She knew she had to respond. She’d keep it professional. Clean. She wouldn’t let Trey back her into a corner. She’d make it clear by her abruptness, curtness, and coldness that what happened the night before was a mistake of the most epic proportions.
Fine. Nine. Text me the address.
She didn’t ask if the streets were cleared. She didn’t doubt that the plows would have been working double time and if things didn’t look great when she actually got out of bed and looked out, she’d call for a cab.
Of course, Trey did. Her phone pinged with it a second later. Just the address. Nothing else. No follow up. No apology. No freaking nothing. Great.
How could she let him do this to her? He had all the power. He held all the cards. She let him get away with it. She gave him the power. She surrendered her cards. She’d let him go down on her and she’d come. And he knew it. And then he’d freaking come too. Obviously.
Ambi threw her phone back on the nightstand and rolled out of bed. What she needed was a cold shower. Which she could never bring herself to actually take, so what she’d do was have a hot shower, wash any traces of Trey off of her, get out, get dressed, put on her big girl panties, make herself a cup of coffee and go show Trey that he didn’t own her. He might be able to pull biologically exciting reactions from her traitorous body, but the real things didn’t and wouldn’t ever belong to him. Her heart would never be his. Her spirit would never be broken.
If only things weren’t so confusing. If only her body wasn’t so reactionary and instinctual. If only it didn’t betray her at every turn. Her heart was hers. She needed it to be. Which was why she hated the burning ache in the center of her chest with a passion that she usually reserved for turnip, liver, and traffic jams.
Trey didn’t mean anything. He was wrong. She’d moved on. She’d moved on like she said. With herself. With her business. With her family and friends. She was fulfilled and she was happy and there were absolutely no gaps in her armor or cracks in her walls. It only took a short time to form a habit. She’d make a habit of believing it until it was the truth.
CHAPTER 13
Trey
Ambi strolled through the set of double glass doors that fronted the hall much like the storm that had crippled the city the day before. With deadly precision and brutal cold. Not an ounce of her sleek, shiny black hair was out of place. Her entire freaking outfit- a grey blazer and grey pants which were covered up with a stylish red jacket that flared out at the waist- was immaculate. She’d paired everything with incredibly unsuitable for the weather, black stilettos that instantly made Trey hard as a fucking rock, since he imagined her naked, with nothing else on but those four or five-inch heels.
Her makeup was perfection, her face schooled into a look of unaffected, easy charm that he knew immediately she didn’t feel. Her eyes betrayed her. They were seething pools of wrath.
“This place, Trey, really?” Ambi asked sweetly, with enough sugar to give him diabetes. She slid her black leather gloves from her hands and tucked them into her black tote. “I think we both know that your father would shit bricks if the party was here.”
Hmm. Two can play at this. Ambi was acting like she had no idea what the real significance behind the hall was when really, he knew she had a memory like an elephant. There was no way she wouldn’t have recognized it, even though it had been a long time and they’d both been more than slightly drunk.
“Give me three good reasons this place wouldn’t work?”
Ambi glanced around, taking in the ancient fixtures and outdated trimmings. From floor to ceiling, the place really was old and rotted. The hall was built in the sixties and wasn’t modern in that good kind of retro way. It was ugly, with shit brown and puke yellow-green as its prominent color scheme. And that was just the entrance. The main part of the hall, one big room, was made of cinder blocks painted white and had a hardwood floor that resembled a really shitty elementary school gym. It was complete with a stage painted- you guessed it, shit brown and a set of- you also guessed it- puke yellow-green curtains that draped across.
He’d already gone in and inspected everything. The woman in charge of opening up the hall and taking the bookings, Doris, who was likely pushing one hundred and fifty, gave him the key and told him to take his time and call her on her landline when he was done. She’d really said that. About the landline. She was far, far too trusting, but then again, he’d offered to become a bronze sponsor of the place, which meant donating ten thousand dollars, if she could meet him before nine to let him in and give him an hour alone in the place. He’d also given her his credit card number and a promise that he wouldn’t burn the place down.