Page 3 of Hard to Love

And while I’m in control of the situation.

Time to go.

“Finn?”

“Clients. I have clients,” I mutter as I step and trip over one of her numerous piles of clothes on the floor.

Note to self: stay away from the boho-chic chicks. They have too much shit everywhere.

Oh, but then there are the Kama Sutra positions they love . . .

“Clients? It’s two in the morning. What do you mean clients?”

Fuck. It is two.

“I just got a text. He got himself into trouble. I need to deal with him.”

For the love of God, just get me out of here.

“Come back to bed,” she says, and I can hear her pat the mattress as if that will convince me.

“No. I got a text.” I slip on my other shoe and successfully avoid any other run-ins with the corner of a piece of furniture. “A client got in an altercation and needs my help.”

“I thought you were an agent. Not a lawyer.”

“I’m their . . . everything.” But I’m not yours. I push the button on my phone so the screen lights up in the dark and it looks like I’m getting a text. “See? That’s him again.”

She huffs loudly before flopping back on the bed—a sound that feels victorious for me so long as I don’t trip on another pile of her crap before I get out the front door. “So, see you tonight?” she asks, hope tingeing the edges of her tone.

“Um, I can’t. I have to catch a flight to Michigan,” I make up on the fly.

“Michigan?”

Michigan? Where the hell did that come from?

“Yeah. I don’t know when I’ll be back.” I stop at the door and look back at her for effect. I know she’s looking—chicks always do—and the last thing I want to do is be a dick when I’m dumping her. I mean, she doesn’t know it, but I am.

“Okay, then. Call me when you get back?”

“Of course.”

And with that, I bolt for the front door as I slip my hand into the arm of my dress shirt, desperate to be out of this patchouli-smelling, crystal-filled apartment on the Lower West Side.

I wait until I’m out of the building and away from her to breathe a sigh of relief.

Glad to have that distraction over with.

Or at least until I have to dodge her phone calls and texts that no doubt will be coming in a few days.

STEVIE

THE MUSIC IS LOUD ON the pool deck before me. One hundred or so people in bathing suits dance on the small stage with their hands up and alcohol sloshing over the sides of their glasses onto those around them.

But nobody cares.

They’re here in Las Vegas to party.

To let loose.