Tell Me To Stay Page 2

  There’s too much white. Too many hard lines.

  Too much money being spent on me that I didn’t earn… Yet.

  My finger hovers over the send button. I’m struggling to compose a message to Adrienne, the woman who hired me and told me this place was covered by my employer. No matter how many times I read the text I wrote, rewrite it and read it again, I sound like an ungrateful bitch.

  Dammit! I roll my eyes as I delete it, warring with how I want to handle this situation. I should roll with the punches, get my footing, prove my worth and then take charge.

  It really is too much though. I can’t believe a company would give all this to me when I haven’t even worked a single day yet.

  My cardboard moving boxes, filled with IKEA merchandise, don’t belong here.

  I take another slow walk around the first floor and a faster one upstairs. The apartment’s ready to live in. Even the fridge already contains milk and eggs. When I first got to the address, I thought I must have been mistaken. Although the key fit, it was obviously someone else’s house. But the parchment on the dining room table read: Welcome Sophie, make yourself at home. We start on Monday.

  Signed by the one and only Adrienne Hart.

  The tips of my fingers are numb as I shove my phone into a wristlet. The sky is gray and rain is most certainly looming, so I dig through three boxes marked “closet” until I find one with a hoodie in it and head straight for the door.

  I didn’t earn this. It makes me feel like I’ve missed something or the expectations they have for me are higher than I anticipated. Maybe this is what having Imposter syndrome feels like.

  Trish has already called three times, so I call her as I head downtown, searching for a place to eat or grab a drink. I look like shit; feel like it too. But this is New York. You can look like whatever you want here, and as long as you can pay the bill, no one gives a shit.

  As the phone rings, I start thinking more about drinks and less about food.

  Because that’s what I really need, a giant chill pill at the bottom of a martini glass.

  “You’re freaking out,” Trish tells me the second I say hi.

  “Yeah.” I breathe out the word, feeling the energy of the fast-paced city move around me. It’s dark, getting darker by the second and it’s true what they say; the city comes to life at night.

  “What’s going on?” Trish asks and I can hear another question lingering, but she doesn’t voice it completely. With cars beeping and everyone else on their phone all around me, it’s hectic, but I love it. In this city, it’s easy to blend in. A person can get lost here in the crowds.

  I like fading into the background. I prefer to go unnoticed.

  “It just seems like so much pressure, or…” I pause, making a left as I quicken my pace so I can cross before the green man on the crosswalk sign changes to a bright red hand. “It just happened really quickly and it seems like too much.”

  “You don’t think you’re worth it.” Trish’s voice carries through the phone with equal amounts of hardness and insight.

  I almost stop in the middle of the street, even as the green man symbol starts to flash, a warning that the mean red hand is coming.

  “You are worth it. If you can find someone willing to pay you an obscene amount of money to do what you love, you’re worth that amount. Period.” Trish’s self-assurance comes from a different upbringing than mine. She lived here too, three years ago. Two different family lives though. I imagine Trish could have grown up on these very streets.

  The posh shops and chic cafes with macarons would have been her favorite shops at only five years old when she wore lace and learned how to behave in boarding school.

  She and Brett would have ruled these streets. Thinking about Brett makes me smile. Being the younger of the two of them, he got away with bloody murder and loved how it riled her up. He’s a goofball who can also fit in with high society.

  Trish is high society. She is whatever she wants to be.

  She was salutatorian in her high school, and she graduated with a double degree by the time she was twenty-four. She wanted to leave NYC and make a name for herself as an artist in San Francisco. When I asked her if I could come with her, I wasn’t sure what she’d say. It was last minute and I wasn’t in the best of places back then. We weren’t particularly close either. I was just one of her brother’s friend’s ex-girlfriends – sort of, not even an ex really – she’d seen me come and go throughout the years. But I was also someone in desperate need that night to get away from here and everything else. The same night I left Madox.

  Oh, how things have changed.

