Frontline

by Alexandra Richland

  If only it was that easy.

  “The receipt was thrown away, too.” I glare at the lock. I should’ve taken a baseball bat to it before the superintendent got here. Then maybe he would’ve helped me. Although, if Trenton picked out the lock, I’m sure a baseball bat wouldn’t suffice. I’d probably need a grenade.

  “Then, I’m sorry, Miss Peters, but you’ll just have to put up with this state-of-the-art model.” Gus picks up his toolbox and steps out into the hallway. “And next time, consult me before doing any renovations to your unit. It’s in the rental agreement you signed, page six.”

  I shut the door and engage the lock, suppressing the urge to scream. Unless one hundred dollars happens to magically appear in my bank account, I’m stuck with Trenton Merrick’s Schlage 2400LX super lock on my apartment door.

  I could charge another lock to my credit card, but my balance is high already and I’m only able to make the minimum payments. Being poor just sucks.

  When I awoke this morning, I gave my apartment a good once-over, looking for hidden cameras or anything suspicious. I wanted to do it last night, but I decided I needed daylight to conduct a thorough inspection. Thankfully, nothing seems missing or changed besides my lock—nothing that I can see anyway.

  Part of my search included the retrieval of the New York Financial magazine from under my mattress. It’s rested on my nightstand ever since. Even though I want to forget about Trenton, I can’t. I not only have visual and mental reminders, but physical ones as well.

  My leg muscles feel sore from my workout with him on the stairs last night. During yoga this morning, I tried to ease the pain and lose the memory of his hands feeling me up, but downward dogs didn’t exactly help matters. The instructor’s poses made me think about the many different ways Trenton and I could have sex, and I ended up leaving the class feeling horny and worked up instead of calm and Merrick-free.

  The telephone rings as I head into the bathroom. It’s not a long distance ring, so it isn’t my parents, which means I don’t feel bad about ignoring it. Whoever it is can leave a message.

  During my shower, the phone rings continually. I towel off quickly and change into some sweats. Worried that the call might be important, I check my answering machine. The light isn’t blinking.

  The telephone rings again. At times like this, I wish I had caller ID.

  As I pick up the receiver, my heart races.

  “Hello?” My greeting is dusted in just the right amount of frost.

  “Hello, Sara.”

  Trenton’s cool reply sends a pleasurable shiver down my spine.

  “Oh, it’s you, Mr. Merrick.” I place my hand on my hip. “I’m surprised you didn’t get one of your men to contact me instead. Isn’t that your usual protocol?”

  “I believed this call required my personal attention. ”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Let me make this clear,” I say, refusing to let him woo me. “I only answered the phone to stop its incessant ringing.”

  “Sara—”

  “I refuse to be harassed in my own home.”

  “Sara,” he says, gruffly this time.

  “What?”

  “I suppose you want me to explain my quick departure last night.”

  “What does it matter? Your actions never back your words. You said on the stairs that you’ll always put me first and that I should trust you, but then you take off without saying good-bye and you leave me with Sean, who is nice and all, but carries a fucking gun.”

  Silence.

  “A gun, really? And it wasn’t some Mickey Mouse piece, either. I know the difference.”

  I refrain from mentioning that my limited gun knowledge comes from a television show.

  “Whatever weapon Sean arms himself with is his business.”

  I scoff. “I’m not stupid, Mr. Merrick. Sean’s not worried about getting robbed on the subway. He carries it for work, though why he needs that type of firepower is beyond me. It’s far too heavy duty for a run-of-the-mill bodyguard, even if he is protecting a gazillionaire.”

  “Sean is one of my best men. I chose him to drive you home for that reason specifically.”

  “Yeah, yeah, he fed me that bullshit line already. If you really cared about me, Mr. Merrick, you wouldn’t have left so abruptly. A good-bye would’ve taken all of two seconds and then you could’ve been on your merry way. I deserve better than how you treated me last night.”

  If not for the sound of Trenton’s steady breathing, I would’ve assumed he wasn’t on the line anymore. An apology right about now would be nice.

