It would give me something to do.
Again . . . bored as fuck.
“I’m in.” A cab finally stops at the corner, and I swing open the door. I fire off the address of my loft to the driver, then turn my attention back to Trent. “Where’s it at?” I ask him.
“Connecticut.”
“No shit? That’s annoying,” I mutter back. So much for getting shit-faced now. I’ll have to drive.
“It’s thirty minutes out of the city. Stop being a pussy and stop your bitching.”
I hang up and let out a throaty chuckle, he’s full of shit. There is no way it will only take that long, regardless of how fast I drive.
Only a second goes by before a text comes in.
Trent: It’s a $100,000 buy-in.
Well, fuck.
Chapter Four
Willow
The weeks since I’ve come to the city have gone by slowly. I’m at an impasse, and it feels like I’m sitting here biding my time. With each day that passes, I’m waiting for my luck to run out.
So far, though, I’ve been lucky, and nothing has happened. It’s almost as if I’m not in hiding or running for my life. My life is pretty normal; well, unless you take into account the sleepless nights, the nightmares when I do sleep, and looking over my shoulder all the time.
But who’s counting?
I’ve been staying at Maggie’s apartment with her. It’s not ideal, but it’s my only option while I come up with a plan of what to do with the information I’ve discovered.
A part of me thinks I’m in way over my head . . .
Okay, all of me thinks that.
I need to tell someone. In order for me to come out unscathed, I need help, but right now, I don’t trust anyone. Not even Maggie. I know she would never intentionally hurt me, but she could still inadvertently put my life in danger. Worse, she could get hurt, and no part of me could live with myself if that happened. It’s bad enough the guilt I already have in my heart for things I can’t change, but I can protect her.
So no, every time she looks at me, begging me with her eyes to talk to her, I don’t. I won’t risk her becoming a casualty in a war I should’ve never brought her into.
Since I can’t tell her the whole truth of why I’m here, I stay silent.
It kills me, but it’s the best option.
Luckily, she stopped asking about a week ago, and her pleading stares ended as well. There was a time she would have tried, but now, weeks later, she doesn’t bother. Which I am thankful for. If she wants to know more, you could never tell. She treats me like nothing is wrong; as though I’m a friend down on my luck and living on her couch.
She doesn’t know how accurate she is. Occasionally, she mentions working and asks what my plans are for making money. She doesn’t know about the cash hiding in her closet. No, I withheld that, too, along with the emotional baggage I brought with me.
Today, I’m sitting on her couch. It’s Friday afternoon. I should look for a job, but I have limited options.
With no ID and no background, shit, I can’t even use my last name for fear—nope, I’m fucked.
Also, what kind of job can I get when I don’t know how long I’ll be here? I could be here for months or it could be days. It wouldn’t be right to start working and then have to up and leave. I’m resigned to the fact I need a plan before I get a job.
Since I can’t go to an office like the rest of the world, I’m watching TV alone. Maggie is not home, and I have to assume she is working or preparing for work.
As if summoned by my thoughts of her, the door to the apartment opens, and she walks in. The first thing I notice as she approaches is that her hair is completely disheveled. Her brown hair is thrown in a messy bun and not a cute one at that. No, this wasn’t done for style reasons. This one looks like she did it haphazardly.
My eyes travel down from the bird’s nest sitting on her head to look at her face. That’s the second thing I notice that is off about Maggie. She looks like actual shit.
Her skin is splotchy, and her nose is a shade of red that is typically only found on a certain reindeer during Christmas.
She looks up at me, eyes glassy, and then right there, staring at me, she sneezes. Not once.
Not twice.
Three times.
Jeez. If she keeps that up, I’ll need a surgical mask.
“I’m sick,” she groans out.
I lift a mocking brow. “Really? I couldn’t tell,” I retort, and she sniffles again.
“What am I going to do?” She plops down on the couch next to me.