Survival of the Fiercest (15 page)

All the changes in my life have made me restless and depressed. A routine is what I need—surrounding myself with the things and people that will get me back in the game. I follow my street past the corner restaurant where I sometimes like to have drinks, past the café and the little shoe boutique, and past my favorite French restaurant, where I have amazing solitary brunches. There is comfort in these staples in my life. I am home, so why do I feel like something is missing?

Pete is already at the bar when I elbow my way through the packed lounge section of Rustic—an ode to old New York, with vintage cocktails and entrees. I’m not sure why I called him, but hearing his voice on the phone felt grounding. Squeezing closer, I rest a hand on his shoulder.

“Damn girl, I missed you,” he says. With a smile, I lean in to kiss him on the cheek. I’m startled when his mouth settles over mine. I pull back with a weak grin, relieved when the bartender nods in my direction. Before I can answer, Pete orders me a margarita and another beer for himself. He smiles, and I’m reminded how sexy his eyes are.

“Do you like the place?” asks Pete, giving me his bar stool. Out of habit, I put my hand on his bicep. It’s solid. I pull away.

“It looks great. I hear the food is really good too,” I say. He’s dressed in a sweater vest, white collared shirt, and jeans with oxfords. The last time I saw him this dressed up was at his niece’s graduation. Rustic is not his type of place. It feels good to know he came here for me.

Pete and I are seated at a small antique table and given a little time to check the menu. Once we order, I give him the short version of my trip to Frisco, omitting anything that has to do with Evan. The concern on his handsome face is illuminated by the single jar candle in the middle of our table. For a second, I feel guilty that I’ve had feelings for someone else.

When our entrees arrive, I ask Pete how he’s been. Between bites of his steak—which I refuse to let remind me of the porterhouse I shared with Evan—he tells me he went to a Roots’ concert with some of the guys and has been doing some work inside his house.

“Oh, have you decided to paint your room finally?” I ask.

Pete stripped the wallpaper from his bedroom walls years ago but never finished the job. “No.” Leaning closer, he looks from side to side and whispers, “I’m growing weed.”

My jaw slackens. “Where?” Pete’s one-bedroom apartment is so tiny that the kitchen and living room sort of smash together.

“In my bedroom,” he says with a mischievous smile. “I have the hydroponic pots hanging from the ceiling by the bed. I’m gonna grow the purist shit! I’m gonna be rich, babe. Don’t worry about your blog or whatever. I got you.”

Pete talking about our future makes me shudder. “Pete, I don’t think this is a good idea.”

He frowns. “Why? Tyrone is going to handle the distribution. It’s cool. I don’t do anything but grow it.”

“That’s still illegal!” I shout over my pork chop. The brief stares of strangers make me lower my voice. “Tyrone? The guy you work with who stole an ATM and then tried to claim the finder’s fee?”

Pete starts to laugh. “Yeah, that’s him.”

“Do you think a guy who didn’t know that convenience stores have security cameras should be your front man?”

“Lex, it’s cool. Tyrone is a good dude, and he knows a lot of people. It’ll work,” he says. His dismissive tone says that he’s annoyed at my reaction. Rolling my eyes, I let it alone.

“How’s your steak?” I ask at the top of his head. He hasn’t looked up for a full two minutes.

“It’s okay.” He shrugs. “I’ve had better.”

Here we go again
. I eat my pork, which is absolutely delicious, and remind myself to savor each bite since dining out will be forbidden for a while. I’m unemployed, and there is no way Pete is going to be the Pablo Escobar of Queens.

Pete orders another beer and continues to sulk.

Normally this is where I cajole him out of his bad mood—
not this time.

I am drained of patience and devoid of tolerance. The reasons I wanted to break up with Pete have all come rushing back. I curl into my meal and into myself, thinking of the posts I have scheduled for tomorrow. I also plan to get a book on web-based businesses. I have to make Fierce work or… I don’t know. Maybe disappear to the south of France, live in a stone hut, drink wine, and write a book by hand. Actually, that doesn’t sound so bad. No computers, no e-mails, no fucking texts. I could have a hot French husband who only wears cutoff shorts with no shirt, and we could have a ton of babies. And I’d be skinny because we’d all be starving.

