Page 9 of Infinite

A loud gulp followed by several hiccups replace the screeching.

I pause in the middle of straightening my tie. “Are you crying?” I ask.

“What do expect, Hale? I fucked a golfer in really ugly pants.”

“I didn’t need a visual,” I mutter.

“I was trying to get your attention!”

Great. Back to the yelling.

“It was one last desperate attempt to see if you care,” she tells me. “Do you think I’d ever want someone like him over you?”

I pinch the bride of my nose. How is it only eight in the morning?

“I did it for you, Hale. For us. I’m practically clawing off my face just to see if you’ll notice a scratch.”

Before, I was annoyed. Now, I’m damn well pissed. “Do you hear yourself? You think I want this for me? For anyone? Hell, Pris, you shouldn’t even want this for yourself.”

“Why am I not good enough for you?” she demands.

“Pris. I told you. I don’t have it in me.”

I’m not yelling. Just being honest. Me and Pris, we’ve done our share of using throughout the years. She needed arm candy for an event, I was there. She wanted to go hard and feel desirable, I’d open the door to my penthouse and rock her world between the sheets. But I never promised her more. I’veneverpromised any woman more.

Well, almost never.

“I told you this from the moment we met,” I remind her. “If you wanted Prince Charming, you needed to look elsewhere.”

“I know what you said. But . . . dammit, Hale, I’ve given you two years! Two years of my company and enough blowjobs to make my jaw collapse. Two fucking years!”

She’s screaming, hollering. I wonder briefly where exactly she is. I’d say she’s alone. The thing about Pris is, she doesn’t care who hears what when she’s pissed. She thrives on attention, puts everything she has into it and always gives it her all. If she feels like yelling in the middle of Grand Central Station—if that’s what’s going to make her feel better—she’s going to do it, hellbent on getting and doing whatever she wants, even if it means delaying the Metro out of town.

The thought of her screaming in her office—the one her father drops seven grand a month for her to do absolutely nothing in—in front of twenty staff members who do everything else, riles me.

Part of me doesn’t think she has any business yelling. The other part of me, who recognizes the princess and pain-in-the-ass she is, also recognizes she’s a woman. One I’ve clearly hurt. Regardless of what people think of me and what I’ve had to do to make the money I’ve made, I’ve never intentionally hurt anyone. I’m not a bad guy. Just a man who’s had way too much bad.

“You may have spent two years with me, but in that time you’ve spent it with plenty of others,” I remind her. “I’m not perfect, Pris. But what you gave me isn’t marriage material. It’s not genuine. It’s nothing at all when you sit down and break it apart.”

“You’re not going to marry me, are you?”

“No, ma’am, I’m not.”

“Fuck you,” she says, abruptly disconnecting.

My head drops against the headrest just as Al pulls up to my building. I wish for two things right now: a strong cup of coffee and that I could care even a little about what just happened.

“Good morning, Mr. Wilder,” the security guard says, rushing to open the door for me.

“Mornin’, Jim,” I say.

The chorus of greetings meets me as my shoes tap against black marble tile as I make my way to the elevators. I don’t smile. I nod curtly. That smile I used to flash left me long ago.

I take a glance at my phone where it buzzes.

Where are you?

I almost grin. Almost. I don’t have to glance at the name or contact information to know it’s Neesa, my Nubian goddess of an assistant.

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