Chapter Fifteen
You can’t shake hands
with a clenched fist.
Indira Gandhi
“Someone has been following me.”
The lie escapes my lips with ease, my voice an impressive act of anger, fear, annoyance and frustration. Perhaps it’s because I actually am feeling all of the above right now.
I’m angry at the way I’m spending my commencement day. Everyone else is out celebrating, and I’m here, trying to trick someone who’s basically a stranger into allowing me to move in. I’m also trying and failing to trick myself into believing this is a good idea.
You saw Lucy enter this building without her guard a month ago, and Asher wouldn’t let Lucy go anywhere dangerous. She knows him. He’s safe. Plus, Minka, it’s not like you have any other options. Don’t be picky. Beggars can’t be choosers.
I’m also fearful of what homelessness will mean for Mina’s future.
What happens if Social Services asks me where I’ve been living since graduating?
What would I say that would convince them that Mina won’t end up homeless, too, under my care?
Hi, my name is Minka Reynolds. I’ve been homeless for a bit, but don’t worry, guys. As soon as I sleep with the right guy, Mina and I will find a home and live happily ever after. I promise!
I doubt that’d go over well.
I’m also annoyed at my situation. Social Services should have never butt in in the first place; my sperm donor should have never left; Mina’s sperm donor, whoever he is, should have never left; and the good for nothing woman who gave birth to us should never have left either.
And some days, I feel like I belong in the category of people who have left.
After all, Mina and I aren’t together, and that means I’ve left her.
Even if it’s not of my own volition.
And lastly, I’m frustrated with myself right now. Here I am, on the steps of John’s neighbor’s brownstone, waiting for his response to my words. Whatever he says may determine my future—it may determine Mina’s future.
Yet, I can’t help but notice the unsympathetic expression in his dark brown eyes and feel winded.
He’s just that beautiful.
He’s like a precious statue in a museum. One that you can gape at from afar, but you’re not allowed to touch or even approach. And it’s not because he’s fragile. It’s because he, in all of his aesthetically perfect, stony glory, is worth more than you can even fathom, let alone ever dream of making in your lifetime.
So, I’m lucky I was able to get the words out before he even opened the door fully. Because one look at him dressed only in sweatpants, the deep grooves of his muscular chest bare for me to see, and I’m stunned into silence.
My brain chooses to replace that silence with memories of his lips against my jaw, his body pressed against mine, and his confusing words whispered into my ear. I try to force the memories out of my head and focus.
I feel vulnerable all of sudden as I wait for him to react.
To tell me to leave or tell me to stay.
And I don’t know which answer I would prefer.
After a solid minute of frozen silence, John’s neighbor frowns, hovering in front of his doorway, an unflinching boulder as he takes in my words. I watch wordlessly as his cold, brown eyes darken, and both of his brows dips slightly.
Whether it’s in disbelief or confusion or shock, I don’t know.
He’s as unreadable as ever. His expression shifts and moves, reacting to words and things like a normal person would, but unlike a normal person, I can’t read him.
I don’t know what he’s thinking when his full lips form a straight line.
I don’t know what he’s thinking when he runs his large hand through his thick brown hair.
I don’t know what he’s thinking when he sighs.
And all of this uncertainty is making me nervous.
It’s making me second guess my crazy plan, which I’m already second guessing enough.
I endeavor to sell the act better, because I need to be on my A game if I’m going to trick this guy. He’s indescribable in ways I’ve never encountered, and in this moment, the one thing he reminds me most of is a vault.
And you can’t trick a vault into giving you its password.
You can’t trick a vault into letting you stay at his home.
“This is your fault,” I add, making sure to furrow my brows in irritation, my insinuation about that night last week clear.
“Why would they follow you?” he finally asks, and I hate his ability to stand there so composed in the midst of his own silence—and my insinuations and accusations.
“I don’t know. I don’t even know who they are. But what I do know is that, a week ago, I wasn’t being followed. But someone just had to trail me out of John’s home, I was shot at, and now I’m being followed by a big, sketchy man.” I cross my arms. “Does that sound familiar?”
He studies me for a moment. “That sounds like your problem. What do you want me to do about it?”
My brain feels like it’s exploding in the face of his audacity.
“Seriously?! That’s all you have to say to me?” And then I pull my biggest trump card, and I put all of my lying skills into selling this bluff. “You know what? Never mind. Forget I asked.” I turn around and am halfway down his steps when I mutter softly but just loud enough for him to hear, “I’ll just go to the cops for help.”
A few seconds pass, and my feet have hit the pavement of the sidewalk by the time he says, “Wait.” His voice is cool, like I’m inconveniencing him by merely existing.
I give an exaggerated sigh and cross my arms again before turning to face him. “What now?” I ask, my voice a perfect cocktail of attitude and annoyance.
“Describe him.”
I make up a fictitious description without hesitation, describing a younger version of the guy that tried to date rape me months ago. “Tall. Heavyset. Eyes wide apart. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Falcon-like nose. Maybe in his thirties?”
He nods his head, as if urging me to continue.