I smile at my wild fantasy, but my humor dies as I realize that my imaginary man in cutoffs looks like Evan. Exasperated, I rub my eyes. My subconscious is tugging at me, begging me to check my phone to see if Evan called or responded to my e-mail. Damn you, Evan.

“Big Skinny has a new video out. I saw it on
Rachet Hip-Hop
,” Pete says to me.

“Really?” I ask without looking up. The ice in my margarita hits my nose as I drain my glass.

“Yeah. It’s a dis to Josie Pink. I heard she’s cheatin’ on him.”

“You don’t say.” I throw an elbow on the table and prop my head up on my hand.

“Yeah, listen.” He pulls out his headphones from his pocket and thrusts his phone at me.

“I don’t want to hear it,” I say.

“What’s your problem?”

“What’s my problem?” I cock a brow. “I’ve had a shitty week, and you just iced me out for ten minutes because I didn’t love your weed idea.”

“Well, I don’t want to hear your bourgie comments about it. And now you can find a real job, so this is a good thing.”

I drop my fork, and it clatters to my plate.

“Yeah, you’re right. Maybe I should start my own weed business.” We are in a dead stare when the waiter comes back. Pete orders another beer, and I shove my food in my mouth, ready for the night to be over.

Pete curses when the bill comes—four beers ain’t cheap, huh buddy?—and it’s the last grate that my nerves can take. I murmur a thank-you to Pete as we stand and head through the restaurant and out onto the street.

An awkward silence descends as we both have things to say, but neither of us says them. All I want to do is blurt out that it’s over, but it feels cold and unfeeling to break up on the street corner. It’s been two years—there is too much between us to just throw it away.

“Well, thanks again. I loved the place. I’m going to head home,” I say. Pulling my shawl tighter against the winds, I start walking the few blocks back to my apartment.

“I’ll walk you,” he says, his voice low.

Side by side, we move through the night, our heads down and our shoes crunching softly on the pavement. My large looming prewar apartment building looks sinister at night, and I glance at the darkened side service alleys where I habitually envision that someone is ready to pop out and kill me. It’s a silly thought, as I’ve lived here for years and the most trouble I’ve seen is my neighbor’s corgi, Arthur, get stuck in the sidewalk grating.

The heavy glass door to my building is illuminated, and I grab the large door handle. When I turn around to say good-bye, Pete presses up against me and shoves his tongue in my mouth. I push at him and wrench my face away.

“No!” I yell, then compose myself. “I mean, I don’t think that’s a good idea. Good night.”

“You don’t want me anymore, huh?” he murmurs. He punches his hands into his pockets.

“You and I don’t work anymore. We can’t even have a nice dinner without fighting.”

“So you’re breaking up with me? Right after I paid for dinner?”

I chuff. “I’ve paid for you plenty of times. Consider us even.”

“Naw, you owe me. Let’s go upstairs, and I’ll let you work it off.”

“Fuck you,” I sneer. “Go home, Pete. This is so over.”

In a flash, he has both of my shoulders in a vise grip. I struggle, but he’s too strong. “You can be a real bitch, Lex.” His voice is low and threatening, and his breath is sour. My skin crawls.

“Get the fuck off me now!” I wedge my knee between us and kick as hard as I can. He stumbles backward a little but lunges for me again as I reach for the door. The heavy semifrosted glass is slow to open, and Pete grabs hold of my shawl before I can slip inside. Losing my footing, I shout my doorman’s name.

As I steady myself and pull again at the door, I’m vaguely aware that the other door has opened. Thank God the doorman heard me. Scrambling inside the foyer, I’m astonished when I realize the man that has hold of Pete is not my doorman. My savior’s back is to me, and his tan trench coat tails swing around as he and Pete struggle.

Deep yells and expletives fill the street as the man’s arms rise and fall with successive blows to Pete’s body. The stranger sounds like…
Evan?
With a thud, Pete crumples to the ground. He moans and forms a ball between my savior’s sneakered feet. Black patent leather high-tops spin around, and my gaze darts to the man’s half-shadowed face.

It is
. “Evan!” I shout in disbelief.

“Get in the lobby,” he orders. He stalks toward the door, and I take a few steps back inside. My blood pounds at the sight of him. “Did you call the police?” he yells to my doorman as he comes into the lobby. His arms surround me, crushing me to his chest. He lifts my face.

“Are you all right?”

