know it should have ended that way.

  After we’d drunk our way through half of the tequila in the state, we laughed, tripped and stumbled our way to a cab. Forty minutes later, and I was in his behemoth of an apartment, gazing out the panoramic windows, my chest clenching from all of its splendor, its wealth, its outstandingly beautiful views.

  Views which included a Big Bad Wolf.

  He was sophisticated perfection. Nirvana in a suit.

  He turned to me in his ginormous living room, unfastening the first button at his collar, and it was all I could do not to grab him right then, not to kiss and press my lips to his and beg him to take me over.

  Though I knew there was no need; he would know exactly what to do.

  The fantasy of him is still in my brain when my eyes pry themselves open, finding myself alone in his blacked-out bedroom, my gaze shifting towards the blue-white light blinking from my blaring cell phone.

  I grab the shrieking black square, pressing on the center button to shut it up. I answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Well, hello to you, too, Casper.” I listen to the voice on the other end of the line. “Have you been meaning to go ‘ghost’ all night or was this just an accident?”

  I sit up in bed, clearing the remaining cobwebs from my brain. “Drew?”

  “You know another?” He laughs, the sound a raspy note that has already claimed the hearts of female Alchemist customers everywhere. “I was beginning to think you were avoiding your favorite neighbor…”

  “Never. Not when he calls me at the butt crack of dawn.”

  “And only you would appreciate that.”

  I shake my head, tempted to tame strands of my messy hair. I grip the phone harder instead. “No, my bad. I meant to call you back last night. It was just… I…”

  I don’t know how to finish that sentence, so I don’t. I start another one instead.

  “I met with a friend last night. And got back too late to call.”

  “Uh huh.” He sounds unconvinced. “Considering the fact that you stayed until the bar closed at two last night, then I’m assuming this ‘friend’ is a guy.” He pauses a beat. “Is this ‘friend’ a lawyer?”

  A moment passes. “No, I don’t think so…”

  Though, I have the faintest memory of accusing him of being one.

  “Well,” my coworker and neighbor sighs. “In that case, we need to call one for you. Now.”

  I sit up straighter. “Why?”

  “It’s your apartment.” His voice wavers. “Movers showed up today.” He exhales, the air in the bedroom seeming to thin as he does. I hear him on the other end of the phone line, swallowing, his voice thick with some emotion I can’t explain. He continues talking. “You know our landlord? The Wicked Witch of the Upper East Side? She’s evicting you.” He sucks in another breath. “She’s evicting you right now.”

  The words land on my ears with a loud thud. But I don’t really hear them. Not until several seconds later, at least.

  My tequila-fuzzed brain is taking its time to decipher the actual English language.

  I can tell.

  But when it does, a tidal wave of fear traps me, climbing in my throat and staying there, holding my tongue prisoner.

  My body forgets how to breathe in the span of a few seconds, and my tongue decides it’s a great time to go dry, all speech shriveling up and dying in the desert wasteland that now exists between my lips.

  I can’t open my mouth. Or close it.

  In fact, I can’t move my face at all. I feel frozen in space.

  I stay this way for several seconds with every word, every syllable, every sound trapped behind my teeth, feeling every bit of the Armless Maiden I called myself last night.

  Only now I’m also Speechless.

  Not wanting to be the heroine of my own grim Russian story, I forced my leaden limbs to swing into action.

  My feet start moving before my mouth can, and I swing my legs over the side of the enormous bed, fingers and toes still entangled in the silken sheets, my eyes scrambling to adjust to the deep dark of Big Bad’s bedroom.

  I can barely see a thing.

  Scrambling to go God-Knows-Where, the only thought my hungover brain can come up with is that I have to get out of here.

  I have to get out of this apartment now.

  Only I can’t find the man it belongs to. And I wander through his large dark hallways, my bare feet thumping against the gray stained hardwood underneath, my voice echoing out in the large rooms.

  But Big Bad is gone.