I do, pulling ideas from the movies I saw in my Introduction to Entertainment Law elective course last year. “He had a hat pulled low over his eyes. When I saw him the second time, it was a hoodie. Black. After that, he kept wearing the hoodie. Or maybe he changed hoodies, and they just all happened to be black.” I shrug, as if that’s all I know and I’m sorry if it’s not enough.
But in my head, I’m cheering and mentally awarding myself an Oscar. Because, wow, that was a worthy performance.
He crosses his arms, the thick muscles of his biceps bulging and abdominal muscles rippling from the movement, both of which are laid bare for me to see without a shirt getting in the way. “How many times have you seen him?” His voice is all business, but I take it as a good thing.
As a confirmation that he believes me.
I mimic the tone of his voice when I speak, hoping that it’ll make him take my lies seriously. “I’ve caught him five times. Two of the times were in the same day, but except for the hoodie, he was wearing different things both of those times. He could have been following me more often than that, but I don’t know. That’s how many times I’ve caught him.”
“And what would you do when you’d catch him?”
“The first time I kind of freaked out, but I tried to pretend like I didn’t notice him. I was better at it the other times.”
He nods in approval, and I consider what to say. I should work in going to the police again, because I suspect he won’t like them getting involved in his mess, given the whole mafia thing.
I lower my voice, so it’s barely above a whisper, “Well… The first few times, I considered going to the police and filing a report.” I take in his dark expression and urgently say, “But I didn’t. They’ll probably think that I’m crazy. I have no proof of being followed. I should’ve taken a picture.” I add a hint of vulnerability to my voice. “But I was so scared.”
I pause deliberately, giving him time to consider his options before I finish, “Maybe if you go with me and tell the police what happened here a week ago, they’ll believe me. Actually, what’s your name? I can just file my report about that night and have them come here. You won’t even have to leave your house. I promise.” By the end of my sentence, I’m doing a convincing job of begging.
That’s the biggest bluff I’ve ever made yet. I can’t go to the police. I can’t involve them in my life when I want to file for custody over Mina. But… he doesn’t know that. So, I keep my face straight and my lies convincing.
There’s a slight crack in his otherwise undecipherable mask of a face, and he sighs. “We should talk about this in the house.”
Playing up my reluctance, I don’t budge.
When he adds, “Just in case the guy followed you here,” I still don’t budge.
I want him to have to work for it. That way, when he eventually suggests that I move in, he’ll think everything is his idea—from the moment he had to convince me to step into his home to the moment he has to convince me to stay.
At my silence, the lingering bit of suspicion in his face evaporates, and he looks more human. “I don’t bite.”
I sigh and add, “Fine. But I still think we should go to the cops.”
“Let’s talk it out first and see what our best options are.”
“Okay,” I agree, sighing as if I’m doing him a favor.
I walk up the steps and past the threshold of his front door, but he stops me with a soft touch of his hand on my shoulder. The contact sends a jolt of thrill down my spine, and I can’t help but wonder…
When was the last time I was touched by a man I was attracted to?
Never.
Well, not since he touched me last, but that hardly counts. He did that to prove a point. To prove that I was attracted to him and not John. And unfortunately, it did too good of a job at proving his point, and now I’m painfully aware of that each time I’m around him, as I’m helplessly rendered into a mess of confusing hormones just at the sight of him.
Since my gold digging campaign began, I’ve only once tried to go for a man that I was even remotely attracted to. Once upon a time, I tried to go for Asher, who I was more than attracted to. I saw him in an off-campus bar with Aimee and Lucy and thought he’d be the jackpot. He’s young, handsome and more believable than me being with someone like John.
He also has more clout in this city than anyone I’ve ever met. No way would a custody request from the Asher Black be turned down by Social Services.
But Asher shut me down almost as soon as I approached him. He treated me like there was something wrong with me, and maybe there is. Not because of my gold digging. I’m not ashamed—nor will I ever be—of exhausting all options possible to get Mina back.
What I am ashamed of is how I let my anger and jealousy and frustration get the best of me. And how poorly that made me treat Lucy, Aimee, and so many others who have crossed my path.
And for a split second, I indulge my attraction to John’s neighbor. I allow myself to wonder what would happen if we were normal, and I was being invited into his house under normal circumstances.
Would he want me?
Would he press me against the wall and kiss me?
Would he lead me upstairs and shower my body with praises, like John did with my lookalike?
“Hold up,” he says, giving me an odd look when he catches sight of my expression and, thankfully, shaking away my distracting thoughts.
I watch as he walks to a wall opposite of us and presses a few buttons on what’s probably his alarm system.
“Okay. All clear.”
I take a few steps forward, and as soon as I do, the door behind me swings shut automatically with a loud thud. I hear a few strange sounds, one of which sounds like a hydraulic whish, before I can’t help but turn around.
I watch as a steel plate, painted to look like a dark wooden door, slides over the outer door, forming a second protective layer. Seconds after, there are three loud clicks that sound like the turning of several locks.
Holy cow.
I knew, walking into his brownstone, that this man probably has ties to the mafia. But this security system? What would necessitate it?
This is crazy.
What have I gotten myself into?