Keep Me (Sinful Manor #1)

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

“Dear Ms. Devereaux, my name is Monica Rodriguez, and I’m calling from First Financial. Your credit card payment is ninety days past due and currently in default. We have no choice but to send your account to collections and deactivate your credit cards.”

Delete.

The voicemail disappears, leaving my inbox empty. That foreboding feeling of dread settles in my stomach. The message from my bank sucks, but not as much as what I have to do now.

When I reach the barista at the counter, I order my small black coffee and scrounge in the bottom of my purse for enough loose change to cover it.

“A name for your order?” she asks.

“It’s a small black coffee. Just pour it into a cup.”

The girl with a septum piercing and bright purple eye shadow gives me a condescending look. “A name for your order,” she repeats.

“Sylvie,” I say with a huff.

Then I turn away from the counter and find a quiet corner of the coffee shop to wait. Staring down at my brand-new phone, I pull up my contacts and hover my thumb over the button I really don’t want to push.

My initial prediction was that I’d make it eighteen months with what I had in my savings account and on my credit cards when Mom and Dad told me I was cut off. Eighteen months— if I was conservative with my spending and didn’t do anything drastic.

Like go to Scotland with my boyfriend.

And buy a new phone.

I made it four months.

“Sylvia,” the miserable wench at the counter calls out, holding a small paper cup.

I roll my eyes as I approach her. “It’s Sylvie,” I murmur before taking the coffee.

“Sorry,” she replies, her tone full of sarcasm.

When I leave the shop, turning right toward my apartment, I pull out my phone again.

I have to do this. I have to, right?

I can’t just…survive without money. And getting a job right now isn’t as easy as I thought it would be. The only places that are hiring are paying less than what it costs to live in the city, so what is the point?

“Fuck it,” I mutter as I punch my thumb on my phone screen. It lights up with my mom’s picture.

Calling Mom…

I wait as it rings, and rings, and rings.

“Hi, you’ve reached the voice mailbox of Torrence Devereaux. She is currently unavailable. If you are calling to commission or purchase a piece of art, please contact her assistant, Enid Hamilton, at 290-555-1004. Thank you.”

Enid’s voice grates on my nerves, but I stick through the greeting until it beeps.

“Hey, Mom. It’s Sylvie. Your daughter. I don’t know if you’re still in Florence, but I’m just calling because I’m literally fucking starving. You can’t just cut me off like this. I’m not sure what you expect me to do. Can’t I just have, like, half of my allowance until I figure something out? You can’t do this to me. Just call me back…please.”

I hang up the call as I reach a crosswalk, waiting in a crowd of pedestrians as I try my dad’s number. It rings and rings and rings just the same.

“Hi, you’ve reached the voice mailbox of Yuri Devereaux. He is currently unavailable.”

“Fuck my life,” I mutter to myself.

“If you are calling to commission or purchase a piece of art, please contact his assistant, Enid Hamilton, at 290-555-1004. Thank you.”

Beep.

“Dad,” I cry into the phone. “It’s Sylvie. Please call me back. I’m just…” My voice cracks. “I’m having a really hard time lately, and I need your help. Just a little something to get me through the season. No one is hiring right now, and my credit cards are all maxed out. I’m not sure how I’ll pay rent this month, and I’m scared.”

My voice is thick with emotion, but my eyes are as dry as the desert. I can feel the curious attention of the nosy people around me glancing up from their phones to sneak a peek at me.

“Thank you, Daddy. I love you.”

I punch the End Call button and pull up the last contact on my list. With a disgruntled sigh, I hit the phone icon next to her name. This time, she picks up after the first ring.

“Hello, Sylvie,” she says without a hint of amusement in her voice.

“Hello, Enid,” I mutter into the phone. “Are my parents still in Florence?”

She sighs. “They haven’t been in Florence since May. What can I help you with?”

The light turns, and the crowd begins their walk across the intersection.

“I’m trying to get ahold of them.”

“They’re in the studio,” she replies coldly.

In the studio is a phrase I’ve heard since the day I was born. In the studio could refer to a few hours or a few months. It is both literal and symbolic, a blanket statement that refers to some artistic zone my parents escape to—usually together—where they cannot be bothered, or else it would disrupt their delicate creative process.

They were often in the studio over my birthdays, the first day of school, a couple of Christmases, and once when I was seventeen and was in a bad car accident on the way to the Hamptons with some friends. They showed up at the hospital four days later.

The piece they were working on is now in the Guggenheim.

“That’s fine. I was just checking on them. I haven’t received my deposit in a couple of months, and I was getting worried. Maybe you could log into their accounts and send it over.”

“Bullshit, Sylvie,” Enid barks. “They cut you off four months ago. Are you really out of money already?”

My molars grind. “Fuck you, Enid. You’ve been sucking their teats since you graduated college.”

“I do my job, Sylvie,” she replies. Her voice is so fucking annoying. Nasally and posh. “You do know what a job is, don’t you?”

“Oh yes, your job must be so hard,” I argue. “Being at my parents’ beck and call twenty-four-seven. On the yachts and at all the parties. Tell me, Enid. Are you there when they fuck each other too?”

