Page 25 of Heartfelt Pain (Ruling Love #3)

Ren

T revino frowns when I give the driver a new address.

“I need to go inside first,” he says when we pull up to the red-brick building. It’s in a pretty neighborhood and for a second with the blue sky and the lack of honking car horns, it’s a picture-perfect day in New York City.

“What are you going to do?” I ask. “Check behind the shower curtain to make sure a killer isn’t lingering around, waiting for me.”

His scowl deepens.

I pick my bag up, tossing it over my shoulder as I step out of the car.

“Thank you, Luis,” I tell the driver, having learned his name after a week of riding around with him. He nods back but quickly stares ahead when Trevino glares at him.

Trevino walks up to the building with me. “I don’t like this.”

“You don’t like anything,” I point out.

“I haven’t done a full perimeter sweep.” His eyes move from side to side. A little old lady with her rolling grocery bag walks down the sidewalk and he hones in on her .

“Okay, seriously?” I elbow his side. Not to be dramatic, but I’m fairly certain his abs could break bones.

I push a button when we’re at the main entrance.

“Yeah?” comes Isolde’s static-filled voice. I know she’s not surprised because she has her place locked down. She’d have spotted us on the cameras.

“Trevino would just like your confirmation that there’s no one evil inside before you let me in.”

The door unlocks and I pull it open. The bodyguard ducks in behind me.

“You can wait in the car you know.”

“No elevator?” he asks as we head up the stairs.

“Nope.”

“What floor?”

“The top. Sixth.”

“You wanted me to wait in the car so I wouldn’t see you struggle.”

“Fuck you, Trevino.” And a double fuck him when he gets to the correct floor and isn’t a huffing and puffing mess. If he wasn’t here I’d put my hands on my knees and try to catch my breath.

Isolde waits in her doorway. “Hey.”

“H-hi.” Oh God, I’m going to die from lack of cardio.

“I got Pepsi,” she says.

“Thank the lord.” I hobble the rest of the way into her place.

Trevino stands tall right outside the door.

“You can come in?” Isolde offers it like a question.

“Close the door,” I tell her, already falling onto the couch.

Trevino must say something to a similar effect because she closes the door. There’s the satisfying click of the lock, though, we both know that won’t stop Trevino if he wants to get in.

“Tell me when you’re ready to talk,” Isolde says, passing through the living room. The fridge opens and when I crack open my eyes, there’s a can of Pepsi on the coffee table.

I love Isolde’s apartment.

It’s open and airy. When you step through the front door and into the living room the first thing you notice is the massive wall of windows on the opposite side.

Her couch is green and the velvet fabric is soft. There’s a large rug and a brown leather chair. The TV is on and a movie is playing.

To the left is a kitchen tucked partially behind a wall. On the other side of the living room, there are two bedrooms and a bathroom.

It’s small and the building is older but rent-controlled.

The place surprised me the first time I came over. Isolde wears the same outfit every day—a tracksuit, with her hair up. Here, everything is mismatched, yet somehow cohesive.

I don’t know what I pictured her place looking like, but I didn’t think it’d be this calm, gentle den of relaxation.

But there’s nothing as relaxing as Isolde’s place. Or maybe it’s just because she’s my best friend in the whole wide world.

“Did you hear?” I ask, my face smashed into a pillow.

Isolde is by the wall of windows, one propped open. She’s got a joint in her hand. “Lennie texted.”

I expected it. There’s no way she wouldn’t have heard about the intervention.

“Have you heard from Ben?” I ask.

She takes a hit of the joint. “Nah.”

“I’ve been fucking Roma Zimin.”

She takes another inhale of weed. “No shit?”

Isolde tends to always sound like she’s asking questions and this time it’s no different.

“How’d that happen?” she asks. There’s no judgment in her voice and I love her more for it.

“Remember when I went to Hartright’s? ”

She leans an arm on the ledge, taking another hit. “Don’t tell me you found him in one of the rooms?”

“No.” I roll onto my back. My legs dangle over the edge of the arm and I wiggle until my shoes fall off. “Len told him what I was up to. And. . . he showed up.”

Isolde contemplates for a second. “You fuck him?”

