“Are you always going to find ways to humiliate me in front of my work colleagues?”
“Not always,” he says, blithely. “I mean, after the first few hundred times, it’s going to get stale, right? Then I’ll have to move on to humiliating you in front of strangers. And anyway, your coworkers have no idea about our history.”
“Well, they all think your childhood best friend was an asshole.”
“They came to that conclusion on their own.”
“When presented with your alternative facts. And now with the Romance Central event.”
“That was Sid’s idea, not mine. And I was genuinely trying to get you to do your job. If I was any other author, you wouldn’t think twice about being my chaperone. Trying to dodge the responsibility made you look unprofessional.”
I stop, because as much as I hate to admit it, he’s right. For any other author, I wouldn’t have a problem guiding them through interviews. But the thought of spending an entire evening with Jake gives me hypertension.
“Besides,” Jake says. “I figure that if I have to go to a stuffy event and wear a monkey suit, you should have to endure it with me.”
“You realize that if this book is as big as everyone thinks, you’re going to be invited to a lot of these kinds of events.”
“Then I hope you have a nice range of gowns, so I don’t get sick of seeing you in the same old rags.”
I sigh, and collect the leftover dossiers. Part of me is pissed, but another part is grateful that Jake has returned to his dickish ways. At least I know how to deal with him like this.
“I would have thought you’d prefer to take a date of your choosing rather than be lumped with me all night.”
When I struggle to nab a stray schedule in the middle of the table, he stands and grabs it before placing it on the top of my pile.
“Hanging with you is easy. I don’t have to try to impress you or make small talk, and because your opinion of me can’t get any lower, I can just be myself.”
“Yeah, that doesn’t really work for me. Could you try being one of the Hemsworths instead?”
He’s about to reply, when his phone buzzes. He checks the screen, and in a second, his whole demeanor changes.
“I gotta go.” He folds up the press release Sid gave him and shoves it into his pocket.
“What? Why?” I barely have the words out before he’s pushing open the conference room door and striding away. I hurry after him, my sore hip and knee causing me to limp. “Jake! What’s going on?”
“Nothing that concerns you.”
“Considering you’re walking out on our meeting, I’d say it does. We have a ton of work to do.”
“I’ll make up the time tomorrow,” he stops at the coat rack and grabs his jacket. “Just tell me where and what time.”
“Uh … Your place. Eight a.m.” I continue to follow as he walks over to the elevator and pushes the call button. “Jake, what the hell is so important that you have to walk out on your first day?”
“A personal matter.” He jabs the call button a few more times. “I’ll text you my address.”
“I don’t have a phone, remember?” The elevator doors open just as I thrust my notebook at him. “Here, write it down.”
With a huff of frustration, he scribbles down his address then steps into the elevator.
I shake my head. “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
He pushes a button, and as the doors close, I hear him mutter, “Can’t wait.”
When I turn around, Devin is standing there with a smug expression. “Your new author has an amazing work ethic. And I’m impressed that it’s only been a few hours, and yet he already has zero respect for you. That has to be a record.” He laughs. “Oh, this is going great.”
“Shut up, Devin.”
I limp back to my desk and collapse into my chair, supremely exhausted and in need of a large glass of wine and a whole-day nap.
“He left?” Joanna says as she sits beside me.
“Yeah. Something came up.”
Joanna grabs the mints dispenser I keep on my desk and helps herself to one. “I feel there’s an erection joke in there, but considering your history with him, I’ll spare you.”
“Thank God.”
“So,” Jo says, leaning forward and lowering her voice. “Were you thinking what I was thinking?”
“That you wanted to murder Jake? Totally.”
“No, I mean about his lady love. What’s her name again?”
“Ingrid.”
“Right! Don’t you want to track her down and see if she did get back with her ex-boyfriend? I mean, maybe she’s pining and miserable like Jake is? And if that’s the case, we have to do something about it.”
“Jo, no. If Jake knew I was meddling in his love life, he’d hit the roof. I don’t need any more tension in our working relationship.”