“You’re disgusting, Sylvie. No wonder they’re so embarrassed by you.”

My hand squeezes the phone so tightly I’m surprised it doesn’t snap in half. I should relax. I can’t afford another one.

“I’d rather be an embarrassment than a leech.”

“Again,” she snaps into the phone. “This is my job, Sylvie. You should consider getting one. Or are you still working on your novel ?”

I can practically hear her doing air quotes around that condescending phrase, and the urge to toss my phone into the sewer, imagining it’s her, is overwhelming.

“Fuck you, you ugly, uptight little twat.”

With that, I punch the End Call button and let out a frustrated, growling huff. I want to scream. I want to hurl this hot coffee at anyone I can. Just once I wish I could really let go and express all of the things I’m feeling.

I bet Killian Barclay doesn’t have to deal with shit like this. I bet he lets out his frustration all the time, and no one judges him for it. I wish I knew why my mind was constantly revisiting that day, but I have no idea. He burrowed himself into my subconscious.

Instead of turning right toward my apartment, where I know Aaron is waiting for me, I keep straight on 5th toward Margot’s place. Unlike Aaron, she won’t give me some condescending lecture about responsibility and maturity. He’s never been supportive of my dreams anyway. He doesn’t care if I finish my novel. He never even asks about it.

When I reach Margot’s building, the doorman welcomes me with a smile. “Morning, Sylvie,” he says.

I force myself to grin back at him regardless of my irritated mood. “Morning, Chuck. She’s home, right?” I ask, turning back toward him once I’m in the lobby.

He nods, but there’s a hint of something hesitant on his face. “She’s in,” he replies.

I don’t bother asking him if everything is okay, but I hurry to the elevator anyway. Hopefully, that’s not a sign she’s on another one of her benders. Margot has a history of going off the deep end after a fashion show if she feels like it didn’t go exactly the way she wanted. Or if a photo comes out that she finds less than flattering. She’ll replace food with alcohol and socializing with sex for weeks on end until I scrape her off the floor and put her back together.

I can’t watch her go through that again.

When the elevator lets me off on the eighteenth floor, I rush down to Margot’s apartment and try the handle first. To my surprise, it’s unlocked.

What the fuck is wrong with her, leaving her door unlocked in the middle of Manhattan?

Two steps into the apartment, I hear the unmistakable sound of her moaning chants. They’re loud and high-pitched, and by the sound of it, she’s being railed within an inch of her life.

Oh, fuck.

Before letting the door close behind me, I grab it and quietly ease myself out. My cheeks heat with embarrassment from hearing my best friend getting it on.

Stifling a giggle, I tiptoe out the door, thinking about how I’m going to give her shit about this later.

Then, my eyes catch on a pair of familiar shoes on the floor. They look exactly like Aaron’s—the ones I got him for his birthday last year. This guy she’s seeing has good taste.

But then my gaze lingers on the shoes, and I realize they are a little too familiar. Like they have the same wear marks as Aaron’s. Still tied the same way he ties his, slipping them off when he gets home without undoing the knots.

I hear a familiar grunt from the bedroom.

And suddenly, it’s like I’m frozen in time. Like everything is moving around me, but I’m stuck in one place.

Reality comes crashing in, and the rage I felt a few moments ago bubbles over like a pot of water set to boil for too long.

I step inside and let the door close before marching down the hall of Margot’s apartment toward her room. As I reach the door, I stand there, coffee in hand, and watch as my boyfriend of three years pounds into my best friend from behind. His white ass is on display, and he’s got a hand on her head, shoving it into the mattress. She’s moaning loudly, and, honestly, it sounds a little fake and dramatic.

They don’t even know I’m standing here watching them. I’m gawking at them for far too long, but in my defense, I’m stunned. I can’t stop thinking about the fact that the last time Aaron and I fucked, we did it in missionary position, and he ground on top of me like a disgusting slug.

He slaps her ass, and she yelps in pleasure. “My dirty little girl.”

My face contorts in disgust. What the fuck?

Am I in the right apartment?

Is this the right reality?

“God, I love you so much,” he adds. “I love you so fucking much.”

His voice is strained, groaning out the words as he thrusts into her. Suddenly I feel like I’m going to be sick. And I move without thinking.

I flip the plastic lid off of my coffee, watching the steam rise from the liquid. Then, I scream as I hurl it at his naked body. I watch with delight as it lands against his back, singeing his skin and making him squeal in pain.

“What the fuck!” he shouts, flailing onto the bed and rolling onto his back, his face twisted in fear.

Margot screams, quickly covering her body with a blanket and staring at me in horror.

“Sylvie?” she cries.

Aaron freezes and gapes at me as I stand in the doorway, glaring at them both with my jaw clenched tight in anger.

My eyes bore into Margot, my best friend, as she tries to catch her breath. For the first time today, my eyes brim with tears, but I don’t say a word. Not to either of them.

I just turn on my heel and barrel out of her apartment.

All I can think as I reach the door, rushing past Chuck and onto the street, is that I spent my last five dollars on that coffee. And while it was worth it, I have no fucking clue what I’m going to do now.