Page 24 of Protégé King

I go cold inside and then survival mode kicks in.

I start digging for clothes.

My jackpot includes a number of female T-shirts, sneakers and jeans, as well as a few pairs of ladies’ sweats. I check the sneakers and find they are my size. At this point, I’m all about the “I don’t give a damns” as my mother would call them. I’m not walking out of here in my dress. I grab a pair of black sweats, a tee, and a sweat jacket. As luck would have it, I discover a drawer of women’s socks. In the same drawer, I locate a bag of makeup and not the cheap stuff. This is the money haul of big, brand-name products. I’m not sure why it’s in this location, but I suspect it means the woman moved out and Damion stuffed it all in one place.

I don’t allow myself to emotionally respond to that thought.

No. No. No. I will not.

I dress, and in the process, decide whoever owns the Gucci outfit I have on at present, has excellent taste. Damion probably paid for it all. Or not, I think. Women can buy their own Gucci. I’m still in a right enough state of mind to analyze myself. Bottom line: I just want to hate on this woman. I can’t see the problem with that either, not right now.

Once I’m clothed, I tote the makeup bag to the bathroom counter and fix myself up. Then my clothes and purse get tossed in a Gucci backpack. It was in the closet, too, just waiting to be grabbed and so I grabbed it. I’d feel guilty about kidnapping Gucci, but I just don’t have that in me now. Okay, I do. I leave the makeup on the counter. I even consider changing back into my dress, because what if this woman is still in Damion’s life and he cheated with me? She doesn’t deserve to have her Gucci go missing, too. Which leads me to another thought. If he cheated, I cheated, and that feels pretty lousy. Which is why I give myself an out…Maybe they broke up and she just left this stuff?

It’s actually still not a good thought, because if that’s the case, he didn’t even think to get rid of all of her things. Maybe he wants her back, and I’m his rebound girl.

My mind is everywhere, but I pull myself back to the problem at hand. I really don’t want to walk out of here in last night’s clothes. This town is all about gossip where Damion’s family is concerned and apparently mine, considering my dad’s actions right now.

I’ll send all this stuff back right away after a cleaning. Maybe the woman will never know.

Ready to leave, I head for the bedroom, grab the note—as if I really need to see it to know the contents—but apparently, I’m a glutton for punishment. I shove the envelope in the backpack and head for the door. At least I’m leaving in something other than my dress.

I then march through the living room and I stop and scan the apartment to find little memories to hold close to my heart. I’m wearing clothes that remind me why there’s nothing but good sex to embrace about last night. That and the cold hard reality that lets me finally put Damion West behind me.

Therefore, I reach the door and I don’t give myself one moment to look back. I exit the apartment, shut the door, and lock myself out of Damion’s apartment physically and mentally. We are done. The end. This should be the kind of closure I crave, but it’s not. The envelope will be, though. I should have read it before I left the apartment. Then I could have shut the door and really felt the goodbye.

He may have the last word, but after today, there is nothing he can say that will hurt me.

Chapter Eighteen

Alana

Act like you belong and people believe you belong, therefore you do belong.

This was my motto at Yale, and in fact, my survival. All my life, if I’m honest. I live this belief, breathe it, and therefore, I’ve mastered the art of this attitude like no other. With that thought in mind, I walk out of the building and past security with my chin held high. I can only hope my change of attire and confidence will deter interest in Damion West’s most recent conquest.

And Lord, help me, that’s what I am.

I wonder if I’m a list that includes younger women, older women, at least one teacher, a brunette, and a redhead?

I exit the building without disruption or much notice into a warm sunny morning, cutting left and starting my walk home. My parents’ place is a good mile away, which means my newly procured sneakers are a better choice than the high heels in my backpack, or rather, the other woman’s backpack. I can feel a pinch in my chest at this idea, all of my bravado about being fine with all that has happened between me and Damion wavering but not gone.

I’m strong. I will endure. Okay, so I might actually cry a little, but shortly after, it will be dry eyes and Damion behind me for good.

My phone pings, and I snag it from my pocket where I stuffed it, doing so with that pinch in my chest biting harder. I never even looked at my phone earlier, which really goes show how out of sorts this Damion thing has me. Worse, I hate that I hope it’s him texting me. I hate the anticipation I feel over his potential call, and that just the idea is fire in my belly. With a deep breath, I glance at my screen with utter disappointment to find a message from my mother: I’m about three seconds from calling the police. I’ve called you and texted you ten times! I’m so worried, it’s making me sick.

While the content of her message, which is obviously extreme—but, oh, so my mother—hasn’t escaped me, I move past her message, seeking another. There is no other message, not even one from Sally asking about last night, which is a whole other thing that is really gutting me right now. She simply can’t handle me and my social recognition, but she’d have expected me to support her if this had gone in her direction, not mine. She’s really not a true friend, and that’s a pretty hurtful realization.

As for my mother, I swear I texted her last night after the pizza and first round of bedroom sex. I check my log and turns out I did, but the message didn’t go through. I call her. “Hi, Mom.”

“Oh my God!” she gushes. “Do you know how worried I have been?”

“I’m sorry. I sent you a text and it didn’t go through. I was with a friend. It was a great night, and I didn’t want it to end.” It’s the truth, no matter how ironic now.

“What friend?” she queries.

“I’ll tell you all about it when I get there,” I say, sidestepping that can of worms, which she will have plenty to say about. “Are you home?”

“No. Your dad and I have a huge commercial showing today. You can tell me over dinner. Just don’t scare me like that. You really had me worked up.”

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