2. Hot Child in the City
1734 Words
Hot Child in the City
PENELOPE CASTALANO
BEEEEEPPPPP!!
“f**k you!”
The cab barely missed me. A big yellow blur came speeding past my nose, and the second my high heels hit the edge of the curb, squealing tires came barreling past them.
To be honest, it nearly killed me. My first day back—finally returned to the only place that ever felt like home, and I almost lose a foot… or maybe something worse.
The air was thick, still ripe with Indian summer heat, and I almost inhaled the honking car’s exhausts. I could barely breathe. My under-boob was sweaty, and my stomach was growling with hunger, but as the cab raced by, I raised my middle finger in the air. I waved it like a peace flag overhead, bidding the yellow taxi goodbye. I sighed with relief.
I was back in New York.
My stint in Paris had stunted my cursing by three-fold, and I knew I sounded like a crazy person, but holy s**t, that felt good. It was the first English expletive I’d been able to use in two months… and I was just glad that it didn’t go to waste.
I’d known my fair share of French swear words. But it was something—something about the ease of English, the fluidity with which f**k rolled off the tongue that I’d probably missed the most.
I was back in my element. I was back in my home office. And I was back to break the pact between me and Jax.
If only he’d let me… But maybe he never would.
Three unanswered letters, countless unopened e-mails and Jackson Reed had somehow managed to make sure that I kept our agreement in tact. To leave him alone, for good. He should have known that I couldn’t.
I couldn’t pull my plan off without him, and even if he hated me, even if he wanted nothing to do with me outside of what I was asking, he still owed me this one deal. With the exception of that “unplanned vacation” eight weeks ago, I’d made good on my promise. It wasn’t my f*****g idea to come back to New York that night. I wasn’t the one who booked that hotel. I wasn’t the one who started that kiss… I think back to that day. That hotel. That dusty little room where it all went down. Me still choking from jet engine fumes. We’d just helped our childhood friend escape the country on a tiny spit of land that barely passed for a runaway.
And I was spent.
My emotions were high. Panic had clogged my throat. And five minutes after the flight pulled off, I was stuck. Handcuffed to a man who wanted nothing to do with me. Trapped in a distant off-the-road spot, leaving my job, my home, my life behind as we waited for the cloud of gun smoke we left in New York to clear.
I could admit: I wasn’t in my right mind. Neither was Jackson, probably. At least, that was the excuse I liked to give myself on days like this when he invaded my thoughts.
I took a breath, inhaling the smell of the sweat, the streets, all the familiar trappings of a busy Manhattan afternoon.
The stench of sidewalk garbage and sewer finally reached my nose and by the time I made it back to my office building, I thought the memory of our last night together would have been gone, swept away by the ambience of the city, drowned in a sea of sensation and noise. But no such luck. Jackson Reed’s touch haunted me still. Eight weeks had passed… and yet if I concentrated hard enough, I could still smell him. I could still feel his breath on my skin. If I was being even more honest with myself… I’d admit that he’d left an imprint on my body long ago, his touch emblazoned down to the bone for what was the longest fifteen years of my life.
Fifteen years. God, I couldn’t believe it’d been that long.
An air-conditioned breeze put an additional chill underneath my skin, and I tried to leave the memory of Jackson in the lobby of my office building. Up the elevator, past my secretary Sienna, I power-walked nervously into the comforts of my own sanctuary. With shaky hands, I retreated back into my office. And I made a conscious decision to ignore it all.
I ignored my ringing office phone. I ignored my messy desk. I ignored the Chinese my secretary brought in, and I even dismissed the frilled piece of paper sticking up in the middle of all the clutter…
I’d had the nerve earlier to act like the fluff—that invitation, that over-the-top event, was the reason I was coming back to New York in the first place. But I knew it wasn’t.
The second I took my hand off the doorknob, I let the nerves run through my body the way they really wanted to. I let my heart beat the way it wanted to. I let the space between my legs clench the way it really wanted to…
Because I couldn’t do the one thing I really wanted to… which was to call Jackson.
I didn’t want to hear his voice. Couldn’t. It would only conjure up more reminiscing about what happened two months ago. About what happened four years ago.
About the blood on my hands that I still couldn’t wash off and the stench of failure that had followed me ever since.
It wasn’t that I liked Jackson. At least, not anymore. He’d blamed me for the derailing of his career, and I’d blamed him for mine.
Our mutual best friend, Bishop, was the glue between us, the only tie holding us together, and if not for him, we would have had nothing to do with each other.