  “You know, despite all the mystery that surrounds you, as well as your elusive answers to my questions last night, I gave you the benefit of the doubt and held onto the hope that Trenton Merrick, the selfless, kind humanitarian, was real. Now I realize it’s only an act.”

  Trenton’s continued silence reinforces my decision.

  “Please don’t contact me again. That means stop calling me and don’t you dare think about showing up at my apartment like you did yesterday. If you do, I’ll call the police and have you arrested for stalking, or trespassing, whatever. I don’t care.”

  “The police.”

  I detect a hint of sarcasm in Trenton’s voice, which only makes me angrier.

  “You know, I’m not usually a snarky bitch, but it seems you bring out the worst in me, Mr. Merrick.”

  I hear him intake a sharp breath.

  “Don’t say that, Sara.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Because you bring out the best in me.”

  Stay strong.

  “Well, if last night was you at your best, Mr. Merrick, then you leave a lot to be desired. And just so you know, I’m having my lock changed today.”

  It’s a lie, but I don’t feel guilty. I will get it changed eventually, once I save up enough money.

  “Don’t touch the lock,” he says sternly. “I changed it for your safety, to protect you—”

  “Ha! The only person I need protection from is you, Mr. Merrick. Good-bye!”

  I slam the phone down, snatch the New York Financial off my nightstand, and hurl it across the room. The pages flutter as the magazine flies through the air, hits the wall, and crashes to the floor.

  Cover up.

  Damn it.

  Oddly, I don’t feel satisfied after my verbal tirade or my assault on the magazine. I feel empty. I suppose in my own twisted way, I’m going to miss Trenton—or at least the idea I created of what I hoped he’d be like. Obviously, I held out for something that just isn’t there.

  As I flop onto my bed, the telephone rings again.

  My heart skips a beat.

  Maybe he does care enough to apologize, after all.

  Then I remind myself that an apology doesn’t solve everything. Trenton’s world is too mysterious and possibly too dangerous for me. I need to distance myself from him before I get too involved. Not only that, but by calling me again, he’s completely disregarding my orders, which means he doesn’t value what I say. Not cool.

  The phone continues to ring.

  Definitely not cool.

  Who the hell does he think he is anyway?

  I grab the receiver. “Listen, you—”

  “Sara?”

  My eyebrows furrow. “Valerie?”

  “I’m glad I caught you,” my boss says. “I need you to come in for the night shift tonight.”

  I frown. “Tonight? But I don’t work until—”

  “Tuesday night. Yes, I know. But Lindsay called in sick, and with tomorrow being Memorial Day, I need all the staff I can get.”

  I consider Valerie’s request. If I accept the overtime, then I can get my lock changed. However, I’m exhausted and I really don’t want to work a night shift. Unlike some of my colleagues, I’m not good at napping during my break.

  I sigh. It really does suck being poor sometimes.

  “Okay, I’ll come in.”

  “Excellent. See you tonigh
t.”

  I set the receiver back down and stare at the phone. As pitiful as it is, I feel disappointed it wasn’t Trenton calling back.

  After eating a bowl of oatmeal, I sit down in front of the television. Nothing interests me as I flip through the channels. I should sleep, in preparation for my shift, but my mind is racing so I know it’s useless to try.

  I watch a James Cagney film on Turner Classic Movies until noon when my buzzer rings.

  Could it be . . .?

  I glance down at my sweatpants and T-shirt. I look ragged, but at least I’m wearing a bra this time. As I walk toward the door, I coach myself not to fall under his spell. No matter what.

  My visitor pounds on the door, choosing to forgo the buzzer now.

  I exhale a deep breath.

  Remember, stay strong, Sara.

  As I grasp the chain, I pause, recalling Trenton’s warning the last time he was here:

  Ask who it is before answering the door.

  “Who is it?”

  “Who is it? Damn it, Sara, it’s me. Open up!”

  I giggle and hurry to open the door.