“Okay,” she says, more subdued. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t do some snooping. In my time off, of course. What else can you tell me about her.”
“Nothing. I literally have zero information other than her name.”
“Well, when you find out more, let me know. I’m determined to give that boy a happy ending.”
I smile. “I feel like there’s an erection joke in there somewhere, but I’ll spare you.”
She stands and hands me my purse. “And now, you should go home and get some rest. And shower. I love you and all, but you smell like gutter water. I’ll let Serena know where you are.”
I take my purse and give her a hug. “You’re the best.”
I limp over to the elevator and press the button.
Okay, so … one day from hell done and dusted. Several hundred to go.
TWELVE
____________________
Broken Hearts and Invisible Walls
AFTER A NIGHT OF RESTLESS sleep and Jake-centric dreams, I try to start the morning with a positive attitude. Sure, my knee and hip hurt like sons-of-bitches, and I’m forced to cover the spectacular bruising with jeans, but at least my head didn’t start bleeding again when I washed my hair this morning, so, you know … I’m calling that a win.
I breathe in the cool October air as I limp-stride down the street toward Jake’s apartment. It’s a gorgeous day in Brooklyn, even with the distinctive roar/thump of cars crossing the bridge providing the most unmusical background noise imaginable. But despite the sunlight glinting off the Hudson, I feel a sense of unease curling through my mind.
Part of it has to do with Jake and his unpredictability, sure. But even without his presence, there’s so much about autumn that puts me on edge.
Fall used to be my mother’s favorite time of year. She loved how the trees all went from boring green to an infinite range of reds and oranges, and she had the uncanny ability to predict the first winter snow by studying the giant tree in Jake’s front yard. I have no idea what type of tree it was, but it was beautiful, especially in autumn. I’d often find Mom on our tiny front porch in the mornings, sipping her coffee and gazing at the shimmering foliage.
“That’s the tree of love,” she’d say every year. “See how she’s all red, like a love heart? Every day, she reveals a little more of herself to us. Each leaf falls like it’s in love with the ground, and then one day, there she is, her barest self, naked and unashamed.” She gazed at me with her kind blue eyes, framed in a face made old before its time by heartbreak and working three jobs to support us. “That’s what it’s like to fall in love.”
I was always surprised by how wistful she got whenever she talked about love. Even as a toddler, I wasn’t blind to how often my parents fought. I heard the mostly-whispered but sometimes-yelled arguments. I knew that they struggled to put on a brave face for me and Eden.
And yet, mom always seemed like part of her was living in a romantic fantasy. One in which dad never disappeared for weeks at a time. One where she didn’t feel the need to close her door at night, so we couldn’t hear her cry.
Even
with all her problems with dad, she’d talk about love like she’d never been hurt. She told me that a soul mate is someone who sees all the parts you’re ashamed of, and loves you anyway.
When I asked her if that’s how she felt about Dad, her eyes would cloud over, and she’d say, “The only thing worse than not finding your soul mate, is finding him and realizing you’re two parts of the same train traveling in different directions.”
It was the only time I remember Mom saying anything negative about Dad to me and Eden, and that always infuriated me. We knew how much he hurt her, but she was too damn stubborn to admit it. I guess that’s one thing she passed down to her girls: We Tate sisters aren’t great at admitting our vulnerabilities.
I’m not sure if the way Dad treated Mom is one of the factors that has prevented me having a fulfilling, intimate relationship with a man, or whether there’s part of me that’s just not wired right. I thought I’d finally had a sense of soul-mate-dom when I met my current man, but it evaporated every time we got naked together.
Whenever I see girls my age embracing the power of their sexuality and taking pleasure wherever they can find it, I feel a little more broken; like a walking sexual defect whose body shuts down as soon as a man sees the entirety of it. I keep waiting for that magical moment when I stand naked in front of someone and don’t want to flee the room, but so far, it hasn’t happened. Sometimes, I wonder if it ever will.