  “Hey, turn right, right here.” Trish’s tone changes and her words catch me off guard.

  “Are you tracking me?” My voice reflects the ridiculousness of the situation. “When I gave you permission to see my location it was to help me when I get lost… Not to track me like a stalker,” I joke with her and she only laughs. I’m prone to getting lost. In life and on city streets both. My inner bitch shrugs and keeps filing her nails.

  “Trust me, there’s a bar right around the corner I’ve heard good things about. Are you wearing something cute?”

  I glance down at my hoodie and lie, “Yes.”

  “You are so full of shit.” I can only laugh as she tells me, “When you look good, you feel good.”

  Staring at the bright lights to a bar called The Tipsy Room, I breathe in deep, feeling her confidence. “I see it,” I tell her, although she probably already knows because of her app. “You can turn that thing off now, you creeper.”

  “After one drink, you’ll be thanking me,” she jokes back.

  “You should really quit your day job and do self-empowerment classes, you know?” I tease and let the people around me pass me by quickly as I take my time heading to the bar.

  “I’d rather keep mine, thank you very much.” As she answers, I can practically hear the smile in her voice. “And as for you, this job and that apartment – you earned those. Be proud.”

  The anxiety is still there deep inside of me as I think about my cardboard boxes sitting in the middle of the gorgeous hand-tufted rug in the living room. “It’s just a lot.”

  “Well, you’re worth a lot… and New York is ‘a lot.’ You know that.” I can hear myself swallow as I nod, even though she can’t see.

  “I’m going to get a drink.”

  Before I can tell her I’ll call her when I get back to my new home, she’s already commanding me to do just that in her motherly voice. I’m telling her I love her back as I walk into the place frowning down at my attire, but too tired from the plane ride and stressed from the move to give a fuck.

  It takes about two whole seconds for me to realize The Tipsy Room is going to be my go-to place for the rest of eternity. Black chandeliers hang from the ceilings, which are at least ten feet high, and the lights are dimmed to the point where it feels cozy, but bright enough to see all the fine details in the rugged wood tables. Cast iron chairs and barstools with a slick granite bar top give the place a sense of coldness. And a white quartz fireplace in the very center of the space with ottomans surrounding it give the décor the warmth it needs.

  Whoever designed this place has my entire approval. The music is soft, yet upbeat. And it smells like a cool drink on a seaside beach. I’m in love with this place.

  New York may hit me like a brick in my stomach every time I come here, but I’m calling tonight a win already.

  Climbing onto a barstool at the very back, I immediately grab a thick paper menu and listen to the quiet chatter from the half-full bar and a roar of laughter from somewhere on my left.

  As my eyes spot the very drink I know I’d love to order day in and day out – a combination of grapefruit and tequila – my heart skips a beat. Or at least I think it’s skipped one, but then it doesn’t beat at all.

  Not until the laughter dies, and I tell myself there’s no fucking way it’s him. My face is instantly hot and my hands are clammy
. I keep repeating to myself that I’m a fool, it’s not him, it only sounded like the memories of my past because I’m hung up on Madox.

  But then I hear it again, the familiar roughness of it. The deep cadence of his chuckle somehow standing out in the bar. Even though my body is instinctively still, like a child hiding in the closet, I glance to my left and see a room off the side of the bar. Judging by the size, it’s probably for parties.

  I can’t see him. No.

  But my throat gets tight as I see some friends who I used to love. His friends really, but once upon a time they were my friends. Trish’s brother, Brett, is within view. His sweet but sarcastic voice is carrying on with some story as he runs his hand through his shaggy hair.

  I can’t make out what he’s saying; everything turns to white noise except for the loud ringing in my ears telling me to get the fuck out. The barstool nearly tips over as I push away from the counter, ignoring a bartender who happens to walk up the second I’m tumbling out of the high seat.

  Don’t look.

