Page 149 of One Killer Night

Goldie

“Call in.”

Noah’s voice is full of gravel, the way it always is in the morning when he first wakes up. And it’s seductive. I grin, holding the phone between my ear and shoulder as I put my boot on, picturing him rubbing his chest.

“I can’t. You know that. Plus, I don’t think you’re seeing this through the correct fiscal lenses. For those of us who are still aspiring to greatness but living in ‘assistant to’ floral positions, it’s great. Work helps with those little things like eating and buying new furniture for our new apartment.”

He laughs. And I love the sound.

The thought makes me smile—even though these last two weeks have been hell. We were almost killed. There were too many interviews with detectives that led to conversations about his legal name change to Noah Adler, which I supported. But it was all stressful. He also got the job in LA, which meant we’d had to separate again.

But that bump in the road is only temporary because today is my last day at work, and then I’m boarding a plane and landing just in time to watch the sunrise with my man.

“Trust me,” I tease, “the wait will be worth it ... I have see-through lingerie.”

He groans, and this time I laugh, which makes me drop my purse while trying to gather all my stuff like a hot mess hoarder.

I sit on a chair by my sister’s entryway as I plop everything in my hands onto my lap, then put on my jacket and gloves. It’s colder than usual for November. But really, I just want to soak him up a little bit longer.

“I miss you,” I breathe out.

He sighs, and I can almost feel it.

“Rexy, trust me. I miss you more.” A meow in the background makes a smile peek out as I pick at the broken polish on my nails. “And I’m not the only one,” he groans. “I’ve been waiting for her to shit in my shoe again, but I think she’s too sad for spite.”

Leave it to me to reconcile a broken home.

“Her love is justified. I feed her the good stuff. But I’m glad everyone’s sad because it’s me that can barely eat,” I tease. “I’m wasting away over here. That’s how much I miss the two of you. It’s honestly worrisome. I might have to call someone soon, like Domino’s.”

He chuckles. “Funny, because I haven’t slept in two weeks. I’ve been a zombie. Bloodshot eyes and all. I bet I get fired soon.”

I kick my feet out, crossing them at the ankle. I love this game.

“Well, at least you can sue for discrimination. Yesterday, I cried all day. The neighbors called the cops. Thought I was unwell, in need of—”

“Sweet lovin’?” he tosses out, cutting me off and making me smile.

“Mmm. Yeah, I think thatwasthe professional diagnosis. One glass of wine and a hefty injection of—”

“Protein? I hear a balanced diet can really improve your mood.”

As his voice wafts through the phone again like pheromones, I giggle and hear him yawn, so I close my eyes, trying to picture exactly where he is in our new bedroom and what that looks like.

“All that’s sad for you. But honestly, I win because I’ve been contemplating entering one of those slapping contests ... just so I can feel again.”

I laugh loudly. “You’re stupid.”

“I’m at rock bottom,” he whines in the most boyish way, and it melts me. “I’m two seconds away from calling your job and begging them to give me my baby.” He groans. “Call out ... call out, call out. Quit and leave right now. I promise I’ll spend all night eating whipped cream off your body.”

I fake cry but mean it, stomping both feet on my hardwood floors.

“You’re the worst,” I gripe, gathering all my crap off my lap and fumbling before shoving it in my purse. With a smile, I add, “I thought you were a feminist. You’re a terrible boyfriend not to support my dreams of money and respect.”

He laughs like a villain while I head to my front door, then lock it behind me as I leave.

“Joke’s on you, Rexy. I am supporting your dreams. I’ll give you plenty to write about. Something I would’ve thought my writer girlfriend would appreciate. Then again, we’ve been apart for two weeks, and not even one poem for me?”

I laugh again. He’s ridiculous. “Are you accusing me of not being a romantic? How dare you, sir.”