Free Mikalo's Grace by Syndra K. Shaw Page B

saw him were absolutely nil.
    A little over an hour ago. There, in the
restroom, he had taken me. My skirt around my waist, my jacket and
blouse rudely shoved aside, his hand on my breast.
    He had taken me.
    And I had liked it. A lot.
    Oh god, I hope he stays in New York.
    Something told me he wouldn't.
    I sat, surrounded by priceless art and
beautiful furniture, the lights of Manhattan glowing in the
approaching dark below.
    The pinnacle of success with so much to be
grateful for.
    And all I wanted was for him to stay.
    Damn.
     

Chapter
Twenty-Two
     
    I hadn't heard from him.
    The day after the interview and not one word
from Mikalo.
    He could have left New York and hightailed it
back to Greece for all I know.
    My heart insisted he wouldn't do that without
saying goodbye. My head, though, reminded me that he was, by all
accounts, a stranger to me, someone I'd only known a very short
time, and a woman he owed little if anything to. I could be nothing
but that sad girl who fell for his lines, hopped into bed without a
second thought, and then was easily forgotten.
    Yes, he could have left.
    And not even the bar at Daniel, a lighted
jewel box of glass and mirrors and backlit bottles of the finest
liquor arranged in amber and peach and clear liquid rows, could
make me feel better.
    Not even this drink, I thought, taking
another sip, was doing the trick.
    "You still nursing that broken heart?"
    I turned to find Deni, as gorgeous and
quietly luxurious as ever, half the men in the room staring at her,
the other half pretending not to.
    "Can you blame me?" I asked.
    "You don't know, Ronan," she said, sitting
next to me and politely waving the bartender away. "He may just be
busy."
    "Doing what?" I asked, my voice a bit too
plaintive for comfort.
    "Mikalo stuff," she answered. "Visiting
friends, interviewing at other places, wandering around the Park.
Who can say?
    "But there's no use getting depressed and
weepy and drinkedy-drunk over something you don't know for a
fact."
    "What other explanation could there be?" I
asked. "Obviously he took advantage of me, obviously he got his
rocks off, obviously he got sick of me, and obviously he's now gone
without even saying goodbye.
    "And like a stupid idiot, I fell for it."
    "You believe that?" she asked.
    "I don't know," I said with a shrug before
taking another tiny sip of my drink.
    "But that's what you believe, obviously."
    "Oh, I don't know. I could be wrong. And, oh
my god, the things he did to me. That I let him to do me."
    I stopped, my cheeks turning red with
shame.
    What I wouldn't give to have him do those
things all over again.
    She paused, not responding.
    "Regardless, it's over," I continued. "It's
done. My heart broken, my dreams dashed, and me, destined to live
the rest of my life buried in documents, drowning in coffee."
    "Oh, would you listen to you?" she said with
a light laugh. "Get over it. Chug-a-lug and let's get moving. I
have somewhere to take you."
    "We have reservations --"
    "Cancelled."
    "So we're not eating --"
    "Nope," she answered, cutting me off. "Now
drink."
    I paused, confused, looked around the room,
and then at Deni, and finally into the soothing comfort of my
drink.
    Something was up. I just had no idea
what.
    "Oh Jesus," she said as she took the
heavy-bottomed glass from me, belted it back, placed it on the
polished black of the bar, and grabbed my arm.
    "Now," she then said with a discreet hiccup,
"let's hit the road."
     

Chapter
Twenty-Three
     
    We were downtown walking through Washington
Square Park, Deni and I. Darting beneath the famous arch, skirting
'round the large, circular fountain and, heading right, making our
way toward Sixth Avenue.
    Inching our way down Fifth Avenue minutes
ago, the arch we just darted beneath anchoring the end of this
renowned avenue, I had peppered her with questions.
    Where are we going? Who are we seeing? What
do you know?
    And, most shockingly, just when did you start
going below 53rd Street?
    Like most who live