But I say nothing.
I’ll get her the money.
Then after that, maybe I will finally be rid of the guilt.
Erin tosses my phone at my feet, hikes her purse up on her shoulder, and walks away. More like stomps. If there was a door nearby, I’m sure she would slam it, too.
Luckily for me, there isn’t.
I stare down at my phone.
A violent crack slashes across the screen.
What a metaphor for the state of my life if I’ve ever seen one.
28
Payton
* * *
The past few weeks were nothing like I expected my life to be under Trent’s roof.
I’m so confused, I can barely think.
And now, I’m sitting in my bedroom reading about Carl Jung before I leave for class.
The worst part is, I only have one week until I perform in front of the staff, and I can barely concentrate.
None of the Trent parts of my situation is as bad as I thought it would be. It’s just confusing as hell. Especially the last time I was at Cresthill.
Trent.
He’s different than I imagined.
And then there’s the talk with his mom. Every day, I become more and more confused over who he is.
The angry son of Ronald Aldridge.
The caring friend to Henry Wian.
The benefactor—cough, torturer, cough—of yours truly.
The hot guy in the sauna I wouldn’t mind seeing naked some more.
Thinking about Trent in all of his forms, clothed and not, has become something I’m doing far too frequently.
And right now, I can’t.
I have too much to do.
I need to get through a grueling day of classwork, but more studying first. I had too much work for my actual business major before he assigned this damn presentation on top of it.
I pray he’ll let it go, not make me do this silly book report and presentation, but I know he won’t. There is no point in wishing when I am certain this man is going to take every opportunity available to make me suffer through his “homework” regardless of my coursework.
No amount of begging and pleading for him not to will work.
Placing the book down, I stand from the bed and fix my dress before heading out the door.
It’s late enough in the morning, so Trent won’t be around.
I step out into the hall, and like I expected, it’s clear. Walking toward the front of the loft, I bump into no one.
Just the way I like it.
I can finally breathe when I step out into the city air.
It’s cold today. Winter is officially in the air.
I didn’t bring a coat, but I guess it will be okay.
The subway is only a few blocks away, and then I’ll be hot.
I am halfway up the street when I hit a proverbial wall. My body lurches forward, my hands shooting up to brace for something to catch my fall.
There is nothing there.
My hands grasp air.
The next thing I know, I’m falling to my knees.
The air in my lungs is pulled out of me on impact.
What the hell did I hit?
Knowing my pattern lately, it has to be a person.
And sure enough, when I look up, it’s just in time to see not a what but a who.
A man.
I can’t see his face because his head is down, and he’s already off in the opposite direction. The man hit me and didn’t even apologize. And he turned the opposite way, back to where he came from.
He’s in a rush, on the phone, and I was the casualty.
Stupid jerk.
The least he could do after almost making me roadkill is say he’s sorry.
Two muscular arms reach out and lift me up from the ground, and I’d startle, but the familiar scent of his cologne grounds my insecurity.
“Are you okay?” Trent’s gruff voice asks.
His brows are drawn together in anger.
Is he angry with the man or with me?
“Thank you,” I say sincerely as I straighten back to my full height.
His jaw goes tight, and he stiffens at my comment. He doesn’t want my thank you, that much is clear from the way he looks down at me like I’m a pesky little mouse.
“You need to be more careful,” he grits through clenched teeth.
“Did you not see what just happened?” I think I’ve reached my threshold for bullshit because my voice is way harsher than I intended. And still, I don’t stop. “He plowed into me. Not vice versa.”
He lets out a huff. His head tilts down, breaking our eye contact. I welcome the peace from his scrutiny.
Until he sighs. “Did you hurt yourself?”
“Yes, just my leg. I’ll be fine.”
His gaze pulls back up, and our eyes meet. There is a softness to him now. One that I’m not used to.
“You should clean it,” he says, and that’s when I finally look down.
How I didn’t feel the cut is beyond me. My leg hurts more than my knee.
I can’t believe I hit the concrete that hard. Embedded in my knee is dirt and debris from the New York City sidewalks.