Emma
It's exactly six o'clock on a Friday night, and barely anyone’s getting off the train at Columbus Circle.
Anyone besides me, that is.
It's eerily quiet when I get above ground, too. I hear a horse clip-clopping in the distance—probably a carriage going into Central Park.
I look down Broadway and see the lights of Times Square. I feel like I'm about to pass out on the sidewalk. That's how I always feel after work, especially on Fridays when I have to push everybody to get all the shit done that they should've finished earlier in the week.
It kind of makes sense that there's no one around. Everybody wants to live downtown somewhere these days—or in Brooklyn. That's what a good ninety percent of our clients want anyway.
The way I see it, now that I'm so high up in the company hierarchy, I might as well live uptown—even if it's not as trendy.
It doesn’t fucking matter that none of my friends or co-workers live around here.
I think Dylan had a place here once, around Lincoln Center or something. Maybe I should ask him about that—if he ever reappears.
His vanishing act five years ago left a lot of questions unanswered.
Five years. And I'm still fucking thinking about it.
It's hard not to, when his talents and his instincts helped make the company what it is today. Even though I’m at a competing company now, his absence still stings with every new headache at work, and there's no shortage of that.
Without someone like Dylan around to keep things on an even keel, things can get out of hand.
I stop outside the lobby of my building to check my phone. I want to see if there are any messages or any of those weird missed calls while I was on the subway.
Right now, the line between pranks, random weirdness, and the past coming back to haunt me is getting too blurry for comfort.
The lock screen on my phone is blank. No messages, no voicemails, no missed calls. That’s always a welcome sight.
Magically, my phone buzzes as soon I start walking again. I make a growling noise when I see that the caller ID is my own number. It’s probably a telemarketer using a caller ID spoofer to hide their real number. My finger finds End Call and presses it firmly.
“Good evening, Miss Clayton.”
I think I actually jump at the sound of my concierge’s voice.
“Fred, you scared me half to death!” I laugh, trying to temper my overreaction.
“Only half, I hope,” Fred responds.
I chuckle halfheartedly because that’s a fucking weird thing to say.
My phone starts buzzing again, and, this time, it’s a number I recognize.
“What’s up, Jen?” I answer the phone loudly so weirdo Fred doesn’t say anything else to me while I walk to the elevator.
“Don’t ‘what’s up’ me. You know we’re all hitting the club tonight,” Jen says with a scoff.
“Oh, god. Do I have time to sleep for a couple of hours first?”
“Fuck, no! We’re meeting at Jing on Ninth Avenue for dinner at eight. Get yourself looking good. Shit’s gonna get turnt.”
“You know it. Hey, I’m about to get on the elevator, so the call may dr—”
I hung up immediately and sigh. I just didn’t have the energy to keep up the conversation. I drag myself up to my room.
***
"You should know how lucky you are to even be here."
He says this with a smile. I don't even know this guy's name. I'm sure he told me, but I don't care.
I wish I didn't have to hear him speak. If the music blaring through the club speakers was just a few decibels louder, I could be blissfully ignorant of his sniveling little voice and misguided attempts to impress me.
"You're right," I yell. "I have no idea. I'm sure I never will."
My voice is a touch louder than it needs to be, which makes him wince.
Good.
I'm trying to send a clear message: I'm unimpressed, and no, I don't feel fucking lucky to be here.
That stupid smile is still plastered on his face, though. I don't think he gets it.
Of course, he has a point. This is one of the toughest clubs to get into below 14th Street. At another time in my life, I would've been happy to be in a spot like this, and I would’ve fit right in.
Once, I may have even been impressed with this troll-like man in the wrinkled button-down, popping a breath strip while wearing a stupid smile.
I scan the immediate area to see if any of my friends are still around.
They're not. They're all off dancing. It's just this nameless guy and me.
The bottle of Swedish vodka in the center of the table is rattling in rhythm to the dubstep, as are the ring of highball glasses surrounding it.
"Holy moly!" the nameless schmuck enthuses. "This DJ set is getting seriously hot to trot."
I give him the biggest and cheesiest grin I can muster as he starts bopping his head like he's one of the Night at the Roxbury guys.
Holy fucking hell! Is he for real?