“No, but he fingered me in a cab and then I jerked him off until he was about to come and left him there.”

Isolde laughs, dry puffs of air.

She’s this odd mix of stoic sometimes. Her face remains perpetually pale and blank, but her brows move or her shoulders shake with laughter. I always chalked it up to her never wanting to make big movements. It’s best for a triggerman to blend in.

But I think my friend wears apathetic like a second skin. It’s a mask, fixed across her face, to stop anyone from getting too deep.

“Can I borrow some sweatpants?” I ask.

She nods toward her room, happy to oblige but not getting up. I scamper off to her bedroom. The furniture is all made from light-colored wood. There’s another large rug covering the floor. Her laundry is folded and I help myself not only to sweats, but socks and a crewneck.

When I come back into the living room she holds out the joint.

I curl up next to the windowsill, leaning forward. Suddenly I’m no longer Ren Callahan, businesswoman extraordinaire. I’m reminded of my college days. It’s three o’clock in the afternoon and I’m getting high with my best friend.

Of course, it can’t last. I’ve got a meeting at six and the only reason I’m able to hang out now is because someone cancelled on me. Usually, I’d fill the spot. I’ve got people willing to meet me whenever one opens up.

I can’t face Fujimori’s just yet. This morning was hard enough.

“Will you come with me later?” I don’t even bother to work up to it. “To Fujimori’s for dinner?”

She won’t sit at the table when I’ve got customers, but she can eat snacks in the kitchen until they’re gone. We’ve done it plenty of times.

And she must know I don’t want to go alone because she nods.

I hand the joint back to her. She lazily holds it to her lips, staring out at the clear blue sky. “They say it’s going to be a cold winter.”

I don’t know where she gets half the stuff she does. There’s always some article she’s read or story she’s heard. I’m happy to listen to her but she knows it’s not what I really want.

“So you going to keep fucking him or not?” she asks, right to the point.

I rest my chin on the windowsill. “He thinks so.”

She snorts.

“I don’t know,” I answer. “I don’t know why I slept with him again in the first place.”

“Because it’s easy. Because you’re tired and stressed and you fucking wanted coitus.”

I laugh at her use of the word.

“It’s why people fall back into it with people they shouldn’t.”

She passes the joint back.

“Ben looked at me like I’d lost my fucking mind when he found me with Roma last night. And then he looked so fucking disappointed. Like I’m an idiot for going back to the person who hurt me so bad.”

“But how did you feel?” she asks, my own personal therapist .

Seconds tick by as I think. “In that moment? Like a kid being caught when you break the rules. But if you’re asking about the whole ordeal, sleeping with Roma again, I don’t know. Part of me wonders if I’m being lazy.”

“Why?”

“Like you said, people fall back into bad things because it’s all they know. When I was at Hartright’s I just wanted to leave. I didn’t want to put any effort into anything. There’s a reason single people don’t try dating again. That shit sucks.”

“Yeah,” she agrees. “It’s a lot of work, breaking someone new in.”

She wanders to the kitchen and comes back with a pizza box. We each take a cold slice.

“You’re obsessed with perfection, you know?” She licks tomato sauce off her thumb.

“What?”

“Look at you.” She points her pizza at me. “Even in sweatpants you look nice.”

“They’re your clothes.”

“Nobody thinks I’m hot in them when I wear ’em.”

“You’re joking right,” I say despite my mouth full of food.

She pats my cheek. “What’s that? Hundreds of pounds worth of skincare.”

I slap her hand away. “I have sensitive skin.”

“Panties that cost two hundred quid.”

I knew she wouldn’t let that go. “What’s your point?”

“Hooking up with Roma means people will judge you ’cause everyone knows something happened back when you first got here. And you can’t stand that ’cause who wants to be judged. But I know you, Ren. There ain’t nobody who will judge you as hard as you judge yourself.”

“God, you’ve been listening to self-help podcasts or something. ”

She smacks her lips together, grabbing another slice of pepperoni. “I don’t know. Do you think you can move past it? The past.”

“What, you think I should actually consider taking Roma back?”

“I mean you clearly still like him or you wouldn’t be letting him finger you in a cab.”

Isolde’s my safe space, but my cheeks flush anyway.

