Page 294 of Hell Hath No Fury

Hell, it was all I ever wanted to do, too.

But tonight, there was an itch on the back of my neck, a feeling like I was being watched, and for the first time in a long time, I was a bit afraid.

Tucking my hands into the pockets of my jeans, I hunkered down and started walking, the feeling of eyes on me chasing me down the street as I went.

I figured ignoring it was the right choice.

The wind was cold as it blew down the darkened street, making me wish I’d brought a jacket. I was a summer girl, through and through, and I really hated to give in to fall sooner than I had to, but maybe the end of September was pushing it. Walking past Murray’s shop, the windows all dark at this hour, I huddled close to Frankie as she talked, filling me in on all thethings that had happened in her life over the last six months since we’d really spoken. The woman had been through a lot, that was for sure. Talk about dramatic.

“Well,” I said, trying to be positive. “I hope things are better for you out in Las Vegas. Maybe when you get settled, I’ll come for a visit.” That was unlikely, but I wasn’t about to tell her that. “I would love to see the Strip, maybe win some big jackpot. It would be epic.”

“I’d like that, Ricki. And it’s not like I’ll never be back in New York. My family is still here.” She tried to sound optimistic about that fact, but the frown on her face had me thinking she didn’t really believe her own words.

“Frankie, do you think—” I froze as a sound came from behind us, like someone had bumped into a trash can or something. Spinning around, Frankie stepped in front of me, both of us searching the darkened street for signs of movement. I couldn’t see anything, but the sensation of being watched crawled over my skin like slime, the feeling making me want to scratch wildly to try to remove it.

“I don’t see anyone,” Frankie whispered, her posture relaxing, but only slightly. I wasn’t sure what she expected to be able to do. I mean, neither of us was big enough to fight, and no matter how scrappy my personality, I wasn’t one for throwing hands.

Not if I could help it, anyway.

But I realized in that moment how stupid it actually was for us, two women, to be out on these streets alone at this time of night. I was all for empowerment, but the sad reality was, we would always be at a disadvantage in situations like this.

“Come on.” Frankie started walking backwards, seemingly not willing to turn her back on whatever had made that noise. “Let’s get our asses on the subway. I’m seriously not in the mood for this shit tonight.”

By the time Frankie had left me—her lack of excitement at returning to her husband palpable—and I’d made it back to my own apartment in Glendale, I was freaking exhausted and alarmingly sober. All I wanted was to climb in my bed and sleep for a day and a half. Swinging by the mailbox in the lobby, I pulled out the giant stack of bills and junk mail that had been stuffed inside, figuring it had been at least three weeks since either me or my roommate Violet bothered to check it.

Who wanted to get the mail when it was only full of bills and bullshit anyway?

Tossing the stack of mail on the coffee table, I ditched my shoes and headed to my bedroom, letting out a breath as I closed the door behind me. Undressing quickly, I didn’t even bother taking off my makeup as I crawled beneath the covers, settling down with a satisfied moan.

Yeah. This was the life.

I was asleep in no time.

CHAPTER FOUR

Ricki

The glow of the early morning sun filtered through the dirty window, the dull yellow light making me squint as it filled my room with its unwanted presence.

Blinking hard, I glanced at my phone, seeing that I’d barely gotten five hours of sleep.

Served me right for trying to have a social life, I guessed. Sitting up, I stretched and yawned, feeling the gummy evidence of last night’s mascara caked in the corners of my eyes.

Yeah, a shower was first on my list, for sure.

Once I was cleaned and scrubbed, I popped back into my room to get dressed. Knowing I didn’t have to be at work until later in the afternoon—and not having much else to do before then—I headed to my dresser to grab a pair of pajama pants and a faded t-shirt to lounge in.

My eyes drifted around my bedroom as I dressed, the small, sparse space looking hardly any different from when I’d originally moved in two years ago; the walls blank and empty, a single dresser and a queen-sized bed, the only items in the room besides my small, beloved, plant stand.

The one piece of furniture in the room that showed any personality, my plant stand was a narrow wrought iron shelf that I’d picked up off the side of the road one day, bringing it back and adding a little spackle spray paint that had happened to be on sale. The result was a nice antique finish on a shelfthat had probably been mass produced back in the early 90s, but whatever. It served its purpose.

And that purpose was my garden.

Growing up in the city, green space had always been at a premium. My family had lived right in the heart of Manhattan, so accessing Central Park was never a problem, but I’d always loved the idea of growing things. Having a tiny, delicate life that I was solely responsible for seemed like the first step to growing up in my very childish view of the world.

After a while, I’d convinced my dad that I could manage a small garden on the roof of our building, a few pots clustered together where I cultivated tomatoes, onions, peppers, and a few other special plants and flowers I’d managed to acquire. I found the whole thing incredibly rewarding, and adored being able to feed myself from my own little veggie patch.

But when things with my family had fallen apart, I’d had to leave almost all of them behind, only being able to keep my most precious plant babies with me, having to settle for the plants most important to me. The ones I’d worked the hardest to nurture and grow.