Page 5 of Sinful Scars

“Thanks again for coming tonight, Elle,” Alice says as we get our coats from the cloakroom. “I know it was last-minute, but I suddenly felt sad at the thought of not celebrating my birthday.”

“I’m glad you had fun.” I shrug my coat on.

Even though it’s the first week of September, the temperature in New York has significantly dropped, and I always find the cold so much worse when I’m exhausted.

“I did.” Alice laughs, tucking her hair behind her ears. “And it was a bonus to get a few numbers. I saw you chatting to some guy at the bar when I came back from the ladies’ room.”

I roll my eyes. “Not my type,”

“Uh, since when is a tall guy in an expensive suit with a jaw that could cut glass not your type?” Alice narrows her eyes at me, and I pretend to adjust the belt of my coat to avoid her accusatory look.

“You know me, my work is my boyfriend.”

I don’t really date, and I say that it’s because I don’t have the time, but that’s not the real reason.

It’s because I don’t want to risk getting close to someone in case they leave, because that shit hurts, and I made a vow to myself a long time ago after my parents died that I would never let myself feel that sort of pain again.

So, I’m married to my work, and it fills the void. Most of the time anyway…

“Elle…” Alice sighs as she links her arm through mine. “You really should get out there and date. You’re hot, but your ass is only ever going to look this good once. After thirty, it’s all downhill. Literally.”

“Thanks.” I chuckle.

“You’re welcome.” Alice grins. “Now, let's hope my uber driver will want to stop for some cheesy chips on the way back to my apartment.”

Alice and I push our way through the crowd that is loitering outside the bar, and we scan the street for our rides. The moment I spot the silver Toyota Prius, I give Alice a quick hug goodbye and hurry over to the car.

“Elle Conti?” The driver doesn’t even glance at me as I slide into the back seat and buckle my seatbelt.

“Yes, 428 East 83rd Street.”

I dig through my purse for my phone.

Where is it?

The driver pulls away from the curb and immediately honks the horn as another uber driver cuts us up.

“Where the hell is my phone?” I start pulling out random items from my purse.

After triple checking the contents as well as patting down the pockets of my coat, I still haven’t found it.

“Could we turn around? I think I left my phone at the bar.”

My driver gives no indication that he’s even heard me. He keeps his eyes on the road, and the car lurches as he speeds up.

“Hello? I think I left my phone at the bar. I need you to go back.”

His hazel eyes flick to mine in the rear-view mirror, but once again, he ignores me as he keeps on driving.

I can’t stop the wave of panic that hits me.

“Stop the car?—”

His phone rings, and I grip the door handle as he answers the call.

Immediately he starts to yell down the phone, not in English but in Russian.

My heart rate spikes at the aggressive tone of his voice.

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