  And apparently so is my apartment if I don’t get back fast enough. I head back to the bedroom, slipping my feet back into my ballet flats.

  Or trying to.

  I fail at successfully sliding the scuffed black shoes on, stubbing my toe against the nightstand. The entire tiny table crashes over…and out slides a slab from the back of the stand, sending a glittery chunk scattering to the dark-colored floor.

  I can barely see what the chunk is.

  The dark bedroom curtains make noticing anything practically impossible, but when I reach for it, scrapping at the hardwood to pick it up, I realize once it’s in my hand that it’s a watch.

  A beautiful watch.

  Breath-taking would be the more appropriate word. And I’m stunned by its weight.

  Upon closer inspection, I realize that the shiny stuff around its center isn’t glitter at all, actually. It’s frickin’ diamonds.

  I know in an instant that this singular piece of jewelry is worth more than my whole life. When my cell phone rings again, I’m still holding the crowned jewel of New York, and my voice is stilted, robotic with shock when I answer.

  I listen to Drew’s excited droning.

  “Fee, where are you? If you don’t get your ass here right now, your furniture—what little you do have—is going to be on a New York sidewalk. And have you forgotten how much the homeless piss on anything they can find? Besides, I don’t know if I can hold them off any longer. There’s not a single woman on this moving crew, and I’m not junk-flashing any of these juice heads.”

  I sigh, gazing at the watch in my hand.

  The very expensive, extremely life-changing, suddenly home-saving watch.

  I now know what I need most this morning.

  And for the first time since I woke up in this fairytale apartment, it’s not Mr. Big Bad Wolf.

  My past is staring at me in the face, and this time? I can’t escape it.

  Because people who are broken like me don’t get happy endings after all we’ve done. We ultimately run back to the same habits.

  And this was mine.

  I can’t save myself from who I used to be. But I can save my apartment.

  I end the call with Drew a few seconds later. The second I do, I start looking for a pen and paper.

  Chapter 6

  NOAH

  Saturday morning

  “Would you like to leave a note?”

  “No.” I rub the skin over my temples, trying to ease the ache building there as I stand in front of the store’s wide double doors. “I would not like to leave a note. Can you tell Mr. Quinn to please come out here? Preferably now?”

  The host at the tuxedo shop casts me a curious look, one salt-and-peppered brow shooting sky-high. “I’m sorry, sir,” he croons in an English accent as smooth as red wine. “Mr. Quin
n is indisposed at the moment. May I ask who’s calling for him?”

  My own eyes narrow. “The other Mr. Quinn. His brother. And I need to see him right now.”

  He blinks for a second, recognition dawning in his dark blue eyes. The tuxedo shop employee glances over his shoulder. “Yes, of course, sir.” His eyes meet mine again. “Right this way, Mr. Quinn. Come in, please.”

  The tiled lobby just outside of Duffy’s tuxedo shop echoes underneath my Ferragamo’s, just as I cross the threshold. A chill of cold A/C blasts across my skin the second I’m inside, and my eyes can’t help but to skim across the mannequins, the manicured flower arrangements on the mahogany tables placed for every patron to see.

  The air reeks with expensive taste, is practically saturated by it. Gold and cream marble stretches as far as the eye can see and though I’m in the presence of pomp and circumstance, of wealth, affluence and thousand-dollar bow ties, for the first time, I feel as if I don’t belong.

  Maybe because, in my haste, I’ve driven here in simple denim jeans and a t-shirt. Maybe because my rage is tainting the lavender-scented air of the lobby.

  Or maybe it’s because I catch sight of my brother on the far side of the store, clad in a dark, two-thousand-dollar tuxedo, looking every bit of the groom he will be in less than two weeks.

  My breath catches in my throat as he turns, looking directly at me. He steps away from the woman at his side currently taking his measurements.

  His smile is wide beneath his polished sandy hair.

