Page 14 of If He Hadn't Cheated
I check the time. 4:12 p.m.
Work is in three hours.
I consider calling in sick. I consider quitting entirely. I consider packing a bag and leaving the city with whatever money I have left.
But I don’t move.
I just sit there, towel slipping, legs trembling.
Eventually, I get dressed. Black again. Always black. It’s the only color that feels honest now. A fitted dress with sleeves long enough to cover the bruises I found on my arms this morning.
I don’t know where they came from.
Maybe the bar last night.
Maybe the man before him.
I do my makeup slowly. Not to look good, but to create a mask I can hide behind. The girl in the mirror isn’t pretty.
She’s practiced.
At 6:45, I walk into The Velvet Room.
The lights are low. The music is already pulsing. I hear the bass in my chest before I even step behind the bar.
Jazz is there. She gives me a once-over.
“You look rough.”
“Thanks,” I mutter.
She shrugs. “Honesty is all I’ve got.”
She’s wearing glitter on her eyelids and a smirk on her lips. She’s too alive for this place, but she fits anyway.
“You need coffee?” she asks.
“Something stronger.”
She hands me a shot of espresso.
I down it like a shot of tequila.
The night begins like all the others. Drinks. Orders. Laughter that sounds like lies. Men flirt. Women dance. People forget.
I stay busy. I keep my head down. I pretend I’m not drowning. It works for a while.
Until he walks in.
Knox.
His designer clothes screams he doesn’t belong here. Not in this crowd. Not in this noise. He’s wearing black jeans and a leather jacket. Simple. Clean. His presence cuts through the room like a blade.
He doesn’t look at me right away. He moves through the space like he owns it. Like he doesn’t need to announce himself to be noticed.
He sits at the far end of the bar.
Alone.
