Page 10 of Keep Me In Your Heart

My hand squeezes the phone so tightly I’m surprised it doesn’t snap in half. I should relax. I can’t afford another one.

“I’d rather be an embarrassment than a leech.”

“Again,” she snaps into the phone. “This is my job, Sylvie. You should consider getting one. Or are you stillworking on yournovel?”

I can practically hear her doing air quotes around that condescending phrase, and the urge to toss my phone into the sewer, imagining it’s her, is overwhelming.

“Fuck you, you ugly, uptight little twat.”

With that, I punch the End Call button and let out a frustrated, growling huff. I want to scream. I want to hurl this hot coffee at anyone I can. Just once I wish I could really let go and express all of the things I’m feeling.

I bet Killian Barclay doesn’t have to deal with shit like this. I bet he lets out his frustration all the time, and no one judges him for it. I wish I knew why my mind was constantly revisiting that day, but I have no idea. He burrowed himself into my subconscious.

Instead of turning right toward my apartment, where I know Aaron is waiting for me, I keep straight on 5th toward Margot’s place. Unlike Aaron, she won’t give me some condescending lecture about responsibility and maturity. He’s never been supportive of my dreams anyway. He doesn’t care if I finish my novel. He never even asks about it.

When I reach Margot’s building, the doorman welcomes me with a smile. “Morning, Sylvie,” he says.

I force myself to grin back at him regardless of my irritated mood. “Morning, Chuck. She’s home, right?” I ask, turning back toward him once I’m in the lobby.

He nods, but there’s a hint of something hesitant on his face. “She’s in,” he replies.

I don’t bother asking him if everything is okay, but I hurry to the elevator anyway. Hopefully, that’s not a sign she’s on another one of her benders. Margot has a history of going off the deep end after a fashion show if she feels like it didn’t go exactly the way she wanted. Or if a photo comes out that she finds less than flattering. She’ll replace food with alcohol and socializing with sex for weeks on end until I scrape her off the floor and put her back together.

I can’t watch her go through that again.

When the elevator lets me off on the eighteenth floor, I rush down to Margot’s apartment and try the handle first. To my surprise, it’s unlocked.

What the fuck is wrong with her, leaving her door unlocked in the middle of Manhattan?

Two steps into the apartment, I hear the unmistakable sound of her moaning chants. They’re loud and high-pitched, and by the sound of it, she’s being railed within an inch of her life.

Oh, fuck.

Before letting the door close behind me, I grab it and quietly ease myself out. My cheeks heat with embarrassment from hearing my best friend getting it on.

Stifling a giggle, I tiptoe out the door, thinking about how I’m going to give her shit about this later.

Then, my eyes catch on a pair of familiar shoes on the floor. They look exactly like Aaron’s—the ones I got him for his birthday last year. This guy she’s seeing has good taste.

But then my gaze lingers on the shoes, and I realize they are a littletoofamiliar. Like they have the same wear marks as Aaron’s. Still tied the same way he ties his, slipping them off when he gets home without undoing the knots.

I hear a familiar grunt from the bedroom.

And suddenly, it’s like I’m frozen in time. Like everything is moving around me, but I’m stuck in one place.

Reality comes crashing in, and the rage I felt a few moments ago bubbles over like a pot of water set to boil for too long.

I step inside and let the door close before marching down the hall of Margot’s apartment toward her room. As I reach the door, I stand there, coffee in hand, and watch as my boyfriend of three years pounds into my best friend from behind. His white ass is on display, and he’s got a hand on her head, shoving it into the mattress. She’s moaning loudly, and, honestly, it sounds a little fake and dramatic.

They don’t even know I’m standing here watching them. I’m gawking at them for far too long, but in my defense, I’m stunned. I can’t stop thinking about the fact that the last time Aaron and I fucked, we did it in missionary position, and he ground on top of me like a disgusting slug.

He slaps her ass, and she yelps in pleasure. “My dirty little girl.”

My face contorts in disgust.What the fuck?

Am I in the right apartment?

Is this the right reality?

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