A sinking sensation was building in Isaac’s gut, gathering speed with every word Casey spoke.
She looked at him, then, and for the first time he saw compassion on her face. “You really thought she lied to you? That she whored herself out for a promotion.” Casey shook her head, and the first tear broke the dam of her lower lashes, streaking down her cheek. She didn’t bother to wipe it away. “If you knew her at all, you’d know better than to ever assume that of her. The woman is the most loyal, loving, compassionate person I’ve ever met. That you thought so little of her? You don’t deserve her.”
“Where is she?” he asked, voice ragged.
“She got fired for refusing to flip on you.”
She gave up her career. For me. The thing she’d worked for since college, the hours she had put in, the shit she had tolerated, the ground she’d forged toward breaking through that glass ceiling. All gone. All for me.
“You didn’t know,” Casey said softly.
“I swear I had no idea. Where is she now?” He stepped closer and took Casey’s free hand. “Please. I need to... I have to...”
Casey paused and considered him. “Why?”
“Because, I—I...”
“If you can’t say it to me, I don’t trust you to have the balls to say it to her.”
“I need to tell her. I—I have to make this right.”
One corner of her mouth curled up and caught the next tear. “That’s the best you’ve got?”
Isaac looked at this fierce guardian and knew the fastest way to Rachel was through her. So be it. He took a breath and leaped. “I love her, Casey.”
She dug out a Post-it note and jotted down the address. “Go. Now. And don’t screw this up. I don’t look good in prison orange, but Iwilleviscerate you if you hurt so much as a single hair on her head.”
“I won’t,” he said, starting for the door. He stopped and looked back, curiosity temporarily winning over his desperation. “What was on that piece of paper you handed that guy in the conference room—Franks, I think his name was?”
She grinned, and her beauty shone through the tears. “It was a rather creative, if brief, resignation. It consisted of two words. I’ll let you guess what they were.”
He laughed and yanked open the door, and then, with the address in hand, sprinted down the hall.
Isaac waited for the elevator because forty-six flights of stairs might kill him and he caught the first cab he could hail. He had to repeat the address twice after initially shouting it at the driver and getting nowhere. Finally—finally—the driver pulled away from the curb at breakneck speed when Isaac offered him a one-hundred-dollar bill if he could get there as fast as possible save for a single stop at the nearest convenience store.
He had an apology to offer, some groveling to do and a declaration of love to make.
Pronto.
Rachel watchedThe Ellen DeGeneres Showwith the knowledge that, if she didn’t get a job soon, cable was going to have to go. Shame, that. She really liked Ellen.
She had just risen from the sofa to retrieve her last pint of Ben & Jerry’s when someone started pounding on her door like the end times were nigh. Of course, she screamed. First, in fear. Then, in anger.
Storming to her door, she let her anger precede her to the peephole. “What the hell is your problem, you psychotic piece of... Isaac?”
“I’ve been called worse,” he said, leaning against the door frame.
“Go to hell,” she said, the words soft but firm, as she turned away, trying valiantly to ignore the shaking and nausea. He had to leave. She couldn’t do this, couldn’t pull herself together, if he was going to come here and berate her, make empty accusations or attempt to destroy the fragile sense of self she’d managed to forge in the fires of her career’s decimation.
“I’ve been living there since we said goodbye at the airport. It sucks. Let me in. We need to talk.”
“I think your last text was pretty clear. Hey, I have an idea. If you want to see me, why don’t you call my pimp? You clearly think I’m for sale—morals, ethics, the whole package. Might as well add my body to the list.” She closed her eyes and waited, hoping to hear the sound of receding footsteps. Instead, a piece of paper slipped under her door.
On it, in clean, crisp penmanship, were two sentences.
You promised me a game. I’m here to collect.
“Don’t do this to me,” she whispered.