I see the self-consciousness in his eyes, as well as a dash of pain that he's unsuccessfully trying to hide. Maybe there's someone here, or someone in the city who would be impressed by...whatever he's trying to do.
But I need to leave. I'm starting to feel bad for him. Fucking sad, too.
I nod, grin, grab my handbag, and slide out of my seat. I don't look back; I walk quickly towards the stairs to the main level, then to the exit.
There’s a crowd of cigarette smokers outside, which is to be expected. People are drunk, laughing, screaming, and having a great time, but when I see a vacant cab driving down the block, I run over toward it, waving my arms.
It’s time to go home.
I fight the urge to fall asleep on the ride up to Columbus Circle. This isn’t the image of Emma Clayton that most people have.
Even before my rise through the New York real estate world, I had an established reputation. I had a knack for showing up at all the hottest spots when they were at their hottest. I also had a knack for looking especially hot.
Well, I still have that knack.
What’s more, for me, the hottest spot in the city right now is this cab dropping me off in front of my building.
In just a few short minutes, the hottest spot in the city is going to be my bed because that’s where I’m going to be enjoying some well-earned sleep.
The prospect of a good night’s sleep, with nothing I need to wake up for tomorrow, energizes me enough for the trip upstairs and to my bedroom.
In fact, by the time I’m there, looking at my bed, ready for sleep, I’m not feeling tired at all anymore.
I finish putting on my pajamas. By that, I mean I take off my bra and panties, because sleeping au naturel is the way to go. I slip into my super comfortable Egyptian cotton sheets, expecting to feel that familiar fatigue sneaking up on me again.
Comfortably snuggled in my bed, I switch off my bedside lamp. The traffic noise is usually low this high up in the building, but tonight it sounds louder somehow.
I hear some sirens in the distance.
As I lie there, thoughts creep in, memories of a past I’d rather leave forgotten.
I shove them away. Why should I have to worry about the past coming back to haunt me?
The people who worry about that kind of shit are people who make big mistakes—moral mistakes.
And what I did five years ago was right. Even in this city, there’s no reason a top real estate firm needs to engage in anything underhanded.
When I noticed something like that, I had every reason to bring it to the attention of…
Dylan.
His smooth, classically beautiful face, his perfectly trimmed and styled hair, the way those Armani suits hugged his incredible body…
And there it is. The reason that, no matter how tired I am, I often have trouble falling asleep.
That’s also the reason I’m still not sharing my king-sized bed with anyone.
I can admit it now.
And seriously, those haircuts must’ve set him back a grand or more. And those suits…
He didn’t know what was going on. He would never have taken part in such an illegal, greedy nonsense…
Until I informed him of the illegal, greedy nonsense.
And he disappeared.
I still feel like I did the right thing—but I wish I had done things differently.
Maybe if I had, Dylan would still be here.
It’s all in the past now.
Those are the words running through my head as I finally succumb to something resembling sleep.
And there I stay…for a while.
But then, Until I’m awakened by my own coughing. I better not be coming down with something. Now is not a good time for that.
Fuck, it’s still the middle of the night. I cough again, harder this time, and it feels like I’m choking now.
My eyes are open, but all I see is darkness. I don’t even see the dull light of the city shining through my bedroom window.
I’m coughing like mad, trying to breathe, and feeling really, really hot.
I finally see something—hazy and thick…
Is that smoke? Oh my god!
There’s a fire in my apartment, and I’m still in bed, barely able to breathe.
This cannot be happening. I need to get out of here right fucking now, but I can hardly move.
I can hardly breathe.
The worst part is I can tell it’s not a dream. This is real. Holy shit, this is real.
Oh, god.
I try pushing myself towards the edge of the bed. I know if I can get to the floor, I may be able to breathe more easily.
It’s as if my body forgot how to function. I’m cemented on the bed, and I can see the smoke growing thicker.
I’m about to try and move again, but I hear a voice. Someone’s yelling—and it’s in my fucking room. I can’t make out the words, but it sounds close, and it’s getting closer.
I just want this all to go away, whatever this is. I feel like I can’t move any part of my body. Then, I’m finally able to open my mouth.
I see a distinct shape moving towards me through the thick cloud of smoke.
I try to yell, to scream, but no sound comes out. I feel smoke pouring into my lungs as the world goes slowly and completely black.