Hell on Heels (12 page)

“It was my business when you spent an hour pressed up against me before running off to him.”

I poked his chest with my finger. “Are you jealous? Seriously?” I mocked him. “How petty.”

“Tell me, Charleston.” He spoke low and dangerous.

I paused, my hand coming to rest at my hip, arching a distained eyebrow in his direction. If he wanted me to be a bitch, I could surely play the part.

“Is it exhausting to be so remarkably cynical?”

“Cynicism is for the weak and uneducated,” I countered his argument. “I’m a realist, Mr. Hart. Last I checked, that has yet to be deemed a felony.”

He smirked. “Or perhaps, more simply, a pessimist.”

“You’re quite rude,” I accused.

He trailed a finger down the open zipper of my leather jacket, his voice humming with a confidence that made me want to throw something at him. “Perhaps I think you can take it.”

“Or perhaps you’re just an asshole.”

My pulse was so loud in my head with his hands on me that I could barely think, let alone succumb to intelligent speech.

His dark chuckle radiated wickedly through my bones, the sound giving way to the traitorous heat engulfing my senses. “I look forward to working with you,” he drawled. “Perhaps I’ll get a chance to see just how much of me you can take, Miss Smith.”

Working vigorously to keep my jaw from hitting the proverbial deck, I drew my lips together in a tight purse. “Perhaps not,” I deadpanned, taking the file and tossing the contract onto his desk. “E-mail me if you have any questions regarding the scheduling or layout.”

“No kiss goodbye?”

I’d never had anyone in my life treat me the way he did. He pushed my buttons, just because he liked to see the reaction.

“Fuck you, Maverick Hart, and the horse you rode in on.”

Walking out of his office, I wanted to roll my eyes at the subconscious way my hips swung in a flirtatious, exaggerated manor.

Great, now I’m even annoying myself.

I waved a muted goodbye to Gladys, pushing through the double doors of Hart Securities. I growled obscenities under my breath. The steel in my spine was dependant on having the upper hand with the men in my life. It was a necessary exchange of power to maintain my functioning addiction.

It’s much too easy to lose control of the high, or in this case, the man, if I can’t control the dose.

Maverick Hart is absolutely the kind of man I could overdose on.

Reaching my Range Rover, I pressed a hand against the glass to steady my body as I kicked the five-inch pumps off my aching feet. Snatching them up off the ground, I momentarily wished I’d launched one of them at his pompous ass mid-conversation. Regretfully, I dropped them onto the passenger seat instead, alongside my purse, and padded barefoot to the driver’s side door.

My hands shook a little as they finally closed around the steering wheel. Subsequently, I swallowed against the anxiety crawling it’s way up my throat. Making slow fists, I dug my nails into my palms before stretching my fingers wide and repeating the motion.

It was a bad habit.

It was a way for me to ground myself back to reality with just a little bit of pain.

Glancing up, the woman I saw in the reflection of my rear-view mirror infuriated me.

She’s the weak one, the one who wanted love, and I hated her hope.

Her hope crippled me time and time again, and left me like this.

Waiting for my iPhone to connect to Bluetooth, I hit shuffle on a playlist, turning up the dial up on my sound system.

Music helped me decompress.

Like the hand movements, it too grounded me.

My ill-timed run-in with Mr. Hart had left me feeling unbalanced and needing another physical high to even out my internal playing field.

With the emotions he provoked and my memories of Dean, I knew I couldn’t handle the type of high another man would bring me, not like this, not while the hope in the weak parts of my subconscious lingered so close to the surface.

My addictions were like trying to fill a bottomless pit that never became full. In the moments where I acted with hope clouding my judgements, I was subject to a risky level of vulnerability. One I had yet learned to manage effectively, despite Doctor Colby’s encouragements, and thus, chose to shut it down immediately, if possible.

Perhaps if I was someone who liked the gym, I would pound the quiver from my body with a hard workout or a run, but I didn’t. I hated the gym, and I didn’t know how to burn the need out of my system, not like that.

Instead, I shifted into drive and hit redial on my cellphone. The music replaced with ringing.

“Smith & Co Productions, Kevin speaking.”

“Meet me out front in ten minutes. Bring your coat,” I blurted, as his voice came on the phone.

“Char?” he asked, confused.

“Yeah. Ten minutes,” I repeated. “And shut down, because you won’t be coming back today.”

I hung up the phone, pressing my foot onto the gas.

Kevin was late, as per usual, and I checked my mail app while I idled outside the building.

Dave had responded to my email. He agreed to check in with me before allowing any workers into my apartment. He also let me know there was only minor damage to a small patch of insulation in the ceiling above my living room, but that it shouldn’t take more than a day to remove and reinstall. However, due to the damage in the rest of the building, the construction company would be onsite for the better part of a few months making repairs.

This was not something that appeased me, nor my heart.

Kevin climbed into the passenger seat, pushing my mess over. “What the hell, Char?”

“We’re going to the farm,” I told him, as I pulled back into traffic.

He groaned, pushing his head into the seat rest. “Not this again.”

Kevin hated the farm.

Actually, Kevin hated almost anywhere that people didn’t need to iron their clothes.

I made one stop at home, careful to watch for a black hardhat, and picked up what I needed from the safe in my bedroom closet.

“Can’t you get, like, a normal hobby to deal with your emotional baggage?” He rolled his eyes when we pulled into the driveway of the farm thirty minutes later.

Kevin was a yuppie. Born, raised, and proud of it.

“I mean, there’s knitting and there’s reading…” He looked over at me. “You like to read. I mean, reading is fun, right? You can read instead. You can even read with those earmuffs on if you want.” He gestured to the backseat.