All I can do is blink and nod. I breathe him in and feel the tension ease out of me. Then the little shivers come, along with the tightness in my throat and a few tears.

“It’s okay,” he whispers, placing kisses in my hair. “It’s okay.”

Being against him feels so good, so safe. I hug him closer. Sneaking a look over Evan’s shoulder, I see Pete pulling himself up to stand. Evan moves into my eye line.

“Come on,” Evan says. With a strong arm around my shoulders, he leads me into the elevator.

We enter my apartment, and every moment seems strange and surreal: Evan leading me to the couch, searching in my kitchen for glasses, and urging me to drink some water. I do as I’m told while Evan investigates the red-and-blue lights flashing in the window across the room. Releasing the blinds, he approaches me. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” My hands are shaking as indicated by my efforts to set my empty glass down on the coffee table. Tears sting my eyes. “Maybe not.”

“No, no, no, baby, don’t cry.” Evan hurries next to me and wipes away the drops that spill over my cheeks. “You’re safe.” He kisses me lightly, and I lean into those lips, hyperaware that he is here, on my couch, holding me.

I never thought I’d see him again. I’m not sure I want to.

Chapter Eighteen

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

He blinks at my harsh delivery, and I’m instantly sorry.

“I mean. I’m just surprised. I’m just…” I fight back more tears, and he caresses my face, looking into my eyes while wiping my wet cheeks with his thumbs.

“I wanted to talk to you in person.” His blue eyes darken. “I’m glad I came.”

“Me too,” I say, meaning it. A hard knock on the door makes me jump.

“Stay here,” he orders.

But I rush forward when he opens the door to two plainclothes policeman. For a second, I’m nervous that they are there to arrest him, but they just want to confirm what happened. At their request, I recount the events. Evan’s hand at my back is encouraging, but I can feel his body tense as he hears the full story. One of the policemen asks if I want to press charges. I glance at Evan and shake my head no.

After closing the door behind the policemen, I turn to Evan. He is leaning on the edge of my kitchen island looking like a barely leashed tiger. I move to him and take his hand before smoothing my thumbs over his bruised knuckles.

He dips, tilting his head to catch my gaze. “That’s the boyfriend?”

“It’s over. For me, things have been over for a while. We just hadn’t made it official. I think now it is official.”

“Has he hurt you before?” I hear an edge in his voice.

“No,” I breathe, but he still searches my face.

“Never?” he asks.

“No. Never.”

His gaze cuts through mine, and I sense a controlled rage surging through his body. “Lex, when I saw his hands on you, I wanted to kill him.”

And he could have, I think, moving my fingers up his forearm and over his solid bicep—the arm that pummeled Pete. That shouldn’t turn me on, but it does.

“So you came here to talk about us?”

He nods slowly. “I didn’t like that e-mail.”

“I didn’t like Josie’s nipples in my face.”

“Nothing happened. No, don’t look away. Look at me. Nothing happened.”

“She told me straight out you were having sex,” I say with a sneer and move into the kitchen. Before this conversation can happen, I need wine and a dose of heroin. Too bad I only have wine. I pour us both a glass. “And why didn’t you call me?”

“Josie tossed my phone in the toilet. Shit got erratic.”

I’m convinced this story is going to devastate me, but I agree to listen. We move to the couch. Evan waits for me to sit, then slides in right next to me. The heat of his body makes my pulse rise.

“No, this is my corner,” I say slipping off my flats. “You have to sit over there.” I point to the end of the couch.

“I’m comfortable right here.” He leans closer, making me want to straddle him.

“You are going to start talking…over there.”

With a sigh, he shifts to the end of the couch, the open gap at the neck of his shirt widening as he bends. My lips have been there. Everywhere. Evan sets his glass and his phone on the coffee table. My gaze slides to the phone. It’s definitely new. There isn’t a scratch on it.

“About an hour after you left, Josie showed up with a carry-on. Said she had been out all night and when she got back to her hotel, her room had been broken into. She needed a place to crash for a few hours. I said she could stay on the couch, which she’s stayed on before, and I went back to bed. I woke up a few hours later and got in the shower. That must have been when she answered the door.”

“Do you think someone really broke into her place, or was she just saying that?”

“I think it’s true. She was pretty shaken. She thinks it was Skinny.”