“Oh, of course. Should Marie prepare the guest bedroom?”
“Not this time, Mom. I’ll see you later.”
Half an hour passes, but we’re not much closer to our destination, stuck in rush-hour traffic on Fifth Avenue. Spades fiddles with every button, inspecting the car as if he teleported here from the eighteenth century and can’t comprehend what witchcraft this is. More boring minutes pass while I busy myself with people-watching. And that’s when I spot Layla among the crowd of nameless faces. With a concerned look on her pretty face, she walks in the opposite direction to where we’re heading.
My pulse throbs everywhere; in my ears, in my veins, in my fingertips. I’m palpitating, bursting with conflicting emotions that sink their teeth into my insides, biting off big chunks.
Spades pulls away from the traffic lights, crossing a busy intersection, oblivious to the anarchy seizing my mind. I grip the seat with both hands this time, clawing at the black leather. With each tattered breath I force into my lungs, I lose more restraint.
No, it couldn’t have been her.
I didn’t see her.
It wasn’ther.
No fucking way.
Even if, she doesn’t deserve me. Not in the slightest. Never did. Never will. She’s a ghost from the not-so-distant past, and she should stay there. I loved her, but I’m over it. I’m overlovein general. As far as I’m concerned, the idiotic notion is well and truly dead in the water, buried under ten feet of rubble.
She’s less than a hundred yards away, still walking. A sheet of brown hair cascades down her back, swaying from left to right. I grip the seat harder, anchoring myself in place. I can't move. I need to stay where I am and let her go. She doesn’t deserve me. Her betrayal is all that matters.
Jesus Christ...
Who the fuck am I kidding?
I just want to touch her.
Kiss her.
Lock her in my arms and never let go.
I want to hear her sweet whispers in my ear and see my own reflection in those mesmerizing big, gray eyes of hers.
“Stop the car,” I rasp, my throat so dry even I don’t understand the order. “Stop the car!” I unfasten the seatbelt, my hands shaking like those of an alcoholic with empty pockets.
Spades slams on the brakes, and I leap out of the car before the wheels stop completely. A cacophony of horns rises above natural street noise the second I take the first step, forcing one of the drivers to veer off to the side. It’s a blur, a smudge of dark colors dotted with yellow cabs. Layla’s the only thing I see in full HD mode.My heart races as I sprint across the busy road, not daring to spare a glance at the oncoming traffic and lose Layla out of my sight.
I brace against the hoods of different cars, bounce from one to another, and stop the drivers, pushing through the busy street. My stomach wraps itself around my spine, the rumble of horns louder and louder.
I’m thirty seconds away from seeing her pretty face, from touching her petite body and tasting those plump lips. I can almost fucking taste the sweetness of her mouth, feel the warmth of her breath and silk of her tongue. In thirty seconds, I’ll have her back. My relentless attempts to hate her come to an abrupt halt, leaving no trace, no proof that I ever wondered if she’s worth the trouble.
I can’t hate her.
I can only love her with everything I have.
I reach the pavement, elbow my way through the crowd of pedestrians, shoving them aside, ignoring the outragedhey’s and watch-where-you’re-goings.I wasted almost two weeks, rebelling against every fiber in my body, trying to convince myself that her betrayal matters, that it can’t be forgiven... what a fucking waste of nights and days.
Frank’s plan might’ve been the sole reason we met, but Layla lost herself in me somewhere along the way. She chosemeand killed her father...thatmatters. The power of her feelings matters. She proved I’m the one she wouldn’t be able to live without when she sacrificed her father to protect me.
Turning right, she descends the stairs to Bryant Park subway station. I chase after her in my tailor-made suit, a pair of fifteen-hundred-dollar shoes, and a gun under my jacket. My chest heaves with effort. My heart slams against my ribs, straining to pump enough blood into my veins. Another twenty seconds pass before I get onto the platform.
Five seconds too late.
The subway is on the move. Layla’s in the second wagon, her back against the window. As the subway nears a bend, she turns to look out onto the platform
But it’s not Layla.
The girl stares out of the window, unaware of the agonizing damage her unfamiliar face causes in my system. I grab a handful of hair at the back of my head and tug hard in a half-assed attempt to override the mental pain with a physical one.