I ignore the call.
Then a text message flashes by. Hey. Hope you’re OK. Sorry about last night. See you in fifteen minutes?
But I don’t want to go to the meeting.
I don’t want to be a recovered addict.
I want to be addicted. I want to take a hit. I want to inhale all this control.
I turn the phone on silent. I feel a strange mix of guilt and thrill from ignoring Trey for the first time ever. Guilt because I have no lies with him. Thrill because the rush of the game is starting and now I am toying with Trey—something I’ve never done with him. Even last night when I practically attacked him, I was all honesty and guts, laying it on the line for him, letting him know how I felt. Where did it get me? Rejected.
I look at the phone one more time, scrolling over the missed call, my fingers hovering over his name. I could call him back. I could text him. I could be honest. I could confess. I could stop what I’m going to do. This is like my lifeline. The universe giving me one more way out.
But I am beyond repair. He deserves more than me.
I hide the phone at the bottom of my purse.
Fuck lifelines.
I sail down the stairs in the apartment building, feeling the rush of anticipation, of flirtation, of sparks about to be ignited. I feel bubbly and alive in a way I haven’t felt in six months. It’s like someone hit a tuning fork against me and I am now vibrating at the perfect frequency again.
My frequency.
I hail a cab and though it’s still rush hour, one comes squealing by in a heartbeat. I’ve never had a problem catching taxis. I give the driver the address of Bliss on Sixtieth and Lexington, far enough away that I might as well be in another world.
Even Miranda isn’t an East Side gal.
When she had me followed, it was all West side operations.
The time Miranda confronted me I was walking to my mom’s for dinner and talking to Cam on my cell phone. I’d given him the rundown on one of his top-paying clients, and he was laughing deeply, then lining up another gig for me. I turned south on Central Park West and spotted Miranda marching toward me, her slightly pouchy chin the identifying mark along with her customary skirt that sat high on her waist, a sartorial attempt to mask the few extra pounds. She was chubby then. The next thing I noticed were those laser-like eyes, like an assassin’s zeroed in on a target.
Me. In her crosshairs.
I didn’t even have time to say goodbye to Cam. The next thing I knew, she’d slapped me, like in the movies, her palm smacking my cheek, my head careening to the right at impact. I dropped the cell phone, the battery spitting itself out onto the sidewalk of New York City.
“I bet you thought you were going to get away with screwing my husband,” she said.
“No,” I squeezed out, as I pressed my hand against my stinging cheek. That was true. I didn’t think I’d get away with it. I bent down to grab the phone and she kicked it farther away with her brown leather boot.
That pissed me off. I looked up at her. “Really? Did you have to do that?”
She laughed, but the sound was cold and hurt, so much hurt, rage and shame mashed together in her tangled voice as she tried to keep some semblance of control while I scrambled to pick up the phone parts. “That,” she said, hissing out the word, “is nothing compared to what I am going to do next. And you will be wishing for a broken cell phone for months, Harley Coleman. Months. Because you’re more than just a cheater. You’re a whore.”
A chill swept through me, as if icicles were breeding on my skin. She’d found out the whole truth. But I had it coming. Whatever she was going to do I would have to bend over and take it. Even though I never screwed her husband.
And maybe that’s another reason why I am in this cab tonight. Because I have been taking it from her for months. I want to take something for me again.
The driver makes small talk and I exchange pleasantries with him as I give my br**sts a boost so my cle**age peeks out of the top of the lacy bra. He does his best to appear surreptitious as his eyes dart around for a peek. I adjust my knee-high white socks making sure they fit just so.
“Excuse me for a sec,” I say, but I don’t move out of the way of the rearview mirror. Let him enjoy his job today. Let me be in charge. I undo two buttons on my blouse, making sure my boobs look good.
The driver breathes hard. I smile into the mirror, knowing I’ve just given him his happy ending for when he gets off work. When he pulls up to Bliss I thank him. He turns around and says, “No, thank you.”
I press a twenty into his hand and hop out.
When my heels hit the sidewalk, I am officially in Trey’s territory since he grew up on the upper east side. But I won’t run into him here because he lives downtown now. Besides, I’m not thinking about him, or about the cell phone stuffed at the bottom of my bag, nor the fact that I’m crazy certain he’s called again and texted again. I always answer for him. I’m available all the time for him. I rely on his friendship more than anything.
He knows all this, and so he’ll know I’m up to something.
But I don’t care right now.
Hugo, the muscly dude at the Bliss door knows me well, but still asks for my ID. He hasn’t seen me in six months. I show him the one that says I’m twenty-two.
“Been a while, Layla,” he says, using the name on my ID.
“Missed you too, Hugo,” I say with a wink. He blushes, waves me in and gives me a kiss on the cheek as I go by. I blow him one back.
Then I’m inside. Just as easy as it’s always been.