  “Holy hell. I thought I was seeing things at first.” He holds his arms outstretched. “Feels like I’ve seen a ghost. Are you actually here or are you just a mirage?”

  I wish I were a mirage.

  I walk closer, clapping my hands with my brother, pulling him into a one-armed hug that’s brief. The hair on the back of my neck bristles.

  “Nothing imaginary going on here. I called your office.” I sniff, taking a step back from my brother. “Your assistant said you were here.”

  “Yeah, I have been.” He leans closer for a second. “For the last two hours. Last minute alterations.” He pats the expensive cloth over his stomach. “Might be all those pre-wedding beers I’ve been throwing back lately.”

  Bull. My older brother’s healthier than a steer. I know that nothing but abs of steel lie beneath the thousand-thread fabric, but I ignore the exaggeration, getting to the point even as my phone buzzes in my front jeans pocket, no doubt another text coming in from the private investigator I’ve recently hired.

  I swallow. “Well, I wouldn’t want to interfere with your, uh, alterations. But I have some business to take up with you.”

  Jase’s sandy brow furrows. “Business. What business? Something wrong?”

  “No, nothing’s wrong.” The lie luckily comes easily off my tongue. “Just want to look into a few things, that’s all. I just was wondering if you had any deals currently in the works?”

  His brow creases even further. As if I’m speaking a foreign language. He stares at me. “Deals?”

  “Yeah? Real estate deals? You know, for the company…?” I stare harder. “That our family runs?”

  “Oh, that.” He shrugs as if the thought has slipped his mind. The lavender in the air sours just a bit more with my anger. I squeeze a fist. “I’ve got nothing else coming in this week, I think. Not since the last two fell through.”

  As if I could forget. But then the woman who was doing Jase’s measurements meanders closer, a grin on her thin pink lips as she saunters in. Her blonde hair gleams under the store’s dim lights.

  “And this must be the elusive brother Noah you’ve spoken so much about…” She nudges at Jase’s waist. “I was beginning to think he didn’t exist.”

  Jase fidgets. “Well, as you can see, Seraphine, he does.” He gestures towards me. “Seraphine, this is Noah, my younger brother. Noah,” he looks over to the woman at his left, “this is Seraphine, my wedding tailor.”

  “Your wedding tailor?” I nod, my gaze going to the smiley blonde woman. “A tailor only for a wedding? That sounds…like a lot for something that only lasts a day.”

  “Well, who says it only lasts for a day?” The wide-mouthed woman grins, one perfect nail pointed in the air. “A wedding, my dear friend, lasts for a lifetime. Or at least the memories do.”

  “Yeah,” I shrug, shoving my hands into my jeans pockets. “At least until the shiny exterior wears off. And then the divorce lasts forever. So does the heartbreak. The alimony. And the awful crystal stemware you never use in the first place. Not to mention those extra invitations that never make it to your wife’s cousin’s grandfather’s rabbi. Because somehow you got roped into inviting him too. Even though your would-be wife hasn’t seen him since she was thirteen.”

  Jase glowers. “You’ll have to excuse my brother, Seraphine. Noah doesn’t really believe in marriage.”

  The petite blonde tailor gasps at me—as if someone told her Santa wasn’t real.

  I shake my head.

  “I don’t think there’s anything to ‘believe in.’ Truth is, to me: Marriage isn’t something you believe in or not.” I shrug, turning my attention to the little tailor. “All that matters is whether or not the two people signing up for that type of bond have faith in it. And Jase and Mindy seem to.”

  Jase hovers. “We ‘seem’ to, huh?”

  But I’m not ready to have this fight. Not right now.

  After showing up drunk to Jase’s engagement party the night of my father’s funeral, the itch to argue with my older brother is stronger than ever.

  But without any leads on new deals to save Quinn Real Estate Group, I don’t have the patience to sit here and take his wrath. My nerves are already sitting on edge.

