Page 7 of R Is For Revenge: Part One
“What look?” I take a sip of coffee, savoring the bitterness.
“The one you get when you’re thinking about something… or someone.”
I wink. “Maybe I am. Maybe I’m not.”
“It better be me,” she says with a grin and wanders off, satisfied with the non-answer.
I eat in silence, watching the morning unfold outside the window. The city is moving, alive, bustling. And somewhere out there, Jules is waking up, probably thinking she just landed a job that might change her luck. She has no idea that her luck has already run out. Do I feel bad about that? Fuck no. I’m stoked that one last opportunity to fuck over Harold Horner appeared like magic.
I relax after breakfast, coffee refilled, the diner settling into that quiet lull between the morning rush and the late crowd. The hum of conversation softens to the clink of dishes and the low scratch of a radio playing some old Motown tune. It’s like the past lingers here, not wanting to leave and I like that. My world moves so fast that sometimes it’s nice to just fucking chill.
I unfold the paper Ellie dropped off—The Times, the actual print version. There’s something about the weight of it, the feel of the pages between my fingers, that I like. The news doesn’t matter much. It’s all noise—politics, stock updates, the same recycled shit. Still, I skim the business section, note a few companies circling the drain, and mentally add them to my list of opportunities.
Another sip of coffee, another page turned, and a beautiful Saturday morning has endless possibilities. I have work waitingfor me at home, but for some reason I want more for the day. I consider options when movement outside catches my eye.
From my seat by the window, I see a woman wrangling four dogs down the sidewalk—two golden retrievers, a shepherd mix, and a little French bulldog trotting along like it owns the block. She’s focused, maneuvering leashes with practiced ease, her long dark hair swinging as she navigates around pedestrians. She’s graceful, even in something as simple as walking dogs. Effortless.
I watch absently, not paying much attention—until she’s right outside the diner. The sun hits softly, and my hand stills on the page.
Her.
Jules Fucking Horner.
Of all the people in the city, she’s right here. On this street. Outsidemybreakfast spot, like the universe is handing me another reminder. It’s unbelievable really. And if I was the kind of man to believe in signs, I’d be all over this one.
She doesn’t see me through the glass. She’s too busy kneeling to fix one of the retriever’s harnesses, murmuring something soft to the animal. She scratches behind the dog’s ear and the animal closes his eyes, clearly in heaven. I watch as the folks walking past take a moment for another look. I don’t blame them. She’s fucking gorgeous. And despite her looks there’s no pretense. No trace of the world she came from.
For a second, I almost wonder if she really is as clueless as she seems. But then I remember who she is. I remember everything I tore apart to make Harold Horner feel even a fraction of what my mother felt. Of what she went through in order to put food on our table. I remember it all clear as day.
Jules straightens, brushing hair from her face as the dogs tug her forward. She’s close enough now that I can see the faintest pink in her cheeks from the cold, the way she glances up atthe buildings like she’s still getting used to the city skyline. She passes by without a glance, never knowing I’m watching.
My fingers tighten around the edge of the paper, crumpling it slightly, before I put it down. I set the paper aside, lean back in my seat, and watch her disappear down the block with the dogs trailing behind.
The universe keeps putting her in front of me and for a man who doesn’t believe in coincidences I’m fine with that. I’ll take that hint all day long. I’m supposed to fly to Japan Monday morning but decide to delegate for the first time ever. Figure Josh Davidson, a young up and comer in my company needs to prove himself.
I’ve got other things to look after.
Her first shift can’t come soon enough.
CHAPTER 4
JULES
Of course, I’m running late.
The old clock on my kitchen wall ticks louder than usual, a steady reminder that I need to be out the door in twenty minutes, and I still haven’t even finished my makeup.
The apartment smells faintly of coffee and the lemon-scented cleaner I doused the counters with this morning, trying to make the place feel less… tired. The building is decades past its prime, and so is most of the furniture inside, but at least it’s mine free and clear.
Technically, it was my Aunt Marcy’s before she passed last year. The oldest sister of my mother, she didn’t have much. And whether she felt sorry for me after everything or wanted to send my mother a mental fuck you, she left me this one-bedroom apartment and I’m grateful. Because without it, I have no idea where I’d be. Probably sleeping on someone’s couch, a bench in the park? Hell, I don’t even own a car to call home.
“Bob, move,” I mutter, nudging my cat off the bathroom sink. Bob—named for my favorite singer, Bob Marley—is a scruffy gray cat with one ear that folds funny and a tail that stops halfway down, like he was born mid-thought. He blinks at mewith slow, lazy judgment, the way cats do, before hopping down to curl up on the toilet lid, his half-tail twitching erratically.
The tiny mirror above the sink reflects my rushed reflection: long dark hair pulled into a sleek ponytail, crisp white silky blouse, and a black, tailored pencil skirt pressed as neatly as my ancient iron will allow. Not exactly high-end but polished enough to pass the “this girl belongs here” test.
My phone, propped against the soap dish, crackles with the sound of Shells’ voice over speakerphone.
“Jules, you can’t be late your first night. Donotgive them a reason to fire your ass before you get a paycheck.” Shells’ voice is a mix of urgency and sass. We’ve been best friends for as long as I can remember. Her mom used to clean our place in Palm Springs and we’ve always kept in touch. She’s gotten me through some of the darkest times I’ve ever had, and even two states away, she still manages to boss me around like we’re seventeen again.
