by Natalie Wrye
My Little Bear has found the place I’d forgotten had existed in the damned contraption and had taken out its contents.
Its very valuable, indispensable, irreplaceable contents.
A watch. My watch.
The only object in the world connecting me to my father. To the fortune he’d leave to me, once I proved that I was his oldest son.
The fortune that could save my company was now in the thieving bear’s hands. Except this was no fairytale.
In the fictional stories, the Big Bag Wolf was supposed to be just that: Big and Bad. But right now, there isn’t a “big” or “bad” bone in my body as I stand there—seething, the only lifeline to revive Quinn Real Estate Group, sitting squarely in someone else’s hands.
My voice is a hiss. No, more like a growl when I respond to Maria, my rage barely on a leash.
Here he was again. The beast inside me I was putting in cage.
And the beast, in the span of a second, was suddenly determined to find the woman who dared to violate his lair. At all costs.
Gravel grinds into each word as I bow my head inside Duffy’s tuxedo shop, my heart thrumming, each syllable from lips sharp enough to kill as I talk to my trusted maid. I grit my teeth, grating out the sounds.
“Maria, excuse my language, but… Read. Me. That damned note.” I rasp. “And then tell me: Where is she?” I ask my trusted cleaning lady. “Tell me: Where’s the woman I left in my bedroom right now?”
Chapter 7
SOPHIA
Monday afternoon
I don’t know where I am, but my feet won’t stop tapping on the sidewalk.
If I were on my shift at The Alchemist—like I was supposed to be, I’d have five minutes left on my lunch break in the restaurant-pub, but since I’ve called out sick for the last few days, I’m spinning my wheels, a nervous wreck every time I step out of my apartment building and onto the sidewalk.
Because I know he’s out there.
Somewhere. In the city. Waiting for me.
And I want him to find me.
But then again, I don’t.
Not after I sold his watch to my local pawnshop to pay the rent.
The thought of Big Bad strolling around Manhattan, most likely wanting to strangle me, paralyzes almost every step I take since the morning I slipped out of his sheets, and though I’ve managed to avoid The Alchemist (where I’m sure he’s already shown up), though I’ve managed to keep a Do-Not-Fucking-Step-Here radius around his pricey and luxurious Midtown apartment and anywhere near it, I can’t help but to think that I just might run into him when I least expect it.
Strolling down the sidewalk. Showing up on my doorstep.
Slipping onto a subway seat beside me, and owning it with his presence. Like he seemed to own everything he touched that night we were together.
Including me.
The guilt of stealing from the real “Prince Disarming” I met on Friday night pervades every waking thought, and even now, as I catch my breath, just steps away from my closest subway station, I have to remind myself that the innocent man in the suit I just mindlessly ran away from in the terminal wasn’t even him. Wasn’t even Big Bad.
None of them were.
I’ve been sprinting at the sight of suits and ties so much in the last few days that my running time could qualify for the Olympics. My large purse over my shoulder, hand over my heart, I suck in a mouthful of crisp, winter New York air, panting like a madwoman on the corner of Going-Crazy and Paranoid.
I taste the death of Indian summer, a hint of sewage, and, luckily, a nearby sandwich shop in the December New York air before I realize I haven’t eaten all day. Allowing my racing heart to calm, I walk to the nearest pizza shop I can find in my line of sight, dialing the last number in my phone.
I sneak peeks inside the unknown shop while the phone rings.
I’m about to hang up when finally the line picks up.
“The Alchemist. Drew speaking.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. “Drew.”
“Soph.” My name is a happy exhale on my coworker’s lips. “Is that really you?”
“No, it’s the girl you left in the taxi last night.” I pause, realizing that there could be several of them. I snort a small puff of air. “Of course it’s me, El Stupido.”
“Oh, you’ve moved on to insulting me in Spanish? That’s a new tier.”
“Yeah, I thought the ‘dick-cheese’ insult was getting a little old.”
