Page 51 of Pulled Away

“People don’t give him enough credit,” she continues, a fond smile on her face.

I nod, agreeing with her because I’m starting to get that feeling. Carter comes from money, owns a charter company, and presents himself as the ultimate playboy, but there’s much more to him.

“You know, the place I work at is always looking for dancers if you’re looking for some extra cash.”

I close my eyes in mortification. As if spilling details of my sad love life isn’t bad enough, I got my financial situation involved as well.

“Dancers?” I echo dumbly. It seems I have a few synapses misfiring in my brain.

“Yes, dancing. The money’s good.”

“Uh, where do you dance?” I ask carefully, licking my lips. I might be hungover and a bit slow, but I’m not stupid.

“The Silver Stiletto.” She stares at me, a challenge in her eyes. She’ll get no judgment from me because we all need a way to make money.

I’ve heard of the place, but I don’t know much about it. Just that it’s a gentleman’s club, and that it’s one town over.

“I don’t think I can, not that there’s anything wrong with it,” I rush out to reassure her. “I just don’t think it’s something I can do.” Ever. “I look like a donkey that’s run into an electric fence when I dance.”

Unfortunately, it’s true. Of all the wonderful things I inherited from Mom, rhythm isn’t one of them.

She chuckles and shrugs, not in the least offended. “If dancing is not your thing, you can waitress. The place is always busy, and you won’t believe how the clients tip.” I scrunch my face because actually, I can believe it. “And, the best part, you get to keep your clothes on,” she says with a wink.

“I don’t know,” I mutter, staring down at my mug. I do need money, but working at a gentleman’s club? That’s not the way I ever saw my life going.

“Look. I know it sounds out there, but the way you were talking last night, it sounds like you’re in a tight spot. Devlan, the owner, isn’t an asshole. He runs a tight ship, and he looks after his girls. You don’t need to work there forever. Just until you’re back on your feet again.”

The pounding in my head increases while I think about what she said. It’s true. I am in a tight spot. It will take forever to get enough money together to move out on my own. And, no matter how I look at it, I’ll have to put fixing up the rescue on pause. Maybe I’ll even have to sell it. Just thinking about it makes me want to cry. I hadn’t thought past the pain of this breakup. I hadn’t thought about what it would mean for my future. For my dreams. I blink a few times to keep my tears at bay. I don’t want to subject this stranger—a friendly stranger—to another one of my breakdowns.

“Just think about it,” she says, her voice soft. “If that’s something you can see yourself doing, let me know. I can put in a good word for you.”

Chapter nineteen

Ryan

I’m dead on my feet as the car pulls up to my house. Changing my return flight was a bitch. I managed to snag a seat on an evening flight, so I sat waiting in the airport, kicking my heels all day. During that time I called Aspen countless times, but not a single answer. There were calls and messages, but they were from Hadley. I kept declining her calls and deleting her messages, but she wouldn’t stop, so I blocked her number. The return flight felt endless, and I was so keyed up, willing the hours to go by quicker, I couldn’t sleep.

One would think I’d downed a bottle of Jack by the way I’m stumbling, but I’m guessing four days without sleep will do that to you.

I blow out a breath laced with exhaustion and relief that I’m finally home, handing the driver some cash as I get out of his car. I hoped Aspen would be home, but that’s wishful thinking. She’s at work, so I have a few hours to get myself in shape before she gets home. My first instinct is to rush to her work, but it’s better that I don’t. She’s upset with me and she won’t appreciate an audience for the talk—no the apology—I owe her. Also, I’m still in the same clothes I was wearing when I left home. I’m dirty. I reek. And I haven’t shaved or washed my hair since the morning I left.

Walking into our home is like a balm to my soul and a tiny bit of the stress that’s kept my body locked tight eases. All I need to feel better is to be here. Our Place. Our home. Before Aspen, it was a house. Then she moved in, and I swear she’s magical because just like that, she turned it into a home. Or maybe it’s just her. It’s not a place that’s a home. It’s her. She’s my home. Fuck, I’m getting sappy. I need to sleep.

I head straight to the bathroom, not bothering to unpack, and jump into a piping-hot shower. It’s only once I’m standing at the bathroom sink, shaving, that I start to notice things.

There’s only one toothbrush in the glass holder attached to the wall.

The square woven basket that holds her hair ties and clips is gone.

I drop my razor in the sink and bend, jerking open the cupboard under her sink. Yes, hers. The sink and cupboard on the right are hers. Same with the bed. For as long as I can remember, I’ve always taken the left. I don’t know why, I just do.

I remember once teasing Aspen about the romance novels she loves to read. She was so engrossed in her book she didn’t notice me reading over her shoulder. She jumped almost a mile high when I chuckled in her ear and said, “A heart skipping a beat is not a sign of love. It’s a sign you’re having a heart attack or a panic attack.” And I stand by that statement because, for the second time in as many days, I feel like I’m having a heart attack. I’m staring at empty space. A shelf that’s supposed to be filled with cream—body cream, hand cream, face cream, eye cream, every fucking kind of cream you can think of—is empty.

I’m vaguely aware of shaving cream slithering down my neck as I bolt back to our room. The heart-skipping feeling intensifies when I notice the empty bedside table on her side. Her Kindle is missing from its usual place. Unless it’s charging, I think, but the hope trying to sprout withers when I see her phone isn’t there.

“That’s okay,” I mutter. “She could have forgotten to charge her phone last night and taken it to work.”

I spin around, reluctance heavy in every bone of my body, and stare at the closet, beckoning to me like a game show host, telling me to pick a box. If I pick right, I can win a million dollars, but if I pick wrong, I’ll end up with nothing.

---