  I can barely fucking breathe. With my head down and my cheeks hot, my legs move numbly. All the memories come flooding back at once, but I’m distracted with the anxiousness churning in my gut.

  What are the fucking odds?

  Shit, shit, shit. I’m going on nearly twenty-four hours without sleep and dressed in a rumpled hoodie with day-old mascara.

  I could kill someone right now. Trisha. I mouth her name like a curse. She set me up! There’s no way she didn’t know Brett was here. I tell myself it was only Brett she knew about and not Madox. She wouldn’t do that to me. There’s no way she could have known he was here.

  Unless Brett told her. Unless she wanted me to get back together with Madox. Which isn’t at all like her. Staring blankly at the bottles of wine on the back wall, I know there’s no way Trisha would have sent me here knowing Madox was here; she knows how much it all still hurts to think about.

  She could have given me a heads-up at least if she knew Brett was going to be around.

  Madox is here. I text her and watch the bubble form letting me know she’s texting back.

  Holy shit! Did he see you?

  Not yet.

  What are you going to do? she asks and I at least feel relief at knowing she didn’t plan this. She didn’t set me up to run into him tonight.

  Before I can answer she texts me, I’m sorry! Brett said it was a good bar – I didn’t know Madox would be there – I swear!

  If I thought I was freaking out before I got to the bar, I thought wrong. This is a real reason to have a damn panic attack. I didn’t even make it four hours in the city before running into Madox again. Fate is a cruel bitch. She can go fuck herself.

  Madox Reed is only about two dozen feet away from me, and although he’s tucked away in a side room of this bar, I cannot bring myself to face him right now.

  The last time I saw him, he took me the way he always fucked me back then.

  Ruthlessly, and with an unforgiving passion that left me breathless. In a back alley behind a bar, no less. After I left, he came to my place, hunting me down. Those are the last memories he has of me.

  There’s no way I can face him right now.

  I barely manage to hide behind the brick of the fireplace, not that I’m sure he’s even aware of my existence right now. I let myself breathe for a second, shaking out my hands and giving the small gathering of girls to my left a small smile when they look my way.

  I have to pretend I’m not thinking of that night. And that I’m not freaking the fuck out.

  What are the odds?

  I can feel every single second of what happened that last night.

  I remember how my nails scratched down his back and my shoulders hit the hood of the car; I remember how I let my neck arch, breaking our kiss so I could breathe.

  With his lips roaming down my neck and his teeth grazing along my sensitized skin, my heart hammered and pleasure built deep in the pit of my stomach. I feel it all over again as I lean against the brick wall to keep me steady.

  Even though we hadn’t talked since our last fight – we did that often back then – getting into fights where I walked away, and we didn’t see each other for a while. Not unless I went back to him. Which I always did. That night in particular, I missed him. Everything was wrong, and I had no one.

  I craved the way he looked at me with nothing but hunger in his dark green eyes.

  And I needed someone. Desperately.

  That night I was suffering, and I knew he could take the pain away.

  Even now I can admit I wanted him to fuck me because it felt like nothing else mattered when I shattered beneath him. When I let him use me how he liked, savagely and with reckless abandon.

  Even if we were nothing other than lovers in that moment. He never called me his girlfriend, he never gave me a commitment. Never. That night, I needed to go far away and I knew he could take me there.

  I fell back into his arms without second-guessing a damn thing, and the next thing I knew, I was staring off into the distance while he savagely fucked me in a back alley.

  I felt the rush of pleasure as he groaned in the crook of my neck, but it was met with a pain that twisted my heart.

  When he nipped at my ear, he called me his dirty whore and ecstasy rocked deep inside of me with his words. He told me I was his to fuck and use how he wanted, and I loved it. In that moment, I loved every bit of it.

  He told me to cum for him, and I did. I came with him, like so many times before. I unraveled underneath of him. But what was left of me when he was done was something I didn’t want to face.

  When it was over, and the reality of what had happened left me cold and hating myself for what I’d allowed.