“Nothing worse than being referred to as ‘dick-cheese’ other than being called spoiled dick-cheese.” He chuckles. “I thought you were dead or something. You’ve been shut off in your apartment for the last two days. I started to get worried so of course I called. I’m surprised you actually called me back. I’ve never known you to incognito for forty-eight hours straight.”
“Well, it’s kind of easy to fall off the face of the earth when you’re as sick I’ve been.”
I’m sick, alright. What I don’t tell Drew is how I’m sick.
Sick to my stomach. Over what I’ve done. What I’ve had to do. And what I hope I’ll never have to do again.
“So then can I ask why you’re calling this factory of dickcheese while you seem to be on your deathbed?”
I have to resist laughing, the tension from running from the subway still tight inside my body.
The Alchemist was anything but a factory for dickcheese. Present company excluded.
With the exception of our general manager, Rick, who had somehow managed to squirm his way back on staff after working for Nancy’s father years ago, The Alchemist was full of smiling faces, great staff.
Other than the late-night bankers who deserved a sneeze or two in their stout beers, the bar that had once saved me from eviction six months ago was packed with regulars and great people.
Great people like Drew. And Alchemist co-owner, Nancy.
I missed them already. And it’s only been two days.
I’d wanted to tell them, to warn them about what I’d done in case a certain someone came looking for me, as I suspected he would.
But when it came down to telling the truth, I wasn’t willing to tug them down my Alice-like rabbit hole to the sordid past I’d left behind.
Successfully tucking away my “unusual” Bronx upbringing was already hard enough.
I enter the shop, ordering a cheese slice, even as Drew continues munching my ear off, giving me a verbal whip-lashing worthy of an S&M title.
He sighs with exasperation as a server hands me my slice, his deep voice gravelly. “Okay, that’s it,” he grunts over the line. “You’ve got to give it up. I know you’re not sick. You’re eating pizza. I can tell by the way you’re chewing.”
I try to defend myself. “No, I’m not.”
“Oh, really?” He counters. “We both know that, for you, the damned stuff is its own major food group, right behind tequila. How you’re not dead already from that diet at your age of twenty-three, I’ll never know. But if you’re eating pizza, then that means you’re alright. And if you’re not showing up for work, then I know something serious is going on.” He blows out a breath.
“You might yell at Rick, piss off the snobby customers and give half of the people you know your Italian ass to kiss. But you never miss a day of work. Never. Despite the times I’ve tried to convince you otherwise...” He makes a clucking sound with the back of his throat. “You sure this isn’t some excuse to miss something else besides work?”
My brow creases as I walk away from the pizza counter, my steps slowing as I head back to the sidewalk. I continue checking over my shoulder. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean, yeah, I’m glad you called, Soph. But aren’t you supposed to be prepping for the auction tonight?”
The gallery auction. My painting.
It was going to be featured in it tonight.
Shit. I almost forgot about it.
Time sure did fly when you were committing crimes. And I’d already committed
enough.
I inhaled deeply. “I already told you, Drew. I’m sick. That means I’m not in a position to show up to anything.”
“Yeah, sure, not fucking buying it. Not for a second. I know you too well, Fee. And you know yourself too.” My neighbor and one of the closest people to me on the planet Earth sighs, and I swear the air around me sighs with him. I can almost feel his huff of disappointment on my neck. He takes a deep breath.
“Seriously, though, Fee. Cut the bullshit; you’ve never been sick a day in your life. Remember the Cinco de Mayo Margarita fest from Hell? You woke up the next day with what was probably a gallon of tequila in your system, ready for work and all. Me? I threw up ten times that night.”
“That’s different,” I huff.
“How?”
“You’re a lightweight. I can outdrink you in my sleep. And tequila is a component in my blood. I’m one-part O-negative and two parts Patron.”
Except for Friday night, when I’d had to be carried from the bathroom into Big Bad’s bed. I shake the thought of the sophisticated man picking me off the floor, carting me in his muscular arms and laying my body between his sheets.