I waved to Farmer Don on his tractor, continued for another ten minutes to the back of the property, and slid the SUV into park.

“You’re paying for my dry-cleaning,” Kevin whined as he folded out of the passenger side.

I rolled my eyes as I walked around the car, lifting the latch for the back door. Sitting down on the edge, I grabbed my Hunter boots from inside and slid my bare feet into them.

He leaned a hip against the open door and watched me with little amusement. I handed him the earplugs, thrower, and a case of pigeons.

“Are you even listening to me?” he pouted.

Removing the Remington from its case, I grabbed a box of shells. “New hobby. Dry-cleaning. I heard you.”

I positioned my hearing protection over my ears and motioned for him to stand behind me.

He did.

He knew the drill.

“This place is so gross.” I could still hear him whining through my ear muffs.

I pumped the shotgun.

Bang!

Bang!

“Seriously, what is wrong with you?” he shouted, and I looked over my shoulder at him.

He shuffled awkwardly in his dress shoes, looking at the dirt like it just might kill him.

I put my back to him again.

“Dean’s back.” Kevin gasped, and I shouted, “Pull!”

He obliged, sending a clay pigeon into the air.

Bang!

I pumped the shotgun.

“I have a date with Beau, the most perfect man alive, next week.”

I heard a curse as he broke one of the orange rounds trying to put it in the thrower. “I don’t see why that’s a—”

“Pull!” I yelled, cutting him off.

Another clay pigeon came into my sights.

Bang!

“Shouldn’t you be happier about that?” His voice was louder to overcompensate for the earmuffs he was wearing.

Rolling my eyes, I pumped the shotgun again, but this time, a shell casing got stuck.

“I made out with his head of security.” My voice was edgy as the words came out like a growl.

“W-what?” Kevin gaped from his spot behind me.

Cursing, I pulled the now empty twenty-gauge from where it was stuck and pumped the shotgun again to load it.

“And then I slapped him.” I laughed.

I didn’t need to see Kevin to know he was smiling like a teenager watching reality TV. He loved to gossip almost as much as he hated when we went shooting.

“Pull!”

Nothing came into my line of sight.

“I said pull!” I hollered.

Three clay pigeons shot into the air.

Bang!

Bang!

Bang!

I was fucked.

T
he coast was clear.

I half walked, half ran down the hall from my position at the stairwell, and didn’t breathe again until I slid the deadbolt closed on the front door to my apartment.

I was effectively hiding.

Dean hadn’t resurfaced at any point over the last six days, but that didn’t mean I’d stopped skulking around my building like a fugitive.

It was ridiculous and childish, but I didn’t care.

Dave had sent an email to all the tenants on Friday detailing the damage had been assessed, and work on the repairs would commence later this week. The crew would start with all the minor damage first, so those of us still able to reside in our units would be able to go about our usual routines relatively undisturbed.

Thus, my unit would be among the first to be worked on.

I’d reminded Dave that I wished to know all the ins and outs on when they chose to do the work on my ceiling, so I could find myself somewhere as far as Alaska, if not farther, to be gone that day.

I was grateful for the week’s reprieve, because despite my session with Doctor Colby and her encouragement, I still felt as though my emotions were too raw to be exposed to another assault.

I was gun-shy, and the coward in me wasn’t ready to grin and bear it just yet.

Besides, my date with Beau had finally come to fruit, and I was really quite looking forward to it.

He’d arrived home from the campaign trail this morning, and the first thing he wanted to do was see me. I’d be willing to bet that made me a very lucky woman, and quite possibly the envy of my entire office when Kevin announced it like the news over our staff meeting.

Kevin had been keeping a close eye on me since our trip to the farm and my subsequent divulging of the three men who’d surfaced in my life over a short period of time. It was appreciated, though his hovering made me nervous.

For once, I’d remained in my heels for the entirety of the day and kicked them off inside the entryway. Meandering to the kitchen, I hung my coat on one of the bar stools and dumped my purse onto the counter.

My apartment felt different since last week, for the first time since I bought it. It was a place that had always been mine, but now, something had changed. Sure, men had come and gone, but this was different. It was like my apartment had started to wear my scars as its own.

I found the notion of it unsettling.

I unzipped the back of my work dress, shimmying out of it as I padded barefoot to the bedroom, eventually kicking it into a pile of discarded clothing on the floor. My last meeting of the day had run nearly an hour and a half over schedule, and as such, I was seriously behind on getting ready. As in, my date would be arriving to pick me up in less than an hour. Which was hardly adequate time for a woman to get ready, while keeping her sanity intact.

My shower was a quick one. I’d opted to forgo washing my hair, as I’d done so last night and I could use the extra time pouting in front of my closet, as I was doing now.

Looking down at Beau’s text message, I frowned and mentally ran inventory on my selection of little black dresses.

Beau: I’ll pick you up at 7pm. Dress nice.

Men were often vague at best, but this message was incredibly unhelpful.

Dress nice.

I tossed my phone onto the bed and it landed with a bounce as I glared down the hanging contents of my walk-in closet.

I dressed nice every day. I didn’t want to dress nice for Beau. I wanted to dress to stop his heart.

I’d spent the better part of the evenings in my adult life dressing to impress a man, and yet, each and every time felt like the first time. Like I’d somehow become a novice in dressing myself.

I’d had a barrage of men at my fingertips for years, increasing my bravado of self-worth, but all the while, I found it actually promoted bouts of self-loathing and encouraging the onset of manic lows. For it was too often men fell in love with the idea of me, a fantasy they’d created, only to be let down by a mere whisper of the reality of me.

Like an illusion of the heart, I wasn’t real. I wasn’t obtainable. I was a fraud.