Page 25 of Silver Fox
For now, though, Kenneth remains ignorant of what we’re doing. He’s placed me onadministrative leave. And he has no idea I’m sleeping with his boss, or that I’m staying in Silas’s apartment. Or that Silas and my cat are besties.
I narrow my eyes, looking over at Silas. I shake my head slightly, watching Bryaxis knead his claws in Silas’s shirt and rubbing against his greying stubble. He’s lacing his beard oil with catnip. He has to be.
My cell buzzes, and I brace myself. My sister has messaged me a few times since Valentine’s Day, shoving endless apologies in my face. I confessed everything to my work friend Deanna a week after she got back from her honeymoon—and she really brought out the cavalry. A couple of girls in her friends group have been cheated on, and they’ve welcomed me into the fold like a little lost puppy.
It’s nice. Between my new group of friends and regular therapy sessions, I’m feeling a lot more mentally stable. I’ve told people I’m staying at the hotel, but I’m keeping Silas to myself for now.
When I open the message, however, it’s from an unknown number.
Come and get your shit out of my apartment. If it isn’t gone by six o’clock this evening it’s getting left on the curb.
Brett.
For fuck’s sake, it’s three o’clock now. He could have given me a bit more notice, but then I realize he probably wanted to give me as little notice as possible just to have an excuse to throw my stuff out. Asshole. I pause the security footage I’ve been watching, frantically searching for last minute removal companies. I quickly find a local one that looks as though it might be able to help, but my stomach drops when I see their website’s calendar availability.
They’re fully booked for the next six weeks.
And I don’t even have anywhere to put all my stuff. My fingers fly over the laptop keyboard, searching for storage companies, and I’m so focused on the task at hand I don’t notice Silas standing over my shoulder.
“Why are you looking at storage and removal companies?” he asks.
I pull my bottom lip under my front teeth, sheepishly holding up my phone. “Brett sent me a message.”
Silas holds his hand out, and I give it to him. He frowns as he reads the text. “You don’t have to worry about storage companies. Or removals. We’ll go together.”
“Really?”
“Of course,” he touches my cheek, but Axi jumps up onto the pristine sofa, instantly wanting Silas’s attention to himself. Obligingly, Silas scoops him up, and a wake of purring soon fills the room. “There’s more than enough space here to store all of your things, isn’t there Axi?”
Axi looks down at me, his eyes heavy-lidded as he lounges in Silas’s arms.
I’ve never seen a cat look so smug in all my life.
Nerves roll over me as Silas and I pull into the parking lot of my apartment. My ex apartment, that is. I lean my arm on the SUV’s luxurious leather armrest, avoiding the little buttons offering massage and heat options for the seat I’m sitting in.
“It’s that apartment over there,” I point. It’s right off the parking lot, with the front door a few steps off the sidewalk.
Even in my anxiety, I realize that Silas has set the mood lighting to be a soothing coral color, and it makes me want to squeeze him in affection. It’s not quite the pink of the lighting in his bedroom—which has seenheavyuse since Valentine’s Day.
Silas pulls into the space directly in front of my apartment, and I suck in a heavy breath. I haven’t seen Brett since he had his hands around my throat. What would he have done if Silas hadn’t shown up? How far would he have taken it?
And my conclusion is a frightening one.
I don’t know.
He’s always had anger issues, but before Valentine’s Day they were never directed at me. His phone has been shattered for more than a year after he threw it at a door. And he punched a hole in our bedroom wall one night after coming home drunk as a skunk. But heneverlaid a hand on me.
Just before he shuts the car off, Silas taps the touchscreen set into the dashboard, and I’m surprised to see that the SUV has cameras watching every inch of our surroundings, from the shoddily parked Corolla in the space behind us (minus its front bumper) to the NO TRESPASSINGsign in old Mrs. Fuller’s window.
“Are they all recording?” I ask, my amazement briefly distracting me from my anxiety. My car is nothing but a beater with a heater.
“They are,” Silas nods. “Twenty-four seven.”
“Even when the car is off?”
“Even when the car is off.” He takes my hand, stopping the incessant tapping noise I hadn’t realized I was making. “So if he tries anything out here, it’ll be recorded. My phone will be recording audio too. If he tries anything, says anything, does anything, I’ll be there for you, Skye.”
My voice is quiet. “Thank you.”