I sigh.
“Okay, so what about the next art auction?” Drew presses, not letting up for a second. “I know there’s another one in five days. You could present your work in that one.”
I hesitate. “I’d rather not get into that now.”
“Uh huh. Just what I thought.” Something shuffles in the background of Drew’s call, and his voice nearly sinks to a whisper. I strain to hear him on my own crowded sidewalk. “You always do this.”
“Do what?” I nearly bark.
“Quit. Turn around. Go back to the status quo. It’s what you’re known for, Soph. Think about it: How many times had you quit your college degree track before you finally earned that Russian Basket weaving degree?”
“Four. And it’s Russian Literature, you asshole. What’s your point?”
“Point is…you need to stick this opportunity out. Like you did with that damn Underwater Shoe Polishing diploma.”
“Drew…” I sigh, shifting the pizza in my hand. I can’t bring myself to throw it away. I cling to it like a lifeline. “You have no idea what I’m up against. The art auctions are…”
Not for messy-haired, tequila-drinking, Russian Lit-majoring waitresses prone to fits of fancy and fairytale.
The art auctions at the Dweller Gallery were for real painters. Real artists.
The events were prestigious. Intimidating. And full of rich men like the one I just stole from.
I go with the safe word instead, not drawing Drew into my crazy thoughts any further. “Exhausting,” I finish.
But he doesn’t quit. “So? You’d give up on an opportunity to showcase your art? To make yourself known on the New York art scene, all to serve drinks for suited pricks who wouldn’t know a Picasso from a shitstain on the street?”
“Gross, Drew. Graphic much?”
His words go soft. “In case, you’ve already forgotten: You’re very familiar with shitstains already. We work with one; his name’s Rick Slauson.”
My shoulders slump at the mention of our general manager, and the thought of the wrath I know I’ll incur when I come back to work. I lean against the shop’s gigantic window. “So what are you suggesting? That I force myself to show up to the auction tonight? To ‘stick it out’?”
“It can’t hurt.” He snorts. “It’s only been two days, Miss Back-Pedaler. You’ve had enough time to get your mind together. And you never know…the auction might surprise you. Hell, you might surprise you.”
An array of clouds moves suddenly, blotting out the sun, and shadows fall over me as I consider Drew’s words.
Another year of coffee runs. Another year of late nights serving assholes and even later nights squeezing out minutes for myself.
The only minutes where I’d truly felt at peace. With my paints. In front of a canvas.
Bringing the broken fairytales in my head to life.
I pull my spine straight, staring up and over the city’s skyline. The steel black and gray structures looming overhead, making me feel small the way Manhattan always does, and in that moment, I feel that familiar majestic energy about this place. The City that Never Sleeps.
Buzzing with activity, you almost feel as if you’re swallowed by its magic.
It’s a town that can make you believe in anything. And I so want to believe right now.
I huff out a hard gust of air from my lungs, responding to Drew.
“I think I can do that…”
“Good. I really hope so.” He assures me, his voice barely audible above the background noise of the streets. “Because I’d hate to see some crazy witch get in the way of your goal. And by ‘crazy witch,’ I mean you. Sticking to The Alchemist would be a move backwards, Soph. And you know it. ‘The only time anyone should ever look backwards is during doggy-style.’ At least that’s my motto.”
I wince. “Thank you for the unsettling advice. As always.”
I swear I hear him grin. “You’re welcome.”
Gripping the pizza, I turn to walk away, nearly cutting the call when suddenly Drew catches my ear, his next words throwing a quick flip to my stomach.
“By the way, you’ve got an envelope waiting on your front door this morning. Some guy dropped it off.”
I feel my brows twist together. Subconsciously, I straighten, my hands lightly clutching my collar. “A message? For me?” I blink. “Shit. It’s not our landlord, Meryl, is it? Trust me: I’ve mistaken her for a man more than once.”
