Page 5 of The Hitman
She shakes her head, and her eyes get watery. “I never meant to hurt you.”
“It’s not what you think,” Ryan says, standing near me, but not close enough for me to hit him again.
“She meant nothing, Zahra, I promise. It was just sex. I love you.” Why do men always say that? I wonder. Why the hell do they think that sounds comforting?
I scowl at him and turn to Trisha. I watch as her face caves in on itself, and her eyes become glassy with tears that fall down her red, embarrassed cheeks.
“I love you, Z. I’ve only ever loved you. This won’t happen again. I promise,” Ryan says.
I don’t even look at him, because I don’t care. I’m not proud of it, but watching my former best friend realize that she ruined our friendship for a man who doesn’t even care to spare her feelings in this moment, makes me feel triumphant. And that more than anything saps all the energy I have left.
I’m not a new person, I’m still just me, and I’ve never been happy at someone else’s devastation, nor do I want to be.
But I do like having all the information, and since I’m here, I need to make sure that I say all that needs to be said. I don’t want any regrets, and Zoe wouldn’t either.
“I hope his dick was worth it,” I spit at Trisha. “When the next shitbag you date cheats on you, gives you an STI, or empties out your savings account again, and you realize that you can’t call me, that’s there’s no one left to call because you’re such a shitty person that you’ve run everyone away, I hope fucking my fiancé for six months and having a threesome with him — even though we both know you said you’d never do that again — the night before my wedding was worth it. When you walk out of this hotel room and realize that his crazy fans hate you now, and your entire career is ruined, and you can’t show up at my apartment to cry on my shoulder, I hope you think fucking Mr. Two Strokes was worth it. Come on, Shae,” I say and turn quickly toward the door.
“Zahra, wait,” Ryan calls.
I turn to him with hard eyes.
“What…what about us?” he has the fucking audacity to ask me.
My eyebrows furrow. “What about us? Do you really think I’m going to stay with you after this? I might have respected you more if you’d loved her, but you don’t love anyone but yourself. There is no us.” I turn back to the door again, but I stop and turn my head to Trisha with a laugh because I’ve just remembered something that makes this new bitter note in my chest that I hate but can’t get rid of — not right now — swell with sad glee.
“You should call your editor,” I tell Trisha. “Didn’t you tell me she said she’d fire you if you fucked another celebrity?”
Trisha’s tears fall faster now. Apparently, she hadn’t thought of that when she was betraying our ten years of friendship.
I roll my eyes, shake my head, and walk out of the penthouse suite on surer steps than when I entered. Shae follows me and slams the door behind us. The elevator door opens as soon as I press the button, and I stuff my big ass dress inside it.
“How do you feel?” Shae asks quietly as we ride back down to the lobby.
“Numb,” I tell her, feeling the pressure of tears again.
“That’s okay,” she says reassuringly. She opens her purse and pulls something out and offers it to me.
It takes me a few seconds to realize what I’m seeing is Ryan’s wallet in her hands. I look at her in confusion as she pulls Ryan’s credit cards from the worn leather wallet and hands them to me.
“Shae?”
“For when you feel less numb, and you want to buy yourself a small island to ease the pain,” she says matter-of-factly.
I squint at her. “What the fuck has gotten into you?”
She shrugs, and I don’t know what to make of that small gesture. “You deserve the best,” she says without any elaboration as if that answers my question. Her eyes dart to the elevator panel. “Here, take these and hide them,” she urges.
And I do, because I’m so tired and sad and confused that it’s just easier to do as Shae says than to try and figure out what the fuck is going on with my cousin. I shove Ryan’s credit cards in the bodice of my wedding dress. When the doors open, I can feel the small plastic things pressed against my titty by the hard structure of the delicate lace bodice. We step back into the lobby. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Shae shove his wallet into a plant pot. I look quickly away — plausible deniability and all that — and the two of us walk through the hotel lobby hand-in-hand.
This is the weirdest fucking day.
Outside, the paparazzi start yelling at me again, but hotel security are holding them back. They still take pictures of me, but at least they’re not so close. My limousine driver rushes to open the door, and Shae helps me shove my dress back inside before crawling in beside me.
“Where to?” the driver asks once he’s pulled away from the curb, but I can’t answer him. Now that it’s all over, I can feel the exhaustion spreading slowly through my body, and I know I won’t be able to stop the tears from falling now. I’ve expended every bit of energy I have in the past hour or so, and I don’t have anything left.
But Shae pipes up and comes to my rescue. “The airport, please,” she says confidently.
I turn to her in confusion.