Chapter Eleven — Livvie

In all my twenty-four years, I couldn’t remember ever having been as angry as I was when I left Remy’s penthouse. And the worst part of it all, I was angrier at myself. I spent the next week throwing myself into as many extra shifts as I could wrangle at work and trying to keep all the bands on ice while I tried to figure out my next move. In a last-ditch effort, I’d put my carefully-guarded credit score on the line and applied for a business loan, and while, in reality, the experience was slightly less traumatic than it had been in my head—they hadn’t actually laughed me out of the establishment—it had wound up being the same result.

Denied.

By Friday, I was scanning through pages of job postings online while eating a cup of Ramen noodles—for the third night that week—wondering how much it could possibly suck to be a full time ticket attendant at the state fair for the summer. At least then, I could possibly afford some seasoning to dress up my cardboard dinner, I thought, eyeing the paper cup.

I was jolted from my ever-depressing thoughts when my phone started chirping. I slid it over to me and sighed at the screen flashing.

It was a blocked caller.

Presumably, the same blocked caller who had been trying to reach me all week.

I knew who it was…which is why I’d been dodging it. I don’t know what possessed me. I guess I’d finally run out of excuses not to, but this time, I decided to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s me, Remy.”

“I know,” I sighed heavily. I knew it was him before I even answered, but hearing his voice on the phone still flustered me.

“I’ve been calling you all week. What’s going on?” he asked.

I ignored his question and fired back with a couple of my own. “Why are you calling me? Actually, how did you even get this number?”

“I have one of your business cards,” he answered.

The memory of his pocketing one at the club came back to me. “Ahh. What can I do for you?”

A dangerous question to ask a man like Remy.

“I want to invest in your business. Twenty percent, no strings, I swear,” he said.

I sighed. It was all so damned tempting.

The money, the connections…the man.

“Why?” I asked, pinching the place between my eyes, feeling a tension headache coming on full speed ahead.

“You want the truth?”

“Preferably.”

He took in a deep breath and I opened my eyes again, suddenly very concerned. “I need this just as much as you do.” He said it like it was a confession.

“Really? You need this?”

“I’m not going to bullshit you, Livvie. It’ll look good on my portfolio, help me save up for my other business interests, and be mutually beneficial.”

The way he said mutually sent shivers down my spine.

Unwelcome shivers.

“Remy, you know why I said no before. My answer hasn’t changed. I think it would be too complicated, given our history.”

“Livvie, I said no strings and I meant it. This is just business. I swear.”

His answer floored me, especially given the rawness in his voice. I almost believed him.

“What do we do first?” I asked, somewhat not believing the words were being said.

“Can I meet up with you so we can talk strategy?”

There were too many questions in my mind and I couldn’t zero in on one long enough to throw it out there.

“Livvie?” he asked. “What do you say?”

I sighed. I hated it—like nails digging into the floor—but I had no options. I looked at the open browser full of shit jobs that I didn’t want to take, and then over to my now-cold cup of noodles. It was pretty fucking sad. I’d exhausted all my ideas, and myself, in the process. Remy was handing me a life vest and I’d be an idiot not to take it.

“All right. When and where?”

“I’ll text you the address for this quiet little bar downtown. Meet you there tomorrow, at, say, five-thirty?”

I hesitated, letting the question marinate for another minute. “Okay.”

“Great.”

He said goodbye and we hung up. My entire body was trembling when I set down my phone. I had no idea what his new game was going to be, but I had to assume I needed to be prepared for anything.

***

Over the next twenty-four hours, it took all my remaining self-control to keep myself occupied and not climb the walls of the apartment. My overactive imagination eventually seemed to short circuit my brain and by the time I entered the designated bar, I was a walking disaster. I’d played and repeated so many mental scenarios of what I thought might happen, I couldn’t focus. The bar itself was quite swanky but quiet, just as Remy had promised. I could immediately see why he liked it. The atmosphere was warm and inviting, and a helluva lot more upscale than most of the places I frequented.

The perky hostess in her all-black ensemble quickly showed me to a table and presented me with the happy hour menu. I let her know I was expecting someone and she gave me a polite smile. I checked my phone…five till five. I’d wanted to arrive a little early, to be the one waiting, not the one awkwardly searching the room and having him spot me long before I saw him.

I sat quietly, picking at my quickie self-manicure and trying to tamp down the feelings that were swirling back to the surface as I watched the door like Tom watching the mouse hole for Jerry.

The minutes ticked by, and I knew I was checking my phone too often, but with each passing minute, the pit of anxiety in my stomach was growing and taking over more and more of my thoughts.

What would happen if he didn’t show? What if he was just playing a trick on me? Punishing me for running out on him? Remy was obviously the kind of guy who was used to getting what he wanted and I had escaped him. Twice.

Would he really get my hopes up and then not show, just to teach me a lesson?

I shook my head, deciding against it. Granted, I hadn’t known Remy all that long, but still, it seemed a petty thing to do and he had never struck me as being a petty kind of guy.

And yet, even with my self-assurance that he was just hung up somehow, an hour passed with no sign of him. I must have checked my phone a million times and there was no sign of a call or text. Another half-hour dragged by and I texted him.

Where are you? The hostess shot me pitying glances. Every time the front doors opened and it wasn’t him, she’d watch me slink back into my seat with a fresh wave of frustration, defeat and confusion, and then she’d give a little sad shrug for me before rushing to attend to the new guest.

I sent another text and waited for a reply.

I’m leaving in 10 min. By the time the bartender sent over a complimentary glass of wine, I felt the pity glances and sad faces tearing holes in me. I lifted the free glass of wine up in a nod to the bartender, and drank it back before I picked up my phone and swiped Remy’s number. I was so pissed, I’d already texted him a few times and he hadn’t answered. He was probably out with some high-class, old-money blonde who Mommy Dearest approved of.

“We’re sorry, the number you have dialed has been disconnected—” came the recording on the phone. I hung up and checked the number. It was the same number he’d texted me the address from. I let out a long breath, silently praying the cell tower got the signals crossed.

I waited a few seconds and swiped the number again. My heart jumped when it rang. After the second ring, the recording came on. “We’re sorry, the number you’ve dialed has been disconnected or is no longer in service. Please…”

That rat bastard.

I didn’t need him, and decided—through hot, frustrated tears in the back of the cab—he’d never have the chance to explain himself to me.

Wherever Remy was, he could fucking stay there for all I cared.

Continued in out now on Amazon!

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