Underneath, though, this is what I really am. A criminal.
Embezzler. Drug smuggler. Ruthless murderer.
And in Hazel’s case, an unapologetic stalker.
She’s the only woman I’ve ever stalked like that, the only woman who made me want her so badly that there was nothing I wouldn’t do to have her. She embraced me with open arms, like she’d been waiting for me all her fucking life, like I was some kind of antidote to her problems instead of the cause of them.
And it nearly cost her life.
She should have known I would only fuck things up for her. That’s what I do best. It’s the reason I have nobody. No family, no girlfriends, nothing.
I told myself that keeping our relationship under the radar was for her own damn good. But in truth, it was my way of easing the guilt I felt every time we were together. Knowing that I was risking her safety for the sake of my own happiness and sexual pleasure, knowing that I was breaking my rules.
A weak man.
That’s what Hazel turns me into. Bringing me to my knees with just a caress of her hand. And it’s goddamned terrifying.
I pace the length of the penthouse for a while more, waiting for a call from Black. In the end, I can’t take it anymore. Waiting helplessly while Hazel might be in danger. So I throw on my coat and leave, taking matters into my own hands.
4
Hazel
I sleep like a baby,falling asleep easily to visions of Vincent’s panicked expression as I left his hotel room. Waking up the next day to my cell phone alarm, I get dressed in my casual clothes - broken-in blue jeans with frays at the hems, a fitted off-the-shoulder black top, and a pair of black Doc Martens that are far comfier for city walking than my heels from last night.
Today is the day that I make my mark. At least, I certainly hope so.
Kristen and I have been working on this app for over six months now. It’s meant sacrifice, spending weekends and long evenings after our 9-5 jobs plugging away, building the app piece by piece. We’re damn proud of the results, but getting an invite to Startup Week NYC was a stroke of luck. At the very last minute, a different startup had to back out, freeing up a slot for us.
With Kristen’s connections — and by connections, I mean her uncanny way of manipulating a man into giving her anything that she wants — she snagged that free slot before anyone else could. Two days later and we were flying across the country.
It was barely enough time to prepare our presentation. Not to mention the bugs in our app that we fixed at the last minute. Crammed into a middle seat in economy class, I wrapped up the finishing touches on my laptop as we zoomed to New York, towards an event that might very well change our lives.
Vincent being here isn’t a complete surprise. He’s always at things like this, and with me being a software developer, it’s hard not to notice. His face is printed on flyers and projected on billboards all around Silicon Valley.
He’s given talks in San Francisco here and there, and I’ve considered attending them just to see what it would feel like to see him again in person. But through a stroke of bad luck — or maybe good luck — my job always seems to need me to take a trip out of town whenever he’s visited.
But he’s here now. And last night I couldn’t help myself. I swore I’d keep my distance from him but after my dreadful date I was feeling down. When I walked past the hotel where he always stays when he’s in this city, I had to know if he’d booked the same suite where we used to make love.
And he did.
A room that I’d always thought of as our place suddenly looks different in hindsight. That wasn’t “our” place. It was the place where he brought women.
I was simply one of the women. A passing phase. A disposable form of entertainment for a rich man who thought I was good enough to invite to bed, but not quite good enough for anything else.
Cringing inwardly, I try to shake off these thoughts. Enough with this pathetic nostalgia. Vincent is my past; Startup Week NYC is my future.
“Um…good morning,” Kristen says as I make my way to the front lobby where we agreed to meet up this morning to go over our presentation one last time.
“What?” I ask.
She gives my outfit a once-over and I look down at myself, expecting to see a toothpaste stain on my shirt or something.
“Oh, come on,” I groan. “What’s wrong with my outfit? It’s not like I wore a band tee or something. I kept it plain and logo-free, just like you requested.”
“I know, I know,” Kristen sighs, shaking her head. “Just, I thoughtmaybeyou would have packed a blazer. Or some pearl earrings. Or some loafers.”
“No, no, and definitely not,” I say, wrinkling my nose at the thought of wearing loafers. “I’ve told you before, the preppy look isn’t for me.”
