Page 10 of Not Just a Trick Play

But now that I’m free to go, I hover between the need to leave and the urge to stay a bit longer. The compulsion to stickaround is almost unbearable, but I know if I don’t make it to the stadium soon, heads will roll.

“What if that psycho returns in the meantime?”

Amelia harrumphs. “Even if she does, it’s not as if I’d agree to let her cuff me to the bed. Not everyone has such…proclivities.” Impressive, the depths of disdain she manages to infuse in that one comment.

I bite back a grin, the tension draining out of me. “Of course not,” I deadpan. “Everyone knows that only the finest of New Yorkers cultivate…proclivities like mine.” Not that BDSM is my scene at all.

A smile flits across her features before she schools them into a stern expression. “Do try and stay out of trouble.”

“Don’t you worry. I’m done being tied down.”

CHAPTER FIVE

AMELIA

WatchingJake leave was like witnessing the end of a rare and magnificent eclipse. Even knowing prolonged exposure is akin to playing with fire, I still want to call him back. I shake my head, trying to physically dislodge the madness of the notion. But the second the door shuts behind him, my bravado vanishes.

In a moment of inspired paranoia, I wedge a chair under the doorknob and heave my suitcase on top of it to create the world’s shoddiest fortress. I don’t need this Stella person returning and catching me unawares. A pent-up breath whooshes out of me. Yeah, sothathappened.

To add insult to injury, Airbnb has now immortalized me as the “handcuff incident” lady in their customer service logs. I’ve prepaid for two weeks in this flat, and they have nothing else in my price range unless I’m willing to shack up with strangers. Refund? Not until they investigate further.

Wandering back to ground zero, I peer at the scene of the crime. No more man cuffed up, but the crumpled sheets and battered pillows give the impression of a war zone.

Well, that won’t do.

I strip the bed and remake it, ignoring the lingering scent of cedar and musk. After years of working at an inn, there’s this compulsive need to straighten out a room. I nip and tuck with military precision before stepping back to admire my perfect hospital corners.

I plop onto an edge of the mattress, staring at the scratched laminate flooring. Surely, I can manage a night here? Then my eyes lock on a stray piece of fluff peeking out from under the dresser.

Nope.

I’m up like a shot and rushing to the living room. Bollocks. There must be somewhere else to stay. A hotel, motel, heck, even a luxe dumpster—as long as it doesn’t come with handcuffs.

I open the Google Maps app and do a search. The map’s got more pins than a porcupine at a cactus convention. An extremely expensive cactus convention. I might be bunking under a bridge at the rates listed. I thumb through the different neighborhoods. Flatiron, Union Square and Midtown are all close. Too close for comfort. My money will run out in days, not weeks at those prices.

Greenwich Village. Mixed among the pricey hotels, familiar names catch my eye: Cafe Wha? on MacDougal Street. The Bitter End on Bleecker. Dad performed there and a host of others during his many jaunts to New York, playing on the same stages where Bob Dylan and Bruce Springsteen once stood. Well then, if it’s good enough for Bob, Bruce, and my father, it’s good enough for me.

I grimace at the “budget friendly” tag. Needs must, though. I grudgingly hit “Book now.” Tomorrow will have to look after itself.

As soon as I receive the email confirmation, I commit the address to memory and restart the arduous task of lugging mysuitcase back down the steps to hail a taxi. The driver stares at the bag, as if daring me to ask him to lift it into the boot. I hoist it in myself.

I arrive at the Carmine Street Hotel and get a once-over from a clerk with a keen “problem guest” radar.

I give him a reassuring smile. Not that it softens his expression any, but he does reluctantly hand over a key card after repeating the check-out policy. Twice.

My room is at the end of a long hallway on the fifth floor, a tiny space with a full-sized bed. One nightstand doubles as a desk, and a torn issue of New York Magazine from a few months ago is wedged under a table lamp on the other.

Exhaustion blankets, heavy and all-consuming, as I kick off my shoes. The mere thought of unpacking makes me groan out loud.

I yank a luggage rack from the closet and haul my case onto it, the scrawled “Matilda Bartlett” on the tag almost waggling its finger at me.

I flip the lid up so it’s out of sight and sift through my collection of questionable decisions for pajamas. Bits and bobs that make no sense, except that they were close at hand when I packed. A blow dryer that’s 220v, only handy if I want to throw it in a nearby bathtub and expire. Red lingerie, a relic from the trip to Marbella Ben and I never went on. But at least I brought some good tea bags.

Shower, teeth, bed. I do it all in a robotic haze, then slip between the sheets. I connect my phone to the hotel’s Wi-Fi and navigate to my messages. A whole lot of nothing greets me. Not a single text to see if I crossed the Atlantic intact. I deflate for a moment, but then rally. This is what independence looks like, I suppose.

Still, I thumb a quick message to Gran.

Me

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