  The woman that greets me on the other side is a black-haired beauty dressed in all white. With her long, lustrous hair, big green eyes, full lips, toned body, and creamy skin, Kelly Sheridan is the kind of girl all guys, even ones like Mr. Merrick, make fools of themselves over.

  “What took you so long?” She glides into my apartment.

  “And what’s with the who is it crap?”

  I blush as I shut the door. “Uh, nothing. You just can’t be too careful these days, you know?”

  She glances at my door. “What’s with the new lock?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  “So, I have a shift tonight from seven to eleven and I was thinking we could hang out beforehand.” Kelly removes her compact from her knockoff handbag and sits down on the corner of my bed to touch up her lipstick. “Denim is off this afternoon, too, which is rare. She’s just finishing her Jane Fonda workout and then she’ll be down.”

  “I have to work tonight. I got called in.”

  She shrugs. “Who cares? Come out with us anyway.”

  I realize if I stay home alone, I’ll go crazy thinking about Trenton. I need some serious girl time if I expect to get over him.

  “Okay, I’ll go.”

  Kelly nods and returns to her compact.

  “So what are we going to do?” I ask.

  “I don’t know.” She dabs her lips with a tissue. “Shopping and dinner in Soho?”

  “The usual, then.”

  “Yup. Unless you have a better idea.”

  I don’t.

  Kelly and I talk for about half an hour over the murmurs of TCM before Denim Jacobson shows up, dressed in a summery frock, her curly auburn hair clipped with barrettes. I met her and Kelly in the lobby a few days after I moved in and we’ve been great friends ever since. The three of us are all the same age and single.

  As usual, Denim’s heart-shaped face looks like it got made over by circus clowns. She’s worked at the MAC counter in Macy’s for four years and the dramatic style she wears during her shifts, as required by all employees, has unfortunately trickled over into her everyday life. I love her to death, but she’s not good with moderation.

  “What’s with the fancy-schmancy new lock?” Denim asks as she enters my apartment.

  “Don’t ask,” I mumble, repeating my line to Kelly. I shut the door. “So, you’re off work today?”

  Denim joins Kelly on the bed. “My co-worker needed tomorrow off so she asked me to switch with her.”

  “That’s good, I guess.”

  Denim’s hazel eyes sparkle. “It’s super good news! That girl I hate, you know, the one who works at Clinique across the way? She works every Tuesday. We’re rarely on at the same time, so this Tuesday, I’m determined to steal all of her customers and outsell her. Then, maybe, I’ll get that promotion I’ve dreamed of since I entered the cosmetic industry.”

  Denim takes her job very seriously. According to her, she doesn’t simply work in a department store. She’s a MAC makeup authority. An artiste.

  “What’s that?” Denim points to the New York Financial magazine on the floor.

  Damn it. I really need to shred that thing.

  “Uh, that? It’s nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing.” Kelly picks it up and inspects the cover. “Sara, you might as well fess up about why you have a business magazine in your apartment. People magazine is usually as informed as you get.”

  “Very funny.”

  “Come on, tell us,” Denim says.

  “Uh, it was delivered here by mistake.”

  “There’s no mailing label.” Kelly arches an eyebrow.

  “Uh . . .”

  Shit.

  Denim eyes me warily. “What’s going on?”

  Kelly clues in first. “Okay, who’s the business boy? That’s the only reason you’d be reading New York Financial.”

  I have no choice but to confess. My blush has already given me away. “The business boy is the guy on the cover, actually.”

  Denim’s eyes widen. “Really? Wow, he’s hot.”

  “And rich,” Kelly says, scanning the article.

  “Too rich.”

  Denim laughs. “There’s no such thing as too rich, Sara.”

  Wanna bet?

  “So, spill,” Kelly says.

  I shrug. “There’s nothing to tell. I met him at the hospital Friday night. We went out on a date and now it’s over.”

  Denim pouts. “How could you not tell us?”

  “Our date was only last night and I’m not going to see him again, so there was no point in getting your hopes up.”

  Kelly tosses the magazine aside. “Where did you go on your date?”

  I gulp. “Um . . . his place.”