  Just as I need to run now, I ran back then. As fast and far away as I could. I ran back to my apartment and called Trish because I knew she was moving across the country, and I wanted to go too. I needed to leave after everything that had happened that week. Madox didn’t know any of it. I didn’t tell him anything that happened and so much had that week, but it didn’t matter. I didn’t tell him anything, because he never told me anything either. It was sex. That’s all we had by the end. I knew I needed to leave. And she said yes, I could come with her.

  Facing Madox after leaving him the way I did… I can’t fucking do it now.

  I sought him out, fucked him – I used him the way he used me. Instead of going back inside the bar to hang out with everyone afterward, like we always did, I ran.

  I didn’t know he’d come after me when he figured out I didn’t go back to the bar. When he showed up at my apartment, I pushed him away and said everything I could to make him leave. Rather than telling him what had happened and why I cried myself to sleep every night that week. He never gave me a commitment. He never gave me a reason to stay. He’d never come after me before and only did that night because he was angry I’d left without telling him. I don’t know what he expected from me, but I ruined it all.

  It was my fault. Everything that night was my fault. I never should have gone to him.

  That’s the last time I spoke to Madox Reed, three years ago. Other than a single text I sent the next morning.

  With a blink, the memory fades and the bar seems even more vibrant and lively as I round the corner – not even getting to order my drink, dammit – and search for the exit. I need to get out of here.

  “Sorry.” The word slips from me as I accidentally brush against someone walking by and she spills her drink.

  “Shit,” she says, and the girl just laughs it off, her blonde hair tumbling down her back as she dabs at her arm with a pale blue cocktail napkin. The smile on her face only broadens, and she leans into another woman who apologizes to me as if it was her friend’s fault.

  The second girl’s smile dims as I merely stare back at them, not coming up with any words. Snap out of it.

  I need to get the hell out of here.

  Swallowing thickly, I turn and head for the do
or. So close. So close to getting away from him and never setting foot back in this place – or even on this street – it’s blacklisted now.

  The second I open the door to the bar, the rain spills down, and Ryan Jacobs of all people is right fucking there. Madox’s best friend – shit, don’t see me.

  I stop and stand awkwardly outside of the bar like a deer caught in headlights – don’t see me. The street, which is constantly busy, is fucking empty as I stand on the two feet of sidewalk protected by the awning. Of course it is. Leaving me nowhere to hide, and only Ryan to gawk at. He looks me right in the eye, blowing smoke from his cigarette before letting his lips tip up into a smile. He looks older than when I last saw him, but age looks damn good on him. His leather jacket creases around his shoulders as he stubs out his cig, carelessly flicking it to the side before heading straight for me.

  It’s a good thing I’m not an undercover cop or on the run from the mafia. I apparently suck at hiding in plain sight.

  “Hey.” The word crawls from me, hanging in the air as I try to form a smile that matches the genuine grin on his stubbled face.

  “I can’t believe my eyes,” Ryan tells me before wrapping his arms around me and giving me a hug I’ve missed so much. And what can I do?

  They were my family. My friends.

  When I left Madox, I left everyone.

  He holds me tighter when I squeeze him back. And that’s when Brett walks out behind us, giving me the widest smile.

  Fuck me. Fuck New York. Fuck this damn bar.

  “I can’t believe you’re back, baby girl.”

  Baby girl. They all called me that for the longest time. I had to ask Trisha to stop when she let it slip a few times the first week after we’d moved. I told her everything and how much it hurt. These guys though? I don’t know what they know. I never told them anything. Apparently I’m still baby girl to them though, and selfishly, that makes me happy.

  “We need to celebrate with a drink,” Ryan says and starts pulling me toward the door. My heels dig in to the ground and I hesitate, my resolve to stay far away from Madox still firm. Until both Brett and Ryan look back at me, the questions in their eyes mixed with a touch of shock and pain.