With one minor hiccup: she’s not Vicky.
I tilt my head, considering her. Rita watches me hungrily, probably thinking I’m considering her offer. What I’m really doing is working out what she’s lacking—or whatever it is Vicky has.
False fingernails, painted a dark burgundy. Vicky’s are always short and natural. Heavy makeup, but in her defense, competently applied. Vicky owns a hundred lipsticks, because I bought them for her, wears maybe two different shades, and rarely at that. Rita’s dark-haired with olive skin, reflecting her subtle Latina heritage; Vicky’s a pale blond. Rita’s curvier, favoring blouses a size too small, her breasts weaponized, and never more than now while her fingers toy with that button. Vicky dresses elegantly or—to my constant irritation—in baggy hoodies. Though she’s cute walking around the house in her thin pajama bottoms.
And none of this answers my own question.
It’s vulnerability. That’s what it is. That’s what’s utterly missing in the woman before me, and so damn appealing in her.
The way Vicky stands very still. Fiddles with her engagement ring. Bites at her lip. Holds her breath without realizing it. The baseline softness that lives inside her bearing.
That’s what calls to me, and Rita has none of it. It’s Vicky’svulnerabilitythat drives me crazy, that makes me want to possess her. Yes, Rita probably would be a great lay; her quality is the raw sensuality that Vicky wholly lacks.
The stark difference between them is now so obvious that I wonder why I hadn’t consciously registered it before. I mentally file that for later.
I pick up my bag, walk around my desk, passing Rita as she subtly slumps in rejection in her chair.
It’s not ideal; I still have to work with her. Besides, if Vicky never comes back, I might need a replacement to keep DeLuca happy.
I pause with my hand on the door. “Your offer has merit. See you on Monday.”
Rita straightens, a shade of her confidence returning, and I hold her gaze for just long enough.
Then I’m through the door, closing it behind me before I give away what I’m really thinking.
Vicky never coming back?
I’m going over there right now to ensure that doesn’t happen.
Five
Alex
It’s getting dark and sleeting as I step out of the cab and look up at the apartment building in Brooklyn. Carol Jenkins has a two-bed condo, which she’s either renting, or she’s doing very well for herself. I can’t place the face, but assuming she’s Vicky’s age, it’s the former.
Apartment 3B, on the top floor, with an intercom system on the door. I don’t want to introduce myself through that; too easy for Vicky to say no.
Instead, I hit a random button, then another when there’s no answer at the first. Apartment 2A strikes lucky.
“Hello?”
I add a rasp to my voice and affect a local accent. “Amazon delivery. Bit heavy andgetting wet, if you don’t mind…” The door clicks as the lock disengages. “…thanks.”
Probably shouldn’t have thanked them. It didn’t fit the role.
It’s only three stories and the stairs are right there, so I skip the elevator and head on up, shaking the water off my coat. Studiously ignoring the occupant of 2A as I pass the second floor, who’s waiting expectantly in their doorway.
With only four units to each floor, I’m forced to upgrade my appraisal of Jenkins’s wealth. I wonder if she was a peer of Vicky’s. If so, my fiancée was doing better than I thought in her previous role. Either that, or Jenkins isn’t the right friend—a manager perhaps, or a network connection—and I’m wasting my time.
In irritation, I rap on her door, the strikes sharp. The sound of footsteps lets me know she’s in, at least.
The woman who opens up is Vicky’s age. Short, frizzy blond hair, and wearing glasses. Friendly face… until her eyes harden in recognition.
“Shit. Ben and Jerry’s.”
We must’ve met early in my relationship with Vicky, because this woman’s vaguely familiar and clearly knows me. But I don’t grasp the reference of the ice cream slang. It must be trending or something.
“Good evening. Is Vicky in?”