Honestly? I’d never thought I’d see him again after we’d help Bishop disappear. Or maybe I just hoped I wouldn’t…
I picked up the phone to dial his number and found myself hesitating. I pressed the button for another name instead and hit the button for FaceTime.
Three rings later, she picked up.
“Bonjourrrrrr, Mademoiselle.” Just hearing her voice made me smile. She put her face closer to the phone. “Holy hot s**t. Paris has been goooood to you,” she drawled. “You look amazing, Peabody.”
Self-conscious, I shifted on my feet.
“Thanks, Del. When you work hard and don’t have time to eat, these are the results.” I snorted softly.
Her smile turned into a frown, and in classic older sister fashion, she launched into a lecture.
“Aw, hell, Pea. You can’t keep doing this to yourself. No respectable New Yorker passes on food; I don’t care how much work is involved. Now how many New York pizzas do I have to stuff down your throat before you revert back?” She narrowed her eyes. “But seriously… how was France? I’m so glad you’re back.”
“France was…” I thought for a second, looking up at the ceiling. “French.” I laughed. “And don’t give me that s**t. You’re in Hoboken. You’re the one who needs converting.”
“Jersey is a hop, skip and a jump away.”
“Sure it is,” I commented innocently. “Just take a right at the chemical plant, swim over the sea of hoagies and hairspray, and you’ll be right back in the City. But I swear to f*****g God, if you came back here with a spray tan, I’ll…”
Delilah chuckled. “Get outtaaa here,” she drew out in the thickest New York accent I’ve ever heard.
My sides were hurting. It felt so f*****g good to c***k up in the presence of someone who understood, someone who got me, someone who knew how elated—and terrified—I was to be back home.
“Soooo,” Del sighed on a trailing laugh. “Have you seen him yet?”
I wiped a tear, giggling. “Him? Him who?” I huffed. “Bishop? Del, you already know the situation, and I…”
“No,” she interrupted. “Not Bishop. The other him. Jax.”
I stopped. “You mean the ‘bane of my existence’?”
“Pea…” she started to warn me.
“No. Okay?!” I cut in. “I haven’t seen him yet.” I kicked off my high heels, sitting. “But I’ve tried.”
“And by tried, you mean ‘made the least amount of effort possible’?
“Well…” s**t, Del knew me all too well. “I’ve been doing what I can.”
“Well, try harder.” She blew out a long breath, analyzing me through the camera. “Look, Peabody, I know why you’re back. And I’m not saying that I agree with it, but I know you can’t do it alone. Stop carrying the world on your shoulders. Let someone else help you with the weight.”
I crossed my legs, placing the edge of my index finger on my bottom teeth.
“Don’t put your fingers in your mouth,” my sister warned warmly. “They’re dirty.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“I’m for real, Pea.”
“I know,” I pouted.
“Call him…” Her brown eyes bored into mine through the FaceTime.
I rolled my own eyes. “I will.”
She threw up her little finger. “Pinky promise?”
I exhaled loudly, sitting up straighter. “Del, what? We’re way too f*****g old for that. I mean, you are…”
“Pinky promise!” she squealed shrilly over the line. She squeezed her eyes shut, and I almost burst out laughing into tears again.
“Fine. Shit.” I threw up my own pinky. “I pinky-promise.”
“Good. Now bring your stiff, skinny-minny ass closer to the phone and give me a kiss.”
I smiled and pretended to kiss the camera.
“Take one for yourself,” I mentioned. “And give one to my Melanie.”
“Will do,” she left off. She stuck out her thumb and pinky, placing it to her face, mouthing “Call him” before she ended the face chat.
I gave her one final smile, placing the phone face down before she could see the absolute f*****g fear in my eyes.
Call him.
Like it was so easy. Jackson and I had an arrangement. I was a businesswoman; I always made good on my arrangements. But technically, if I wanted to be a stickler about it, I guess this time didn’t count, because technically…
The two of us had “unfinished business.”
The last time I’d seen Jackson Reed, I’d been his hostage. The first time? His woman.
And I didn’t even want to think about the time in-between those… Back four years ago, when everything changed.
It was all my fault, really. I was the one who roped in Bishop and Jackson on my “master plan”… and it had failed epically. After that, none of our lives would be the same. And so, we made a dangerous deal—Jackson and I. Four years ago, I’d promised to stay the hell out of his life.
Today, he broke his promise…
And now I’m breaking mine.
- Writer
