Hell on Heels (11 page)

My eyes started to well with tears.

If I was honest with myself, I’d been coasting for so many years in my romantic relationships, taking the little I needed to get by that I wasn’t sure what it looked like to really try.

“I know it doesn’t seem like it now, but maybe this is the push you’ve been waiting for. Most people don’t get a second chance at closure, Charleston, and even fewer find a way to save themselves from the lack of it.”

“I…” I didn’t know what to say.

“You lost two people you loved so close together, and that would wound even the best of us.”

She knew me inside and out.

“If you take nothing else from today’s session, take this. The world is full of people who’ve suffered and still survive. Those people found a way to make peace with their pasts. Maybe we don’t get to erase the scars, but we can learn to love them. Don’t make your suffering for nothing, Charleston.”

She pulled me to stand and hugged me.

“Thank you.” I tightened my arms around her. This woman had been a safe harbour in so many of my storms.

“Loving the ugly parts of ourselves isn’t easy, but if we can’t love them, how can we expect someone else to?”

We stood like that for a minute or two until the clock on our session timed out.

“I’d like to see you again next week. Can you do that?”

I nodded. “I’ll schedule something with Maureen on the way out.”

She squeezed my shoulders and when she released me, I lifted my purse off the couch.

“Wonderful.”

“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” I said with gratitude in my voice that I meant ever ounce of.

“It’s my pleasure, dear.” She led me to the reception desk before leaving me with her assistant, Maureen.

I booked an appointment for the following Thursday afternoon before eventually making my way to the elevator.

As I waited for the doors to close on the twentieth floor, I checked my messages.

6 Missed Calls—Office

3 Missed Calls—Kevin’s Cell

I’d left Kevin a voicemail first thing this morning letting him know I wouldn’t be coming into the office today, and asked that he please reschedule my appointments.

Hitting redial on the last call from the office, I put the phone to my ear and waited as it rang.

“Smith & Co Productions, this is Kevin.”

“Hey. It’s me,” I said, pressing the button for the garage. “I saw your calls. What’s up?”

His voice got quieter on the other end. “You okay?”

“Not really,” I told the empty elevator.

“Char—”

“I don’t really want to talk about it.” I heard him sigh. “What’s going on at the office?”

“Oh.” He morphed into assistant mode on my cue. “I was able to reschedule all of your other appointments except Mrs. Bridges, but Emma took the meeting and she’ll fill you in.”

The doors opened and I stepped into the underground. “Thank you for taking care of that.”

“No prob,” he chirped. “The reason I called was to ask if someone from Hart Securities had emailed you last night about delivering the specs for VanDusen?”

“Let me check.”

I pulled the phone from my ear as I walked and opened the mail app. Scrolling, I cursed inwardly.

During my episode last night, I’d gotten two emails from Hart Securities. They were the team hired by Beau Callaway’s campaign for his security detail and they required a confidential contract regarding the event specs for next year’s gala. This was not the problem, as we’d already drawn up said contract at their request. The problem was that the emails I received announced that they required it delivered in hand to their offices by end of day today.

“Yeah. They sent an email. I somehow missed it,” I spoke into the car as it connected to my Bluetooth sound system.

Kevin made a funny sound in the back of his throat. Probably because he knew I never missed an email, especially not one regarding anything to do with the foundation or gala. That meant I was definitely not okay and he was worried.

“Okay, well I was going to run over and drop it off this afternoon, but I can’t find the contract on your desk. Do you have it with you?”

Shit.

Leaning over, I rummaged through the files on my passenger seat.

“Yeah,” I snipped. I was frustrated that my personal life was erupting my professional life.

“I can come get it from your place and then take it?” he offered.

I shook my head to the inside of my vehicle and sighed. “No, I have it here and I’m already on Dunbar. I’ll take it in.”

He knew about Doctor Colby, which meant he knew her offices were on Dunbar Street. “I’ll text you the address.”

“Great, thanks,” I said, rolling the engine over.

“Call me later?” he asked, and I knew the man was relentless. He’d never let it go if I didn’t.

“Yeah.”

“Later, babe.”

I laughed and the phone clicked off.

Often, I think there were misconceptions made of women who enjoyed male attention in its purest form. I’m not a hustler. I’m not a man-eater. I’m not a gold digger. The only thing I’d ever wanted from a man was the emotional high he could provide me with, sometimes more, but rarely less.

I was a
goal
digger. Everything I had, from this car to my business, I earned. Day in and day out, in movies and in life, there was still this illusion that women needed men. There was this notion that we couldn’t be as great without them, and thus we learned to manipulate that.

Women needed to stop using men for what they could give them and learn to provide it themselves.

Doctor Colby was right; a woman could be great without a man, but only if she was capable of filling that void on her own.

The void that instead of filling with self-love, we filled with the love of another.

Was I a hypocrite? Possibly.

I’d never learned how to manufacture my own high, and I didn’t know how to remedy the natural lows of life and love. Instead, the only thing I’d learned was how to self medicate with an abundance of male attention.

I was a living nightmare of the female persuasion—hell on heels, if you will.

Maybe I was just scared, but could you really blame me?

There’s something terrifying in the fickleness of hearts. For as fair as the heavens come, just as quick and cold do the worst of nightmares follow them home.

I burdened my fear with my body.

