Page 4 of Heartfelt Pain
My jacket drops to the floor and I take off my heels. I keep meaning to put up a coat hook in the entryway that opens directly into the living room.
I trip on a pile of books by the edge of the couch. Shirtless men with ripped abs scatter across the floor. The top one is this month’s book club pick. Lennie loves a good spicy book and if I had the time to read them I think I’d enjoy them too.
Speaking of Lennie, I tug my phone out of my pocket while popping the button on my slacks. They slide down my legs and when I step out of them, I leave the crumpled material on the floor. Those will need to be dry-cleaned anyway so who cares if they end up wrinkled? I’ll pick them up later.
Lennie: Are you guys hanging out without me? I always know when you guys are hanging out without me because Isolde stops posting to her stories.
“Oh, fuck me,” I mutter when a button on my blouse pops off. It rolls across the hardwood. It’s kind of my fault considering I tried to rip the shirt open, but surely I didn’t use that much strength.
My arm gets stuck as I try to take the shirt off, the gauzy fabric flapping around.
Isolde: I was working.
Lennie: I want to be included in fun stuff.
I sink to the edge of my bed, the red shirt hanging sadly from my arm. Yeah. Fun.
Isolde: I got to chapter 40.
It takes Lennie a minute to reply.
Lennie: I’m not fooled by your attempt to redirect. BUT HOLY CRAP CHAPTER 40!!!!
“What happens in chapter forty?” Should I go back and pick up this month’s read?
Would reading a bit of smut get my mind off of things?
A sigh blows a few strands of flattened hair off my face.
It started with Mike Logan. My college boyfriend. Well, if you could even call it that. Fairly certain he stuck his dick in any willing vagina. Up until three months ago, I tried to ignore how I used to be said willing vagina.
Ben came across his name in the medical examiner’s reports. An overdose. Sad, but not unusual.
Then Teddy Viela ended up stabbed. He’d come here on vacation.
Isolde found Will Miller while out on an assignment. He had a scar running from ear to ear. The clients swear it was a random body Isolde discovered, but it certainly didn’t feel random.
Somebody bashed in Walter Drew’s head. I found out because Ben heard from back home about the shocking homicide.
And Danny. . . The image of his body curled up in the trunk of the shitty car we just found flashes in my mind.
The silence presses against me. This apartment is for sleep so I normally appreciate the blissful quiet. It’s a stark contrast to Fujimori’s with its dueling chefs, Russian businessmen, and chatty tourists.
The fridge is void of food but there’s a nice collection of beverages. I consider the options and grab my favorite, Pepsi, before putting it back. The Wild Cherry Pepsi calls out to me instead. Cracking it open with a satisfying pop, little fizzy drops splash my hand.
I guzzle the liquid as I walk back to the bedroom. Perching on the edge of the mattress in just my underwear, I ignore my belly rolls as I consider my life.
My hand reaches for the phone. I know I’m in a bad way because I don’t feel the normal satisfaction when Lev Zimin immediately picks up. He—like every other person in this city—knows to answer the phone when I call.
I hear the smugness in his voice, though. “Ren Callahan.”
Fingers trace the condensation along the Pepsi can. “Someone’s offing all my old boyfriends.”
Another way I know I’m feeling like shit? I don’t even have the capacity to analyze Lev’s prolonged silence.
Sure, there’s a good chance he might be the reason I’vefound five ex-boyfriends dead in the past three months. But if he’s not. . .
“Do what you will with that information.” I tap the red button, ending the call. The phone drops to the duvet with a thump.
