Paige is not doing it for me, and the way we left it—she will call me with whatever she needs—makes her feel more like a co-conspirator than a romantic possibility. Vodka refreshed, I watch the waitress approach her, a slim glass of Italian sparkling wine on a tray.
“The least I can do is say hello. It’s better than spending all night with you.”
My young associate shakes his head and laughs, and I head toward the back. Studio Orleans is a small room with several double-sided black couches arranged around the space. Small tables sit in front of each, and the walls are enormous old windows with no drapes. They provide a stunning view of the Chicago skyline. Techno plays softly in the air, and I’m halfway to her when my entire direction shifts.
The entrance is between us, and at that exact moment, in a swirl of blonde on black, Amy Knight enters the room. She’s hanging on the arm of a man dressed in skinny jeans and a white tee. His fedora tells me all I need to know of his sexual orientation. Well, the neon pink wayfarers also help.
“The bar is this way!” her escort practically shouts, and she laughs as he drags her to the bar.
I make a U-turn and go back to where my young associate stands, confusion lining his face.
Amy’s dressed in black skinny jeans and a matching black short-sleeved shirt. An enormous necklace covers the top of her chest in a bib of clear crystal, and her light-blonde hair is swept up in a high ponytail. The slightly curled ends dance around her shoulders, and my mouth waters as I imagine wrapping them around my fist as I take her from behind.
“What?” Evan’s face is pure disappointment, but I know what I want tonight. Nothing lukewarm where that baby is concerned.
“I have something better in mind for tonight.”
He follows my gaze to where Amy stands in black stilettos, grinning at her friend while she sips a pink martini. She’s not Goldfarb stripper sexy. She’s all-American sexy, and I know from our encounter in Wilmington she feels like heaven.
“Who’s that?”
“Don’t wait around for me.” No time to explain. This little Runaway will be mine tonight, and I plan to finish what we started.
* * *
Amy
Friday night, and I’m alone in my bedroom at Sylvia’s. For two weeks I’ve been in Chicago, and I’ve done my best to stay close, help my mother with whatever she needs, keep a low profile. Mentally, it’s been a much-needed break. I haven’t been entirely sure I want to stay in Chicago, but I’m considering it more and more.
The only downside to my hermit-like behavior is I haven’t been laid in two weeks. It’s messing with my head, making me second-guess my decisions, causing me to put too much emphasis on a random in Wilmington.
Meeting Marcus this morning knocked me off balance a bit, but I’m thankful to Elaine for getting me out. It’s time to find a job, find my own place, leave my mother’s condo...
The ominous brunch with Karen hanging over my head will fast track the rest. I’ll be forced to walk across social bridges I’d nearly nuked when I left, and once again, I’ll face frenemies who would rather see me sink than swim. It’s inescapable, and it has me wanting to curl under the covers and stay in my cave.
I’m not a coward, but I know any slip-up I make will be around the world faster than I can say That’s not what I meant. Scrubbing my forehead with my fingers, I wrestle with my thoughts as my phone buzzes.
For a moment, I don’t move. The last time I got a text it was Armand pouring out words I didn’t want to read. Paris isn’t my home, at the same time Chicago doesn’t feel right either.
It buzzes again, and the pressure to peek, to see who’s trying to find me grows.
Nobody knows I’m back—other than Sylvia, Marcus, and... Karen. What the hell is wrong with me? Everyone knows I’m back.
With a heavy sigh, I sit up and lift the shiny gold tracking device, anticipating the worst. The squeal is out of my mouth before I can stop it.
Bitch, how dare you sneak back into the city and not tell me?
The words of my oldest friend C.J. Berman blaze like his personality, lifting my spirits. I don’t even bother replying, I hit the button to call.
“I know you haven’t been at Sylvia’s this long without telling me.” His sassy voice fills my ear, causing me to laugh.
“You’re not going to believe this, but I didn’t tell anybody.”
“Except Pill-butt? Please! Paris couldn’t have been that bad.”
“Oh, shit,” I drop back onto the bed with an exhale. “She spotted me at Millie’s having lunch. I wanted to slide under the table, but Sylvia would never allow it.”
“Your mother is the model of strength we should all aspire to emulate.”