Page 50 of The Toy Maker (The Pink Cherrie #1)

FORTY-TWO

I spent the next few days of my life moping around my apartment, a ghost of my former self. I had given up on being reasonable and gave in to complete, unbridled anger toward Pink Cherrie.

At night, I wallowed in self-pity, letting the loneliness settle into my bones like a second skin. The apartment felt different now, hollow and unfamiliar, like a place I had once known but couldn’t recognize. I had spent so little time by myself in the last six months.

Just when I thought I couldn’t take the silence anymore, my phone rang.

The sharp sound cut through the thick fog of my misery, startling me. I figured it was either Jade or Sarah. They hadn’t stopped calling me since I didn’t come in for work on Monday.

I never got around to answering.

I told myself it could have been just another telemarketer trying to peddle a week-long getaway to Jamaica. Either way, picking up was a hard no.

But after the fifth ring, I caved and accepted the call. “Hello?”

I didn’t think I was hoping to hear from anyone in particular, but when my brother’s voice came through the receiver, my heart dropped.

“Hey, sis,” Tristan said with his usual perky tone. “What’s up?”

“Not much, just chilling at home,” I lied. The truth was, I hadn’t left the apartment in days. My reflection in the hallway mirror told me I looked as bad as I felt—dark circles, tangled hair, an overall aura of someone abandoned at sea.

I could hear crackling on the other end. “I thought you’d be working. Mom told me all about your mysterious new job.” Fuck.

I smiled softly. “Sorry you had to live through that.”

Tristan laughed. “So, are you enjoying your job as a CIA agent?”

“I’m not really doing that anymore…” I let myself trail off. My brother, as understanding as he was, didn’t need to know about my recent shortcomings, but the quiver in my voice gave it away.

He was quiet for a second, no doubt listening for a sniffle or sign of trauma. “Are you okay?” he asked carefully.

Tears welled in my eyes when he asked the question I had been avoiding for days. “No, um, I’m not actually, but I will be.” I decided to change the subject before I could fall apart and tell him everything. “How’s Tracy?”

He seemed hesitant to move on but answered anyway, “She’s doing wonderful. You wouldn’t believe it!”

“I can’t wait to see you guys. Christmas really can’t come fast enough.” I fiddled with the tassels at the end of my blanket, the fabric foreign in my fingers, my mind suddenly elsewhere.

“Who says you have to wait until Christmas?”

My eyes widened. “I just figured that with th?—”

Tristan cut me off. “You’re welcome here anytime. Besides, you can help Tracy finish the nursery.”

“Oh, I see,” I laughed, but my heart melted. “You just want free labor.”

His voice dropped to a whisper. “Four times, Tara. We’ve painted that room four times with three different shades of pink.”

“Just be glad you aren’t painting it gray,” I reminded him.

I heard him groan. “Yeah, you have to come help now. You owe me for listening to that lame joke.”

I sighed and looked around my apartment. I wouldn’t be able to afford it come December, not without a job. “Do you really want me to?” I asked, unable to hide the hope from my voice.

“Of course.” I could already picture Tristan’s warm brown eyes on the other end. “Who else am I going to beat at poker?”

“We’ll see about that.” I snorted.

“So you’ll come?” he said hopefully.

I hesitated for a second. “Yeah.”

“Awesome. When can we expect you?”

“Give me a week.” Pulling up stakes in seven days and hauling my ass to Tristan’s wasn’t going to be the hard part. Saying goodbye to the city was. I moved here right after college, determined to make a life of my own.

Well, I had done that, but maybe now it was time to move on to better, healthier things.

So after I ended the call with Tristan and ate my third bowl of Lucky Charms, I formed a plan.

I would go out and paint the town by myself one last time.

I slipped into a tight-fitting dress, one that hugged my curves, and let my hair fall in soft waves around my shoulders. Maybe it was ridiculous, getting all dressed up just to distract myself from the gaping hole in my chest, but I needed something, anything, to take my mind off Jason.

Even if I knew there was a chance I might run into him.

Outside, the night air was damp, thick with the scent of wet pavement and the faint metallic tang of an oncoming storm.

A fine drizzle misted over the city, clinging to my skin as I stepped onto the sidewalk.

The forecast said it would rain all week, and judging by the low-hanging clouds, it had no plans of stopping anytime soon.

But I wasn’t going to let a little bad weather stop me.