  As always, making sure Grandfather Quinn’s legacy stays intact is a task sitting on my shoulders alone, and the thought of Chris Jackson— a man who once sat at our tables, broke bread at our dinners, shook hands in our offices—committing murder is enough to drive a man insane.

  The biggest issue? That man was now me.

  Fighting my hardheaded brother aside, it took a crazy, out-of-his-mind bastard to leave the beautiful woman I’d just left behind in bed alone. The sharp-tongued brunette I’d exited the bar with last night was still under my sheets, sleeping off a night of tequila. And I would be damned if I wasn’t there when she awoke.

  But first things first.

  I’ve got to tell Jase about Chris Jackson.

  I open my mouth to do just that when my cell phone interrupts, cutting the rising tension in the air.

  With a quick apology, I stroll several steps away, picking up the phone, expecting to hear my new PI’s voice, still active on the Chris Jackson case, when the sound of sniffling, soft and almost inaudible, reaches the inside of my ear.

  I grip my phone closer as the feminine voice speaks, the mewling sounds slowly turning into words. My body stills, recognition making my formerly hot blood turn cold.

  I lean into the speaker on my cell. “Maria? Is that you?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Quinn.” My cleaning lady sniffs quietly on the other end. “It’s me, sir. I’m here in your apartment for my morning clean-up. Like every Saturday morning.”

  Was it Saturday morning already?

  I almost forgot.

  I hadn’t been to my New York apartment in months. Long enough to forget that my weekly cleaning was today.

  Maria, true to form, was there every Saturday morning, usually to pick up after whatever cum-covered fiasco Lachlan had thrown the previous night. Only this time?

  It was my mess Maria had to clean up, the mess being the probably still-drunken vixen under my sheets.

  I curse to myself, stepping even farther away from Jase to talk, a knot solidifying under my Adam’s apple. I take a huge gulp of air.

  “Shit, Maria. I’m sorry. I didn’t tell you that there would be a guest there. If you could do me a favor? Just leave the bedroom alone.” I hesitate. “I’ll take care of
that little room myself when I get back.”

  But Maria doesn’t listen. She’s too busy, silently crying to understand a word I’m saying. She sniffs heavily again, her soft sobs confusing me as she speaks. I can barely hear her.

  “I just want you to know, Mr. Quinn, that I would never steal from you. Ever.”

  “I know that, Maria.” Confusion tugs inside my gut. “I know that… Now, why are you telling me this? Is something missing?”

  “I think so, Mr. Quinn. The box was empty when I arrived. You have to know that. And the note was on already there on the floor.”

  “What box? And what the fuck… What note?”

  But the chill in my blood is already ice-cold the second I ask the question, my veins already Arctic. Instinctively, I almost know which one she’s talking about, and with those few words, my memory jogs almost instantly.

  My bedroom. A box.

  The only item in it of any value to me…

  It can’t be. It just can’t be. She wouldn’t.

  Or would she?

  “The box in the nightstand, Mr. Quinn.” Maria blubbers, her quiet hysteria bubbling over. “The one stashed behind it. When I arrived here, the back of the nightstand was broken. And the box was empty. And the sheets were a mess.”

  Another unlikely scenario.

  No matter what party Lachlan had thrown the night before, my bedroom was off-limits. Not sometimes.

  Always.

  I knew that. Maria knew it.

  All of Times Square probably knew it, too.

  Off-limits.

  Except for last night.

  Last night was the first time I’d let someone who wasn’t me inside of it. Last night was the first time I’d left someone alone in it.

  I was a man who enjoyed his privacy. A man who made his bed every morning.

  And a man who’d just left a stranger in it.

  I clutch the phone hard enough to crush it, anger making my fingers tingle. I ask the one question I already know the answer to, and suddenly seeking out new options to save my company with Jase’s help is the last thought on my mind.

  Because I just screwed up option numero uno.

  My Little Bear had opened the secret compartment in my nightstand. My Little Bear had seen what was inside.