As I continue past converted warehouses and too-trendy cafes, I absently go to pull out my phone to check if I’m going in the right direction. Then I remember it was stolen, and the old iPhone Eden loaned me last night feels clunky and ancient in comparison. Guess I’m going to have to save up if I want to replace it in the near future.
I’m about to put it away again, when it buzzes with a text. It’s from my sister.
As one of the organizers of the Romance Central event tonight, Eden wants to do Max proud by looking her best. However, her idea of formal makeup consists of mascara and lip gloss, so I’ve offered to do her face.
I put the phone away and sigh. I’m glad to have an excuse to swing by her office. I’ve been meaning to do it for a week, but the whole Jake thing has distracted me.
By the time I’m standing in front of the building I think is Jake’s, I’ve officially landed in an area that’s too dilapidated to be cool, even for the most passionate poverty-chic Brooklyn hipsters.
I take a breath before I head up the stairs and push into the tiny lobby. Not locked, and no hint of a doorman? Color me shocked. The building in which Eden and I live might be dated and not in the best condition, but it looks like the Versailles compared to this place.
I climb up six flights of stairs then knock on what I hope is Jake’s door.
There’s no response.
As I stand in the filthy hallway, I check the address Jake scrawled yesterday to make sure I have the right place. Unfortunately, I do. I bang on the door for a second time. It echoes down the hall and through the entire stairwell. I’m not sure, but I think I hear the faint scratch of rats somewhere below me.
“Dear Goddess,” I whisper. “If you get me out of here without me getting murdered or catching some form of bubonic plague, I’ll be eternally grateful.”
I adjust my heavy laptop bag as I look around warily. The entire place looks like it should be condemned. Several of the doors are boarded up, and I have no doubt this is the former residence of a plucky horde of serial killers. Or crack addicts. Or crack-addicted serial killers who trained rats to kill people and then eat the evidence.
Yep, just keep thinking like that, Ash. What you need right now is more fear.
I knock again, and still, no one answers. Is this another one of Jake’s stupid jokes? Send Asha to an abandoned building, and laugh when she gets murdered? Hilarious!
I hit the door with more gusto. “Stone! If you’re in there, you’d better open up. I’m too young and pretty to be rodent food!”
I hear a faint noise on the other side of the door and then shuffling steps getting closer.
Oh, God. It’s not Jake at all. It’s going to be the love child of Hannibal Lecter and Leatherface, isn’t it? He’ll chainsaw me, and then I’ll be served up as taco meat to unsuspecting diners.
I hold my breath when I hear latches being freed then take a tentative step back as the door swings open. My breath rushes out of me in relief when I see Jake’s blinking, barely awake face. Then I become completely breathless when I notice he’s naked except for a pair of black sweat pants that are barely hanging onto his hips.
Sweet mercy.
Yes, I’ve seen his body in Professor Feelgood photos. And yes, his shoulders and arms were in close proximity to my filth-covered body yesterday. But now that I’m exposed to the full force of his naked torso mere inches away, I despise how fast my blood pounds in response.
Oh, Lord, help me look away. Do not let me stare at his ripped bod. Nothing good will come of it.
I drag my gaze up to his face to remind myself that it’s Jake, the Annoying.
“Sorry, lady,” he says, while stifling a yawn. “But you’ve got the wrong apartment. I didn’t order a screaming shrew wake-up call.” He goes to shut the door, but I put my hand on it and push.
“Funny, because I didn’t order an ill-tempered jerkwad, and yet, here you are. You couldn’t set an alarm?”
“Could have. Forgot to.”
“At least tell me you’re not hungover.”
“Nope. In fact, I think I’m still a little drunk.”
I look at him in disgust. “Good to see you have your priorities straight. Can I assume that you bailed on me yesterday so you could socialize with women of questionable taste?”
He leans one arm against the doorframe and rubs his head, thus turning his thick, dark hair into a chaotic mess. “You know me, Tate. Total party animal. Dancing ‘til dawn with my extensive harem is my mission in life.”