Even today, while I remained in a living hell, I was dressed well enough to make an enemy of the state jealous. My ripped jeans were faded and worn, offset by the smooth lines of my black stilettos adhering to the perfect contrast. Thick grey wool hung low on my chest in the form of a sweater, and a black leather jacket kept the cold at bay. My hair was down and wild like my soul, and the only thing trying to control it were the sunglasses on my head.

Beauty was my armour.

It protected the parts of me that couldn’t be smoothed over with concealer or prettied up with lipstick.

I needed that shield in place so my heart didn’t take a stray bullet and leave me bleeding out on the street.

I looked at the address Kevin had texted me for the second time.

Kevin: 2212 West Broadway.

Well, this had to be it. I looked at the matching address on the building in front of me. I was surprised. I’d expected to arrive at a high-rise with an impressive doorman, or something that radiated power, but instead, I was parked outside a two level renovated heritage home.

I collected the files from the passenger seat and folded out of my Range Rover, assessing the house as I approached. At first glance, it would appear to blend into the upper class street of old homes, but if you looked close enough, you could see the hint of modifications.

The outside was equipped with motion-censored spotlights affixed to panelling in a subtle way. Curtains showcased curtains inside, but for a woman whose father had built houses for a living, I could tell the glass was thicker than two-pane, and perhaps bulletproof if I had to guess.

If you pictured a safe house, that’s what it would remind you of.

Stepping up onto the porch, I noticed a buzzer system installed next to the front door and pressed it.

It was a fortress disguised as a home.

It was pretty but strong. I liked that.

The buzzer sounded three times before a female voice came through the little speaker. “Ah. Miss Smith, we’ve been expecting you,” she said, and I looked up to search for a camera.

“It’s in the door, dear,” the speaker spoke again.

I smiled. Whoever this lady was, I liked her.

“Come on in.”

There was the sound resembling the moving of bars and the door unlocked.

Inside was a second set of glass doors with the words
Hart Securities
etched into them. Pushing through, I marvelled at the design of the building. The wood floors were no doubt original to the home, but the walls were painted a crisp white; nearly the entire office was monochromatic.

“Good afternoon, dear.” I placed a face to the voice as I approached the older woman sitting behind a modern desk on the right side of the room.

“Hi.” I smiled, stretching out my hand. “Charleston Smith.”

She laughed. “Oh, I know dear.” Standing, she placed her hand in mine. “Gladys Hart.”

“Oh, do you own…” I started, but she interrupted me by shaking her head.

“No, no. The company belongs to my nephew.”

I nodded. “The building is so unique.”

“Sure is.” She looked down the hall and then back to me. “He’s been waiting for you.” She motioned for me to follow her.

We walked past two offices on the right hand side. One of the doors had been closed, but sitting behind the desk in the other was one of the men I’d seen with Beau at the gala.

Protection detail, I guessed, and gave a little wave.

He waved back and grinned.

The whole office seemed like they were in on the same punch line.

Gladys knocked twice on the door at the end of the hall before opening it. “Good luck, dear.” She gave me a little push, and I half fell, half walked into the room.

The joke was on me when the man behind the desk chuckled at my ungraceful entrance.

It sounded familiar.

Why did it sound familiar?

He stood at the window, his broad back to me. The black Henley he wore hugged every muscle as I followed them up and up and up. He turned, his profile coming into full view, and my eyes flew from his full lips to his hair, which had been pulled into a bun at the base of his head.

“Nice to see you, Princess.”

My legs felt cemented into the ground and my pulse eradicated. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I whispered incredulously.

They said that statistically bad things happened in threes.

There, in the flesh, was my penance, my three.

“That’s hardly how I’d expect you to greet a past lover.”

He prowled towards me, and the fight in me that had lain dormant since last night ignited.

I scoffed. “Fuck you.”

“I wish you would.” The man, whose name I still did not know, stopped a few feet short of where I was standing.

Pursing my lips, I growled a little under my breath. “Where do you get off being such a monumental prick?”

He took my verbal hits like they were that of a toddler and rebounded them back to me. “Where do you get off being such a stuck up bitch?”

“You can’t call me a bitch!” I shrieked.

Crossing his arms over his chest, my eyes dropped and he chuckled again.

Every time he laughed, it was like he was dangling red in front of a bull, and make no mistake, I was the bull.

“Who the
fuck
are you?” I snarled at him.

Engaging in another face-off with this man was more than I could take, and it irritated me that, despite everything, I found myself even more attracted to him as the unmasqued man.

“Maverick.” He held out a hand to me, but I didn’t take it.

Narrowing my eyes, I bit out, “Maverick, what?”

“Hart.” He smirked. “Maverick Hart.”

Closing my eyes, I pilfered the air for oxygen. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I mumbled.

“‘fraid not.” I felt him get closer, and in response, my body broke out in a fever pitch, eyes springing open to watch as he approached like the very predator he was. “I look forward to working with you.”

“Ha!” I spat, backing up on my heels. “I’m not working with you.”

“You want to have the mayor at your fancy party again next year, you’ll work with me,” he challenged me.

I glared at him. “I have a staff of five; someone else can work with you.”

“You want to keep getting cozy with Beau, you’ll work with me.” He seemed angry, but my temper could go toe-to-toe with his, even on an off day.

“That’s none of your business.” He took another step towards me, but instead of retreating, I took one towards him.

“It was my business when you had your tongue in my mouth at the gala he paid for.”

“Fuck you.” This was getting old. He had no right to judge me. I wasn’t a slut. Women were allowed to date multiple men. That was the exact reason the term dating was coined. It’s the twenty-first century, after all.