Page 24

New York felt nothing like Florida.

The winter in New York had me wanting to go back to Florida, danger be damned.

It was so cold here, it didn’t just touch you—it slipped into your bones, settled under your skin.

The plus side was that no one looked too long, too hard to recognize you.

New York was a good place for hiding, terrible for everything else. I felt safe.

I had cut my hair short. I wore glasses instead of contacts. The acrylics were gone. I was living under my Mother’s maiden name now instead of my fathers, hoping I could stay hidden.

I stopped in front of the high-rise I lived in.

“Ms. Hamilton,” Paul, the doorman—a white Italian dude, tall and lithe, in his forties—greeted me with a nod as I stepped into the building’s lobby.

“Saw another one of your paintings online. That winged one. I knew it was yours immediately.” He made a vague wing-like motion with his hands.

“Damn thing gave me chills.” Paul only knew about my painting because he often helped me carry them out after I’d sold them.

I gave him a tight smile. “Thanks.”

That painting was the first I’d done in years.

After Priest… after everything, the nightmares wouldn’t let me sleep.

I kept seeing a devil with wings torn to shreds, his eyes hollow and angry when I closed my eyes.

I painted it, and it went away. I posted it anonymously.

Just to see what others thought about it.

Someone offered me five thousand dollars for it.

Then they bought the next one.

And the one after that.

Now my inbox was flooded with commissions. I had the money Priest gave me—I never touched it.

I hadn’t meant to become an artist. I’d just liked to paint when I was younger. I’d only meant to vent quietly.

I waited for the elevator because there was no way I was walking up fifteen flights of stairs.

The elevator smelled like someone’s expensive perfume and old regrets. I leaned against the mirrored wall, catching my reflection. I looked as weary as I felt.

When I opened the door to my apartment, the smell of vanilla, nutmeg, and sugar hit me.

“Maya?” I called softly, slipping my boots off at the door.

“In the kitchen,” she shouted back. Her voice was full of attitude. I smiled a little.

I found my sober sister standing at the oven.

She looked so pretty, healthy, and drug-free.

She was too skinny for my liking—all the women in my family were thick or thicker.

Her size reminded me of her drug days. But I pushed that to the back of my mind.

The only thing she got high off these days was sugar.

She turned to face me, giving me a once-over.

“You went out without telling me again.”

“I’m back and fine,” I retorted.

She clicked her tongue. “Miyori , you’re six months pregnant. You can’t be disappearing.”

“I wasn’t disappearing,” I said, easing out of my coat. “I just needed air.”

“You always need air when you’re thinking about him,” she muttered. She came around the counter, snatched the bag from the corner store from my hands, and gave me that look—the big-sister one, even though she was my little sister.

I rolled my eyes and went back to the living room. We had a luxury apartment, fully furnished when we moved in. I sank into the cloud sofa, wincing slightly at the tug in my lower back.

“You could’ve at least taken the car.”

“I didn’t want the car.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re hormonal and stubborn. Bad combo. I'm sick of your ass.”

I didn’t argue. I didn’t have the energy.

She brought me a glass of water and sat next to me. “You know, you could just say you miss him.”

“I don’t want to miss him,” I said, staring at the window, at the city lights, as the ghost of his touch made the hairs on my arm stand on end.

“But you do.”

I looked down at my stomach. My belly was so round now.

I rubbed a hand over it slowly. When I found out I was pregnant, I thought about having an abortion, but I couldn’t make myself.

My mind flashed back to the night I’d pistol-whipped Priest, his crazy ass cumming inside me seconds later.

I hadn’t been taking my birth control because I’d left it athome when I ran away to Tasha's.

I did miss him, though.

And I hated myself for that.

“You could always call him,” Maya said, reaching over to touch my hand.

I snatched my hand back. To her, he was some kind of savior.

She’d gone from being terrified of him to hero-worshipping him because he’d let her live and paid for her rehab—acting like I hadn’t sacrificed for him to do it.

I wasn’t bitter about it, though. She just irked me when she took up for him.

“Not now. Not ever again. Fuck him.”

I said that. But deep down, I still felt like I was waiting for him to come find me.