“You can do whatever you want,” she says. “You can say fuck it, and take him back. You get to make that choice. The question, though, is can you move forward with him. It’s like when couples cheat. You can’t keep holding it over his head, you know.”

Something hard crushes my chest. Last night we did argue about the past. And the conversation isn’t truly over because we’ve never properly had it out.

“Don’t you think it’d be funny,” I ask slowly. “Me dating a mafia prince?”

“Why?” Isolde kills people for a paycheck so admittedly the idea is rather innocent to her.

“I’m a neutral party. A go between for different groups wanting to set up deals. I don’t want people thinking I’m favoring the Russians.”

She chokes on her pizza. “Taking Roma back don’t mean you’re gonna get along with his dad. Pretty sure if anything, you’ll give them worse of a time.”

“But the majority of people will talk.” The rumor mill is strong in this city.

“They always talk. But your business speaks for itself and people will realize that. You’ll charge the same, cut the same deals and all that. People know you’re fair.”

“So you don’t think I’m crazy? For sleeping with him again. ”

“I think you’re insane most days.”

I push her with my foot. It does nothing since she’s leaning against the wall.

“You know if I was a lesbian you’d probably be the love of my life,” I tell her.

“If I were a lesbian I’d look at you and fucking run.”

My mouth drops open and I flick a piece of crust at her. She dodges, laughing.

“Abe filled you in on everything?” I pull my knees to my chest. The window is still open, pushing in a gentle breeze that’s the perfect temperature thanks to my cozy clothes. “You haven’t been by in a while. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” She throws down part of her half-eaten crust. “He called me this morning. After Len.”

“What do you think?” Do you agree with them?

She wipes her hands off using her hoodie. “They shouldn’t have done it at a place like that. At the Zimin’s. But I suppose, since they didn’t know you were sleeping with one of ’em, it seemed strange you’d even gone.”

“Yelena invited me,” I remind.

“Which is also weird. I mean you do work too much, but—”she shrugs—“I’m a childless woman who works a lot too. Don’t mean my life is any less than those with kids and a family.”

“Exactly.” There’s a stupid amount of relief hearing someone else say it, though, I’ve repeated the exact same thing to myself over and over.

“But you know people never complain when men cut their day short to go golfing,” Isolde says.

“I’m not burnt out.”

“But you’re tired aren’t you?”

I frown. “I thought you were on my side?”

“I can’t afford to be tired,” she says.

It’s funny because that’s exactly what she looks like suddenly. If I had more time I’d suggest we lay on the couch and take a nap. We could wake up and order more pizza for dinner. Trevino would just have to deal with it.

Isolde goes on. “If I’m tired and shoot the wrong person it only leads to consequences.”

“I’d say your job has consequences no matter what,” I say softly.

She digs her head into the wall behind her. “Yeah.”

I get what she’s doing. Subtly, pointing out that I can’t afford to make mistakes. Part of me wants to rile at the accusation, but I’m mellowed by the weed and pizza.

That’s why my planner and notes are important. I stay on top of things. But she’s saying if I’m not careful, I could easily mess up an order or send someone the wrong contract. The delicate matters I deal with are a hairpin trigger away from causing a bomb.

Caution Isolde is silently telling me.

It would’ve worked better if it were the only advice I’d received and not Abe and Russ’s lambast of all the mistakes I’m making lately.

I’m left thinking as the shadows in the living room move with the sun.

In a few minutes, I’ll need to put my clothes back on. I’ll stuff my feet back into my heels. I’ll fix my makeup and deal with Trevino’s grumpiness when I tell him Isolde is catching a ride with us. He’ll probably lecture us too, about the weed.

I have four more meetings today and then eight tomorrow plus a call with my accountant. I’m booked solid every day this week and I’m doing a favor for one of my oldest clients by meeting with them on Saturday morning.

When I took over after Aunt Macy, I chugged along until I gained more steam. And then I sped on and on.

The train is in forward motion and if you’d asked me last week I’d say I didn’t want to get off.

But now I’m wondering, how fast is too fast? How long is too long to keep up the momentum?

Am I going to crash and burn like all my friends are worried about?

Or can I keep fanning out the flames and walking through fire like I’ve done for the past five years?