Page 105 of Only the Wicked
I need air. Space. The walls of this suite are closing in.
Through the window, I can see the storm has moved beyond the Capitol, lightning flickering harmlessly in the distance. The thunder is a distant rumble. Wind gusts still bend the trees, but the main system has passed—and right now I need the space more than I need shelter.
Without so much as a backward glance, I exit the suite, blindly heading to Lower Senate Park and its shaded paths. The air is charged but warm, the storm’s retreat leaving only restless wind in its wake.
I want to shout. Scream. Break things.
Instead, I claim a park bench and let my head fall back, feeling the wind cool my overheated skin. The phone in my pocket vibrates. The slight buzz grounds me. Comforts, in a way. Work awaits. I can lose myself in work, but to what end?
What did Nana say? You’re going to find someone who gives you a reason to have a life outside of work.
Huh. Instead of reasons to lose myself in the work. That’s what she meant.
Ah, Nana. Come to think of it, I should let her know I landed. It’s not something I always do, but I’m usually pretty good about touching base when she knows I’m traveling. And I have no desire to return to the hotel.
She picks up on the third ring.
“Rhodes. Is everything okay?”
“Does something need to be wrong for me to call?”
“No, it’s just we’re not scheduled and you usually text.”
Ah, she’s right. But I also rarely find myself sitting on a park bench.
“How’d your Mahjong game go?”
A young woman jogs past, earbuds visible, ponytail swishing. If she had dark hair, she’d resemble Sydney.
“Didn’t win.”
“That’s too bad.”
“We don’t always win, Rhodes.”
The phone pressed to my ear irritates the skin, a reminder I’m out of my element. I dig in my pocket for earbuds, pop them in and switch the call over.
“Are you by yourself now?”
“I am,” I answer, gaze on the branches overhead.
Silence falls between us, and I know she’s giving me time to process, time to say what I need to say. She’s always been good like that. But I can’t talk to her about this.
“What’s her name?”
The question has me staring at the phone in my hand with disbelief.
“I wasn’t born yesterday.”
I snort, and if I wasn’t so pissed, I’d probably laugh.
“There is a woman. Or was.”
“What happened?”
“She lied.”
“Did she have a good reason?”
