Page 32 of Craving Dahlia

Blowing out a relieved breath, I take a long drink of the beer. Sal’s perceptive, and I’m glad he picked up that I don’t want to talk. I don’t want anything right now other than to have a few of these, wait until it’s late enough that I probably won’t run into Dimitri or Evelyn when I get back to the mansion, and then head back.

Unfortunately, not everyone is as perceptive as Sal.

I’m on my second beer when I see someone approaching out of the corner of my eye. I turn to see a woman with short, rough-cut black hair who is dressed entirely inappropriately for the weather, in painted-on black jeans ripped in several places and a ribbed white tank top that’s cut off just below her ribs. She’s exactly the kind of woman that would have been my type at a certain point in my life—which is to say she’s hot, clearly interested, and looks like she’d be down for just about anything. I can already see her eyes running over my tattoos, lingering on the one on the back of my hand, and her red-painted lips curl up in a smirk as she slides onto the barstool next to mine without asking.

“You look like you need some company,” she says, leaning one elbow on the bar. “And maybe a stronger drink. You like whiskey?”

“I like silence,” I growl, and she giggles, a sound that feels like it grates over my skin.

“This is the wrong place to come for that, then.” She smirks at me. “My place is a lot quieter.”

“I’m sure it is. Especially when you’re there alone.” I finish my beer, motioning to Sal to grab me another when he’s free.

Her lips purse. “You need to loosen up.” She runs her eyes over me again. “Work out some of that tension. And I know just the thing.” Her tongue flicks against her lower lip in a clear invitation. “Maybe one more drink, and then I'll show you what I’m talking about?”

“I’m not interested.” I draw in a slow breath. “Go find someone else.”

Her eyes narrow, and I can see her disappointment in them, a flash of it before the rejection hits fully and she shoves herself angrily away from the bar. “No need to be an asshole,” she hisses, before stalking off.

That’s the second time a woman has called me an asshole in nearly as many days.And hell, maybe they’re right. Maybe I am an asshole now, but I think I’ve earned the right to be one.

I’ve been abandoned, betrayed, and hurt beyond comprehension. And the last thing I need any longer is a reason for another woman to get under my skin in any way. A night of pleasure isn’t worth it—as I’ve been shown once again with this whole debacle involving Dahlia.

My mood ruined, I shake my head as Sal starts to go for another beer. I toss some cash on the bar, more than enough to cover the beers, and grab my jacket, heading for the back door.

The city is full of life as I ride back to the mansion, the sounds and smells of it all around me, and it should feel like home. But I feel disassociated from it all, like I’m a ghost passing through. Like I’m not really here at all, and that same feeling persists as I head up the front steps into the mansion. This place is the most familiar of all, but I feel like I’m haunting it now, instead of living here.

It’s quiet, and as I head for the stairs, I think I might have managed to make it back without having to run into anyone. But just as my foot hits the first step, I hear Dimitri’s voice, and I groan inwardly.

“Glad you’re safe. I didn’t know where you were when you didn’t show up for dinner.”

“You sound like our fucking father,” I growl as I turn to face him. He’s wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, a drink in one hand, and I press my lips together as I fight back the urge to lash out. He looks comfortable—happy, even, and I know I should be happy for him. Instead, I feel the burn of an emotion that feels alarmingly like jealousy.

“I’m concerned for mybrother.” Dimitri’s voice hardens slightly, and I can tell that his patience with my moods is thinning already. But I can’t bring myself to care. Not when that feeling of being displaced, of belonging nowhere and with no one, is beating so heavily behind my ribs.

“You’re five years too late for that,” I snarl. I see the jolt of hurt in his face, the way his hand tightens around his drink glass, but I turn anyway, stalking up the stairs into the darkness above.

11

DAHLIA

It’s just after ten in the morning when I find the notice on my door.

I woke up late, having used another sick day so I can try to figure out what the hell I’m going to do now. I managed to choke down a few bites of oatmeal before my stomach threatened to rebel, and tried to start doing a few of the chores that were neglected while I was gone, including taking out the trash.

I’m on my way back from the chute when I see the paper taped to my front door, and the large letters at the top of it.

Eviction Notice.

My stomach drops instantly, dread and nausea overwhelming me as I cover my mouth with one hand and snatch the paper off of the door with the other, rushing back inside. I make it to the kitchen sink before I throw up, the paper fluttering down to the counter and staring up at me as I grab a glass for water to rinse out my mouth.

I knew this was coming. Iknewit. But the sight of it in black and white feels like a punch to the gut. I read the notice twice, and I know there’s nothing I can do. Not really.

I could try to pawn some jewelry, even though just the thought makes my face burn hotly, shame rippling through me. I probably have some other things I could sell. But that won’t fix next month, or the month after. It won’t give me enough to put down first and last and a security deposit on a new place, not in New York. It might buy me a little time, but ultimately, this will just happen again.

I can’t afford this apartment. I already knew that, but I thought I would have that fifteen thousand to help me move. I thought?—

I thought so many things that have turned out not to be true.

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