  Denim giggles. “Oh, sexy!”

  “In Connecticut.”

  Denim and Kelly gape at me.

  “You went to his house in another state on your first date?” Kelly’s voice crescendos. “Did Mr. CEO do a corporate takeover of your common sense?”

  I wince. “Trust me, I know. It was a big mistake and I learned my lesson.”

  “You should be grateful you’re still alive to tell the tale,” Denim says. “He could’ve, like, murdered you, cut you up into pieces, and stuffed you into garbage bags.”

  I recall Trenton’s sword and dagger collection, but I don’t dare bring it up.

  “He’s a well-known CEO,” I say, “not a serial killer.”

  Denim shakes her head. “That doesn’t mean anything. Appearances can be deceiving.”

  Kelly nods. “Next time you have a date, please let me and Denim know about it, as well as where you’re going, just as a precaution. This is New York. Crazies abound.”

  “I promise I will.”

  “All right, let’s get down to business,” Denim says. “Sara, tell us all about this Merrick guy.”

  I recount my evening with Trenton and how I told him off this morning over the phone. By the time I finish, Denim and Kelly are both in agreement: Trenton Merrick is an asshole and not worth another second of my time.

  After scolding me again for putting myself in that situation with Trenton to begin with, they conclude they’re happy I dipped my toe into the New York dating pool. They also assure me that just because things didn’t work out with him it doesn’t mean all hope is lost.

  Following their strict orders, I dump the New York Financial magazine into the garbage. They applaud.

  After blow-drying my hair, I change, and the three of us head out for the afternoon. I buy a shirt for fifteen dollars, only after Kelly agrees with Denim that it looks good on me. Denim’s style belongs in the 1980s rather than present-day New York, so I always hesitate in asking for her opinion on outfits. Luckily, Kelly is always willing to be the voice of good taste.

  We eat an early dinner and then return home. Denim heads up to her apartment to try on her new
vintage purchases, I gather my stethoscope, purse, and the bag with my scrubs in it, and Kelly walks to the depot around the corner to pick up a taxi for her evening shift. She pays tuition for her journalism degree at New York University by driving a taxicab part-time. She’s impatient, loud, and an extremely aggressive driver who is always itching to hit the horn. That, coupled with her sailor’s mouth, makes it the perfect side job for her.

  Whenever Kelly’s schedule lines up with mine, she offers to drive me to work, off the meter. It’s against the rules, but somehow she manages to get away with it. I’m always grateful for any opportunity to avoid the subway.

  I meet her in front of our building at six thirty. Traffic is brutal, but Kelly’s extensive knowledge of traffic patterns, shortcuts, and her daring NASCAR-worthy maneuvers make the drive fun and much quicker than I expect.

  We make a hard right. Manhattan General sits two blocks ahead. I lean down to retrieve my bags from the floor of the cab.

  Kelly honks the horn twice. “Ugh, what’s with these fucking people blocking the road?” The cab inches forward. “I have to drop you off here, Sara. I won’t be able to get much closer because of these assholes taking up the entire street.”

  I rummage through my purse for my hospital identification badge. “That’s fine. I’ll walk the rest of the way.”

  Kelly pulls over and throws the vehicle into park. “Jesus. Either the President is in town, or there’s a massive funeral procession congregating right outside your hospital.”

  I look through the windshield. My stomach lurches. A lineup of luxury black vehicles sits double-parked along the road.

  “That’s not a funeral procession.” I grip the door handle, my lips curled into a sneer. “But Trenton Merrick is about to become a dead man.”

  Chapter Eleven

  I pull the door handle, but not in time. Kelly engages the automatic locks, holding me prisoner in the cab.

  “Trenton Merrick is at your hospital and he brought an entourage?”

  “I plan on telling him to get lost. Now, open the door.”

  Kelly looks at me suspiciously. “I thought you did that already.”

  I eye the lineup of luxury vehicles ahead. “He obviously didn’t take me seriously.”

  “Well, he will when I’m through with him. I’m going to kick him in his gold-plated balls!”