Page 23 of Shattered Veil
Estella:
Ricardi’s on the Park. Tonight at 7 p.m.
Dress nice.
Dad
His handwritten note on my bedroom door draws a smile from my lips. He left early this morning for one of his typical freelance computer jobs. I worry how his new employer will feel about his extra-curricular activities.
With shady people.
With our hectic move back to New York City, Dad hasn’t mentioned anything about the man who hired him. He’s still utterly incensed from getting screwed over by World Trade Bank.
Even if they did pay his mortgage here in the city for the six months he worked in Australia. And even though he already has a new job—with a bigger paycheck.
His pride will be his undoing.
At night, he sits at his desk in the office until the wee hours of the morning working on his laptop. I hear him speaking sometimes, and I’m guessing that’s part of his contract hacking work. When not speaking Russian, drips and drabs of his conversations make my blood run cold.
Looking at my closet, I exhale in frustration. I fled the States six months ago with the clothes on my back, leaving everything behind in Wesley’s apartment. Slowly, I built up a new wardrobe in Australia designed for comfort. And warmer weather.
But it’s late January in New York. And freezing.
Now I have to start all over. It’s exhausting. Not to mention expensive. Somehow using the money Balor left me makes me feel dirty. I don’t want to look down at everything I bought and feel used.
Charging him was a joke, I never intended to take his money. But I certainly wasn’t leaving that cash in the hotel room.
Shaking those thoughts way, I check the time. It’s getting late.
I also have nothing to wear. The navy wrap dress I wore on the plane, the one Balor peeled off me, is the only thing I have that’s appropriate for a nice restaurant like Ricardi’s. But that dress has cum stains on the ass area.
Even if it were clean, I’m not wearing that for another man. Even if that other man is my new boss. Memories flood me about Balor again. I felt so connected to him. Odd, since I’d gone out on several dates in Australia attempting to once again feel safe with a man and not cringe or feel sick.
Balor made me feel comfortable. Maybe it was the safe confines of our airline seats, like we were in our own world. So intimate and special.
Sadly, I was wrong. He left me in a hotel suite. Sure, he was thoughtful enough to arrange a limo for me so I wasn’t stranded at the hotel. But he didn’t even stick around to say goodbye.
Pawing through my closet, I pull out a dated red, white, and black color-block sweater dress I found in a box of old clothes. Dad brought it from our house in Connecticut, a Tudor passed down from my mom’s family.
Slipping on the sweater dress, I’m pleased with how it hugs my curves, and its crew neckline looks professional.
Whoever the hell this new boss is, I won’t tempt him with cleavage. Sleeping with a stranger was daring and perhaps reckless enough. I won’t sleep with a boss.
When I step into the living room at six-thirty, Dad spins around from looking out the balcony’s double French doors. “Estella! You look beautiful.”
I hate how old that name makes me sound, especially with his heavy Russian accent, but it was my Baba’s name, his mother. “Thank you. Can you please introduce me as Ella?”
“If you wish.” He hugs me. “How are your friends?”
“The same.” I nod and don’t return the question because I don’t think he has friends.
Not here in New York, anyway. Maybe back in Connecticut where I grew up.
“Are you hungry?” Dad asks me, adjusting his tie.
“I am. I ordered us an Uber,” I say, checking my lipstick in the mirror.
“Always taking care of me. You will do well with Mr. O’Rourke.”