1
The headline was all anyone cared about. It was all that was repeated over and over and over again ad nauseam across every news network, entertainment magazine, and blog. “Suzie Ward, manager of the hugely successful pop band, Central Square, and girlfriend of Zaxton Monroe, found dead in the shower.”
The headline was followed by mass speculation because even though there were some leaks and a few statements here and there, no one knew what actually happened except for us. And even then, I’m the only one who knows the truth. A secret I will take to my grave. A fucking heartbreak that has turned me into the delightful motherfucker I am today.
Especially today.
Eight years ago, I lost the love of my life.
And it doesn’t seem to get any easier with the passing of time. Maybe it’s because I lost more than just her that day. I lost a piece of myself I haven’t been able to retrieve.
My phone vibrates on the seat beside me, but I don’t bother checking it. It’s either one of the guys, my brother, or work. None of which I want to deal with right now. I should have stayed home today. I shouldn’t have gotten out of bed this morning, but today we have a photo shoot for a few pieces in the new women’s fall line, and I have to be in it, and who gives a shit?
Bed and whiskey for breakfast were a much better option.
My driver, Ashley, sits quietly and patiently up front, staring straight ahead and allowing me this moment. He knows. He’s been with me long enough to know I’ll get out when I’m ready and I’m just not there yet.
Will I ever get past this? Will the hurt ever dissipate?
“What happens if I call in sick?” I mumble under my breath and notice Ashley stirring up front. I’m not asking him, but I wouldn’t mind if he answered me all the same. He’s the closest thing I have to a fatherlike figure in my life even though I pay him to be here because my actual father is a world-class piece of shit. He’s the reason I’m the CEO of Monroe Fashion instead of him.
“May I suggest, if you talked about that day, it might help to unburden your soul.”
“One has to have a soul for it to be unburdened.”
He breathes out a mournful sigh in a way that tells me he’s not amused.
“Talking about it won’t unburden me. It will only burden others.” The truth shall not set me free. It shall ruin someone who is already suffering more than he should.
“You know—”
“I know. And thank you. If I ever do want to talk about it, you might hear more than you ever wanted.”
He chuckles at my wry tone just as a flash of whitish-blond whisks past my window, snapping me out of my miserable thoughts. Inadvertently, I follow the trail it makes, transfixed by the unique color and wavelike flow as it bounces and plays in the summer sunshine and breeze. That is until it drops from my view in a sudden swish and swoop along with the body it’s attached to. Then there’s the scream.
“Shit.”
Snatching my phone, I fly out of the car and race up the three cement steps to the first landing where a woman is yelling and fighting with a man trying to snatch her purse. Gripping the leather handle, he gives a solid yank, managing the upper hand with the purse while simultaneously shoving her to the ground. Hard.
Without thinking twice, I collide with him, the full force of my size and weight knocking him back. The purse slips from his hand, skidding on the steps, but before he can catch himself from falling or right his body and flee, I grab him by the shirt and haul him up. Feet dangling from the ground, I get a better look at him.
“Jesus,” I hiss in dismay. “What the hell are you doing snatching purses at your age?”
The kid, who can’t be any older than seventeen, sneers at me, all punk-ass bravado despite the fact that I have him dangling like a proverbial worm on a hook. “Fuck you, man. The fuck you care what I do? You don’t know me.”
I set him down, but I don’t release my hold on his shirt. “You think stealing from women makes you tough? Makes you a man? Do you know what being tough is?” I get right up in his face. “Tough is being a man even when the odds are stacked against you. It’s doing the right thing when the wrong thing is easier. Grow up. Get out of your shit and do better. Now go before I call the cops.”
I shove him away but make sure he sees me staring after him. For a second, he falters, his gaze snapping down at the woman who is still on the ground, then back up at me before he runs off.
I turn, taking in the now-seated woman swearing under her breath and staring incredulously at a high heel clutched angrily in her fist. The long, narrow heel of the shoe hangs limply from the black stiletto, having snapped.
“You’re not supposed to do this,” she bemoans. “Not today! Your job is to carry me from point A to point B without snapping like a twig. Don’t you know what this means for me? Now look.” Her hands fly about her body. “I’m a bloody mess. Literally.” She threateningly shakes the shoe. “I’m gonna tell Marie you did this to us, and she won’t be pleased. Not at all.”
Marie? I take a better look at the shoes. Marie Marcato. Exclusive and expensive. But clearly, she’s speaking in jest and ire because no one knows or speaks to Marie directly. Not even me and I’ve been trying for longer than I care to admit. Still, I can’t understand how she’s more upset about her heel snapping than she is about the fact that she was almost mugged.
My shadow looms over her, blocking the blinding summer sun. “What were you thinking fighting with him? He could have been armed or seriously hurt you. Are you okay?” The cuts on her knees are dripping blood down her shins and onto the concrete steps, but she’s more focused on her broken shoe.
Alarmingly bright cornflower-blue eyes snap up and glue themselves to my face. And the moment they register me, they grow round as dinner plates, her plump pink lips parting. “Shit,” she breathes harshly.
“Now you’re catching up. That’s what I said when I saw you were struggling with him. Are. You. Okay?” I repeat, my annoyance dripping through into my tone now that she’s staring at me like, well, like everyone else does. Starstruck, awed, and terrified. “Do you not know how to answer questions or is English along with common sense a difficulty for you?”
She scowls at my sharp, curt words. “Did you honestly just ask that? Do you have any sense of how insanely rude and condescending that is after what just happened?”
My lips bounce, attempting to curl up into a smirk, but I beat it instantly away. “Whatever gets you to speak.”
She blinks away from me, staring down at her knees that are bleeding and oozing everywhere. “He shoved me, and my shoe broke,” she shoots back. “Obviously, I’m not having the best of mornings.”
“Obviously,” I deadpan, mocking her snarky, sardonic tone. “And now you’re hurt. For the third time, are you okay?”
“Um. I don’t know,” she admits with a shaky breath. “I’m pissed. And hurt. And annoyed. At so many, many things right now.”
“Can I help you up?”
“You might be the last person on earth I should ever ask for or accept help from.”
Okay. I’m not sure what to do with that. “Do you work here?”