I resist laughing. I don’t know anyone less likely of having a good time than Jake. The only school dance he ever attended was senior prom, and even then, he ruined the entire night for everyone he encountered.
Ah, good times.
“So, are you going to invite me in?” I ask. “Or do you expect me to pole vault over your giant landmass of a body to get inside?”
He takes a halfhearted step to the side. “Sorry. I forgot vampires can’t enter without being invited. Come in, Succubus. Mi casa, and all that.”
As I walk past him into the apartment, I promptly stop short. I’m not sure what I was expecting based on the crappy state of the building, but it wasn’t this. The apartment is huge, but it’s been completely gutted. There are no interior walls, just bare wood framing denoting where the bedrooms and kitchen would be. It’s bizarre. Like an apartment version of a skeleton. No skin or muscles, just bare bones.
There’s only one real room, and that’s a small, dated bathroom near the door. The rest of the space looks like someone ran out of money halfway through renovations and then Jake moved in.
“Wow. I love what you’ve done with the place.”
Jake yawns and closes the door as I look around. Beneath a huge bank of windows, there’s a sitting area with two shabby couches, an easy chair, and a coffee table that looks like it literally fell off the back of a truck. A few yards away is a queen-sized bed in a beat-up wooden frame that seems way too small for someone of Jake’s size. On the floor beside it are a collection of boxes and baskets. The only other area of note is what I assume to be the former kitchen. Now it’s empty, except for a table, a single burner hotplate, a small collection of cups, plates, and pans, and the kind of tiny bar fridge they have in cheap motel rooms.
I’ve heard of Spartan living before, but this is extreme.
“You should really have a word with the homeowne
rs’ association,” I say. “Are they aware someone stole your walls?”
Jake brushes past me on his way toward the ‘kitchen’. “Stow your judgment, princess. Not all of us need to live in castles.”
“No argument there, but do you have to live in a demolition site?”
“The rent is reasonable, and I have plenty of room to practice my swing dancing. What more could a guy want?” When he gets to the table, he fills a small saucepan with water from a gallon bottle. “I’d offer you coffee, but I know you don’t drink it.”
“I do, actually.”
He turns to me with a doubtful expression. “Since when?”
“Since senior year. Four cups a day, every day.”
“But you hate it.”
His assumption that he still knows anything about me grates on my nerves. “Just because I once said I hated coffee when I was eleven, doesn’t mean I don’t like it now. I know this will be a radical concept to you, Jake, but people change.”
He turns back to set the saucepan and mutters, “Yeah. Some more than others.” He grabs two cups. “So, how do you have it?”
I walk over to the couch and put my computer bag on the table. “Weak, white, four sugars.”
He grunts. “Yeah, clearly, you love the taste now. It’s like you’re an entirely different person.”
I ignore him as I take off my coat and unpack my laptop and notebook. Against my will, my gaze occasionally wanders over to his naked back. The ink I’ve seen glimpses of in his pictures is on full display, but I can’t see it clearly enough to make sense of it. I can only assume he’s had, “I’m a dick,” inscribed in several different languages and various pictograms.
I tilt my head and wonder how many hours of exercise he has to subject himself to in order to keep his body in super-human shape. I mean, I doubt he got all those muscles from occasional bouts of Prancersize.
As I watch, he rolls his neck before stretching his arms behind him, completely indifferent to me being there.
It’s so weird to me how guys have such confidence in their bodies; even ones who don’t look like Jake. So often in New York when the mercury is firmly in the red zone, guys of all shapes and sizes just wander around shirtless, without exhibiting an ounce of self-consciousness. As girls, we’re told not to wear certain types of clothing unless we’re a certain size. “No chick bigger than a size two should wear booty shorts/tank tops/miniskirts.” Meanwhile, guys are all, “BEHOLD MY JIGGLY MAN BOOBS AND BEER GUT IN ALL THEIR NAKED, SWEATY GLORY! HOLD YOURSELVES BACK, LADIES!”