He grunts. “Didn’t say. But it was a guy in a suit.” I inhale harshly as Drew keeps talking. “I noticed him out of my peephole this morning when I heard footsteps. I thought it was last night’s ‘after-hours fun’ coming back.”
“For more after-hours fun, huh?”
“No, to curse me out. She wasn’t exactly having fun when I put her in a cab last night.”
I end the call, shaking my head. There are rockets on my feet, as I head in the direction of my apartment, worrying about my future and wondering if my past—and the man I’m trying to push back in it—has caught up with me after all.
Chapter 8
NOAH
Monday afternoon
The past is a strange thing.
It shows up when you least expect it.
Like when you’re in the office, trying to focus on work. Or when you’re in Starbucks picking up your latest latte.
Or when you’re in the local Hilton on a cloudy Monday afternoon, trying to forget the last two years.
Yup, the past is strange. But it’s not nice.
And like the not-so-strange little memories that won’t leave me alone right now as I sprawl out on the king bed’s tequila-stained sheets at the Hilton—memories like Grandfather Quinn, quiet and regal on his deathbed, the wet grass underneath my feet at my father’s funeral, the linoleum beneath my shoes as I sign the Visitor Papers to see my mother—I realize something else isn’t so nice.
Me.
But I am simple. And I can live with simple.
Right now, I needed “simple.” If I was going to get the thieving Little Bear out of my system.
It’d been two days, and I still hadn’t been able to find her. It must be nice to have good friends. Because she certainly had those.
I’d stopped by The Alchemist so many times since Saturday that I’d swear they’d call the cops on me by now.
My private investigator, currently looking into our company’s ties to Chris Jackson, had taken on the additional task of locating the ballsy brunette that’d walked away with my father’s watch, and still, he’d barely got enough information about the dark-haired vixen that had swindled me.
Not an address. Not even a name.
No one was willing to talk.
Like the obligatory late-night shot of tequila on a school night, the silky-haired seductress had burned her way through my system, intoxicate
d me and left me with nothing but regrets.
A contrast from the Molotov cocktail of a woman who stole from me, Becky Callahan’s not the smooth scotch you sip on late in the evening while the sun sets over the city’s horizon; she’s that last ounce of bottom-shelf liquor at the bar.
I fucking hate tequila. But it’s the only drink I can stand this morning as I count down the last thirty minutes to the tuxedo-fitting appointment I’d actually taken with Jase and Lachlan.
Yup, Becky’s that last culminating, hard ounce.
Problem is… I’m not right now. Hard, that is.
With the twinkling lights of an early morning New York City beating on my body from the wide hotel windows, I slip my hands into the pretty blonde’s cheap extensions, my fingers gripping tight as her lips find my hips.
I twirl the still-full bottle of tequila from my fingertips as I lay fully-clothed on the hotel’s king-sized bed as Becky unhooks my belt, her pink lips prodding just above the leather strap.
The touch of her mouth is soft at first—hesitant, but quickly turns greedy.
She mumbles against my skin, her voice mingling in with the strings from Sinatra’s “The Best is Yet to Come” from the stereo.
“I thought you were never going to call again,” she murmurs below my belly button as she slips my belt off, letting it slide to the floor.
I take another swig of the tequila, a hand slipping between the back of my head and the pillow. I sigh. “And what would make you think that, Brittany?”
“Becky.” She corrects, but I don’t care. “I mean, you left me. Left me in your hotel room last time.”
“At least you got room service.”
“Yeah. Alone,” she whines.
“Could have asked the bellboy to join in.”
“Mmm. Dirty,” she coos, her fingers unzipping my fly.
“I meant to ‘join in on the eating….’” I pause. “Of room service.”
“Oh right, that.” But she has no idea what I’m saying.
I peek down to find her fully engrossed in getting her hands into my unzipped pants, but I find I don’t have the will to care. The neck of the tequila bottle twirls between my fingers, and I can’t help the guilt that I feel, my conscience tap-dancing on my drowsy thoughts.
