For a moment, he hesitated, and I wondered how I was going to get to my cell that was still back in my bedroom, but then he moved.
“Fuck you, bitch.” As he passed, he shot out a hand and shoved my shoulder. The force was enough that I stumbled backward and smacked into the bookcase I had by the door.
And then he was gone.
Righting myself, I slammed the door shut and clicked the deadbolt. Taking a deep breath, I leaned against the door and slid down to a sitting position on the floor. Harper crawled into my lap without any prompting, her body still trembling, and pushed the top of her head against my chin. I wrapped my arms around her, and for a second, thought I was going to cry.
Shoving the sensation away, I cupped Harper’s ugly little face in my hands and kissed her nose. “Let’s get the hell out of here, girl.”
NO DOUBTI was a slut. And without splitting hairs, I supposed I was a whore too. I had another confession to make. One that was much worse.
I loved a tourist trap.
And my favorite tourist trap of all was Pike Place Market.
The bustling of tourists, the calls of the vendors, the fish being thrown through the air, the smell of sea salt and roasted nuts.
The food.
Oh my God, the food.
Endless fresh produce, the likes and variety never seen anywhere else. The original Starbucks. Bakery items that make France jealous. And cheese.
Beecher’s Handmade Cheese shop.
That’s where Harper and I ended up. Me sitting on one of the upturned milk tureens, dipping my grilled cheese into tomato soup, tossing croutons to Harper where she curled up at my feet. At the first bite of melty, toasted cheese, my entire body relaxed. Before long I was lost to the motions of the cheese makers who stood behind glass and used huge metal paddles to mix the wet ingredients in two cattle-trough-sized vats.
The place was always packed, the jostling crowd blended from the open-air side of the store to people on the sidewalk. I normally tried to eat quickly and allow someone else to have my seat.
That thought didn’t even enter my mind. I sat there long after the sandwich and soup were gone, watching the craftsmen do their thing. Ignoring the vibration of my phone. It was mindless. No thoughts of kisses, accusations, or a possible mental break.
Sadly even Beecher’s cheese, in all its glory, couldn’t offer sanctuary for long.
My phone vibrated again in my pocket.
I continued to ignore it, staring determinedly at the vats of soon-to-be cheese.
It kept vibrating.
Giving a sigh of resignation, I pulled the phone from my pocket and glanced at the screen.
Four text messages. All from Stewart.
With a swipe of my thumb, I brought them to the screen.
11:27I’m sorry about last night and this morning.
11:31Can I book a massage for this afternoon?
11:52What? You’re too good to answer me now?
11: 53Fuck you, Randall! You’re a bitch.
As I stared at the screen, trying to decide if I should be angry or scared, another text came through.
Give me call. Let’s figure this out.
Holy shit. Without more than a second thought, I hit two more buttons to get to the right screen and blocked his number. Maybe not the best decision, but, man, the boy had lost his ever-loving mind.
