Page 2 of A Shot in the Dark
“I think this—whatever it was—has run its course.”
“This,” he repeats slowly, stunned, “has…run its course?”
I nod. Too vigorously? “Let’s call this what it was: fun.” My suitcase clicks closed.
There’s a knock at the door.
Having learned after Terence to never take my eyes off a man I’m dumping, I watch reality slowly dawn on his slack-jawed expression. I quicken my pace—I still sometimes feel the ghost of the impact of Terence’s punch in my cheekbone on winter days. “That’ll be the bellhop. Which means my car’s waiting downstairs.”
“You can’t…”
“You’re right. I can’t.” My hip touches the doorknob and I deliver the honest-to-god truth: “I can’t stay—not a minute longer. It’s not you, it’sme.”
Then I’m out the door, in the elevator, and descending. The car’s outside. I topple into it and let it carry me away to the airport. The plane—a broad and smelly standard-issue public beast of burden—pitches itself into the air as my stomach lurches into my throat. Even in first class, I miss Jonathan’s jet. I only wish I missed Jonathan.
I’m not just broken, I’m an awful person.
The flight back to the city is blessedly uneventful. There’s turbulence—like it’s a metaphor for my relationships—the food’s not the quality I’ve come to expect, and there’s that wild-eyed couple that either believes they haven’t been noticed slipping into the bathroom together to join the “mile high club” or doesn’t care, but I can’t summon any emotion greater than mild annoyance at the additional wait time required before I can access the restroom myself.
At least it’s notthatlong a wait…
Once on the ground, I zip through Customs and grab my own luggage. No driver is waiting for me this time, so I wave down a standard cab. The cabbie drives as well as any private driver, but exudes a gruff attitude rather than the polished ones I’m used to.
Mac, my building’s doorman, steps to the curb even before the cab rolls to a stop. Although his brow furrows in the shadow of the cap he wears, the moment he spots me, he opens the door handle, asking, “Miss Jenkins. How was Dubai?” My bracelets clinking, I tip my driver, check another thing off my to-do list, text Laryssa, grab my purse, and step onto the sidewalk, all while answering, “Lovely. The bluest water and whitest sand I’ve ever seen.”
Multitasking is a survival strategy in the City that Never Sleeps.
One of the building’s many bellhops—Tommy, I think—steps up to stand beside Mac. “And did you actually see that sand andwater more than on just the hotel’s brochure this time?” Mac asks, loading Tommy’s waiting arms with my belongings.
“Happy to see you again, Miss Jenkins,” Tommy murmurs as he adjusts everything he’s tasked with carrying.
I offer him a smile, then retort to Mac, “Yes. I did.” Stopping dead in the middle of the sidewalk I lift my sunglasses and point to my cheek, proclaiming playfully, “Freckles.”
A woman pushing a baby carriage hurls an expletive my way as she abruptly yanks the carriage to the left to go around where I and my favorite doorman stands. Good to be home.
Mac focuses fiercely on my face for a moment, then shrugs. “I only see a flawless complexion, Miss Jenkins,” he states apologetically.
Damn my foundation.
“But,” Mac offers eagerly, “if you say you left the boardroom and hotel bar to get some sun, I believe you.” He nods to Tommy, wishes me a great day, and steps aside as Tommy and I head for the elevator. “Lucky thirteen,” Tommy reminds Landen when the highly polished brass doors slide open to accept us.
“Welcome back, Miss Jenkins. Floor thirteen,” Landen announces. “Going up.” At only twenty-two, other than the bellhops, Landen’s the youngest member on the staff, but his responsibilities include much more than button-pushing. Through proximity, I’m fairly certain he hears and sees almost as much as any of the building’s numerous security cameras, though he makes small talk while doing so.
Multitasking.
“Nice vacation, I hope,” Landen comments while keeping his gaze pinned on the sliver of dark rubber marking a seam between the otherwise brilliantly gleaming elevator doors. Based on the earpiece he wears, I suspect he’s connected to the building’s security team.
My mood lightens and lifts as the elevator ascends. “Working vacation, but nice enough.” Considering the brutal way I ended it…
Tommy sees me and my luggage to my door. “Would you like me to bring it inside? I could call Melinda to unpack for you…”
I glance at the suitcases and overnight bag. It’s tempting, but it’s also something I can do for myself. “No, thank you.” I hand him a fifty-dollar bill without a thought and open my door as he trots away. He mumbles a gracious “thank you,” but I know I’m hardly the only person tipping the staff like I do. Some even tip much more—they can afford to.
The moment the door closes behind me, the hairs on the back of my neck rise. Something seems different.
Off.
There’s a faint but distinct odor of cheap cologne—the kind men with no taste essentially bathe in before hitting a bar scene they expect to be smoky. No one I know now wears that sort of thing. My gaze sweeps the room; everything’s as neat as I left it.