I turned onto the familiar alleyway, my heels clicking against the slick pavement. The narrow space was packed with hopeful perverts and thrill-seekers, all eager for a taste of something they couldn’t find anywhere else. Voices mixed with the distant thud of bass leaking through the heavy doors.

I pushed my way to the front, ignoring the leering glances and murmured comments. A small window in the middle of the familiar steel door slid open, revealing a pair of tired, unimpressed eyes.

“Name?”

“Tara Holloway.”

The man grumbled something under his breath, then asked the only question that mattered.

“Password?”

“Please, Mistress, let me come in.” I tried to push out my bottom lip like Sarah, hoping to sell the act, but the guy only chuckled at my attempt.

“Alright, get your ass in here.”

The heavy door creaked open just enough for me to slip through, and I scurried inside before he could change his mind.

A rush of heat hit me immediately, a stark contrast to the cold drizzle outside.

The air was thick with sweat and perfume, while the bass from the speakers thrummed in my chest like a second heartbeat.

I flashed a brief smile at the doorman before making a beeline for the bar, weaving through a sea of bodies pressed too close together for comfort. The room pulsed with dim, crimson lighting, gleaming against metal cuffs and chains dangling from the ceiling.

The bartender was swamped, his hands moving in a blur as he poured shots, shook cocktails, and slid glasses across the counter. Orders flew at him from every direction, but when he finally whipped around with two empty cocktail glasses in hand, his gaze landed on me—and he grinned.

“Well, look who’s back,” he whistled.

“You remember me?” It was hard not to shout over all the music and begging for mercy.

“Course.” He scooped some ice into a new glass and started working his magic. “It’s hard to forget the girl who had Jason’s fingers up her pussy in front of my bar.”

My cheeks burned, but I pushed past the embarrassment. “You know him?”

“Yeah, he was a regular.” He poured something amber-colored over the ice, giving the glass a slow swirl.

I felt like an idiot. I realized then that I was never different from the rest. Jason had probably brought dozens of women here, played the same games, whispered the same filthy words in their ears.

The bartender must have noticed my silence, because he leaned in and said, “I don’t know what you’re packing down there, but it must be pretty damn special.”

I gave him a funny look. “What?”

“He usually just sits over there and watches the show.” He nodded to a corner in the back.

I followed his gaze, my heart quickening when I spotted the empty booth. The leather seating, the vantage point of the entire room—it was perfectly placed for someone who preferred to observe rather than participate.

The bartender slid a drink toward me, interrupting my thoughts.

“What’s this?” I examined the creamy-colored drink.

“A Screaming Orgasm.” He grinned before turning away to help someone else and leaving me to sip on my orgasm alone.

But that was until I heard my name being called from across the room. I turned to see a half-drunk Latina weaving through the crowd.

I prepared myself for the beatdown of the century and chugged as much alcohol as I could before she got to me.

It wasn’t long enough.

Before I could make out one word, Jade tackled me.

“Why don’t you answer my phone calls?” She smacked my shoulder and glared at me. Her eyes were lined with a smudged wing of eyeliner, and her glossy lips were slightly parted. She looked hot—like she’d been dancing all evening.

“I just needed some time,” I mumbled.

“Yeah.” She plopped down onto the barstool next to me, her face softening with sympathy. “It really sucks what he did. Over an expired contract?”

That’s what he was telling people?

Was it so awful to admit that there was something happening between us?

I scoffed, “Understatement of the fucking century.” I waved the bartender over for another drink.

Jade nodded and started to peel the label off her beer.

“What’s up?” Whenever Jade was quiet, I knew something was wrong.

“Were you and Jason…” she trailed off. “A thing?”

My fingers tightened around my glass. I glanced up at her. “Where did you hear that?”

“Amy’s been running her mouth. You know how she is.”

I stared at myself in the mirror across the bar. My eyes were dark and distant; even I wouldn’t recognize myself.

“They’re just rumors, right?” Jade pressed, searching my face for reassurance. “You didn’t actually sleep with him?”

I tipped my head back and took a long, burning sip before I admitted it. I screwed the boss.

Jade’s eyes widened. “Oh my God, you didn’t.”

“I did.” I shrugged my shoulders in defeat.

She sputtered, “Tara?—”

I sighed, “Don’t worry about it, I learned my lesson,”

“Fuck that.” She slammed her beer down on the counter, her expression shifting from shock to frustration. “Why didn’t you say something?”

It was my turn to be quiet. The truth was that I didn’t want to share him with anyone else, not even in stories.

“Is that why you left?” she asked when I decided I would rather not answer.

“I left because he made me.”