Page 56 of Dirty Little Secrets
The sky outside is gray with an icy wind that nips at my skin as I walk. I tilt my head against the wind and regret it instantly. Pain shoots through the back of my eyes like a nail to the skull. My brain pounds in rhythm with each step.
The warmth inside the building makes my eyes water.
I slept through Sunday and woke to the sound of my phone vibrating on the nightstand. My entire weekend gone in a blur. Alcohol has a way of stealing time, leaving nothing behind but regret.
The elevator doors open. Dread drags across my spine.
At least he doesn’t know wetechnicallyslept together. It’s like a one-night stand only one of us remembers.
I drop my bag into the drawer and fire up my computer. I avoid looking into his office, even though I can feel the pull—like he left the door open just to mess with me.
“Good morning, Ms. Summers.”
I grab the hard copy of his schedule like we’re living in the 90s and march into his office.
He’s fresh, perfectly put together in a crisp shirt and shaved jaw like he just returned from a meditation retreat. Meanwhile, I’m in a $7 skirt from Rainbow and a clearance blouse from Marshalls. My last loan interest payment hit my bank account so hard, I’ll be on a strict ramen-only budget for the next two weeks.
“Good morning, Mr. Drazen,” I reply professionally.
He wants to pretend that Friday night never happened. Fine. I’ve dealt with worse.
At least with Xaiden, I’m attracted to the devil. Brent is the monster I can’t escape.
I was careful not to give myself away when I took my top off the other night. He’s only seen flashes of me. My ass, my pussy, but never my full body. Not uncovered. And the other time? He was blindfolded. He doesn’t know Red is me. And that’s the only thing I have left. The power between us.
Maybe it’s time I went back to the club. To forget. Let another man erase the ghosts of Brent. Let another fuck push Xaiden out of my system.
It’s not like he’s there every night. I’ll go when I know he’s busy.
“Have a seat,” he says.
I sit, leaving enough distance between us to escape quickly if I need to.
I wince again. My head’s pounding like a war drum.
“Is everything okay?” he asks.
“Just a headache,” I mutter.
“Do you need the day off?”
I blink. Surprised. “No, I can manage. It’s not my first.”
He nods and scans the hardcopy schedule while I fix my eyes on the desk. The less I look at him, the easier this becomes.
“Is there anything you need from me?” I ask.
“What do you plan on doing for lunch?”
“If it’s not something I need to pick up for you, the usual.”
Vending machine snacks. The occasional granola bar. Nothing over $5.
He pulls an envelope from his drawer, opens it, and slides it across the desk. A black metal credit card gleams in the light.
“For you.”
I pick it up slowly, pulling it off the paper, turning it over in my hand. It’s heavy. Expensive. The kind of card people in songs brag about.
