Page 91 of Daring You

* * *

Morning consistsof instant oatmeal and two gallons of coffee that I wish had whiskey in it.

I stand in front of my hall mirror, straighten by blazer over my cowl-neck red blouse, and brush invisible lint off my tailored slacks.

It’s all dilly-dally, because the last thing I want to do is make the trip to Locke’s and tell him I’ve been sleeping with Ben.

Checking the time on my watch, I can’t fuss any longer. Locke coaches at the local high school, and he would argue anyone under the table that his mornings start earlier than mine.

When the elevators hit the lobby, I cross the marble flooring at break-neck, confident speed. I remember who I am and what I want to become—not the flailing, heartbroken girl of my past who wants a forbidden boy.

Acne Hayes won’t be the person telling Locke about her history with Ben. It’ll be me, the woman who likes to add sex among her bids for power, but it stops there. Ben and I aren’t exchanging our hearts along with our bodies.

I nod to security and head to a car I’ve called, waiting at the curb. My phone buzzes within my leather tote as I slip in, but I ignore it.

We merge into traffic, and my phone goes again. This time, I rifle around for it, considering it’s 6 a.m and the only persistent calls coming through would be emergencies or wrong numbers.

I think—Lily.

Another phone call like that, I’m not sure I could handle. I search for my phone more frantically.

Finally, I find it, and when I see who’s on the screen, I let out the kind of curse other women in power would be proud of.

“Taryn, what is it?” I say once I accept the call.

“I’m so sorry to wake you,” she begins.

“I’m not asleep. What’s going on?”

Taryn is one of those individuals who comes into the office at nine, not a minute sooner, since she usually does whatever on-trend exercise class is going on in Chelsea at any given moment.

“Are you hurt?” I ask.

“No—nothing like that. It’s just…I…”

Taryn is also one of those women who never stutters, not even when Altin Yang is staring her down over her cubicle and asking why a motion hasn’t been e-filed to the court yet.

My back straightens, and I press the phone closer to my ear. “Taryn?”

“I don’t know how to tell you this,” she says.

“How about you tell me.”

“The…I’m at the office. I’m here, because Mike texted me to come. He said it was some kind of office emergency.”

“What happened?”

I try to remember the current state of the Delaney case and the defendants. The defendants didn’t make bail. They were in the midst of being processed for Rikers prison where they’d await trial or take a plea. All of that was normal, regular procedure.

“He was drunk.”

Well, yeah. Then… “Oh, God. Did he assault you?”

Jesus, what is my life coming to when I worry about my ex-fiancé sexually harassing co-workers? It really makes me question my choices.

“No. No. But he…he got into my computer, Astor. Into my files.”

My mind’s already flashing red emergency lights, but I ask, maybe in the hope there still is some hope, “What do you mean, into your files?”

---