Samara ~ Alone
A woman can only outrun herself for so long...
Part One
Chapter 2
Samara ~ Alone
When does a drink taste best? At the end of a day, especially a crappy one, when all you want is to numb yourself from the stupidity that confronted you.
I left the studio ready to act young and carefree, maybe have a night out to be seen, as my career demands. But now, my ass is comfortably cradled in the smooth leather of my professionally understated yet fully loaded Jaguar, and even the thought of showering might kill me. A bottle of vodka and Netflix might be all the excitement I can handle.
I don’t think I can take one more snide remark or loose innuendo without snapping. Of course, I wouldn’t just snap. I’d explode. And lately, I’ve been drinking alone more and more.
Or maybe that’s just how I do things. I bury myself, like an ostrich, head in the sand. Or in this case, in a glass of exquisite small-batch organic potato vodka. A perfect place to lose one’s head. I mindlessly speed through the city’s traffic to my building on the steep slopes overlooking the vast city below through a perfectly manicured forest that screams exclusive and rich. The drive home, parking the car, its all automatic I need not think just do.
As the ding of my elevator’s arrival to my penthouse brings me back to reality I think to myself “ Just one drink” I swear, before I drag myself into the shower, get ready and go out to face the judgmental public eye waiting.
The vodka burns nicely, warming me and bringing a soft slipperiness to my thoughts. The fantasy of going out fades as I pour another drink. My mind starts spinning, I know she’s out there, stealthily waiting like a tigress hunting her prey, tail flicking to and fro. Scenarios start forming : maybe she wants to apologize. Maybe she wants a payoff. Maybe she’s planning a tell-all and wants to warn me. Maybe….
“Can’t you see me in a crown…?”
Billie Eilish wails from my phone alarm as it shimmies across the coffee table, scattered with the remains of last night. The empty vodka bottle rolls to the floor, playing mouse for the resident Siamese cat.
I surely didn’t finish the whole thing myself—but the pounding in my head suggests otherwise.
Thank God Netflix gently asks, Are you still watching RuPaul’s Drag Race? instead of blasting me with a screaming queen. That would’ve been cruel alongside Billie’s eerie vibes and the drumbeat behind my eyes.
Slowly, yesterday’s events push through the cobwebs of my mind, followed by the realization that today’s chaos is already waiting: back-to-back meetings, and lunch with my boss.
And Raven.
How the hell am I going to explain that?
I glance at my phone. Fifteen missed calls. Sixteen texts. All from Akua.
I need a shower and a toothbrush before I can deal with any of it
~ ~ ~
The main office is buzzing when I arrive. There’s a hustle that means something’s up. I duck into my office before anyone notices me, or so I thought.
As I close the door behind me, something’s stuck. I try again, with more force.
“Ouch, hey!” comes a voice behind me.
It’s Akua, coffee in hand and that stunning smile, with acceptable T-levels and harvestable sperm, but a ridiculous moral code that won’t let us use him for breeding. Just testing. Except for that once. I’ve sworn, on all that’s true between us, that it’ll never happen again—because it nearly broke us.
“Wow, you look a mess,” he says once we’re safely behind closed doors.
Immediately, he starts rummaging through my dressing closets, muttering to himself. I can’t hear the words, but the tone is clear: he’s annoyed at my lack of care for my current bedraggled look—and smugly proud of his idea for the office dressing room.
It’s fully stocked with looks he picked for me, head to toe, and all infused with my signature scent. He said I couldn’t keep showing up looking (or smelling) like a crumpled bag lady. I agreed, mostly because if I didn’t, he would’ve moaned and cried for days if a bad picture of us made it onto pages one through five.
Of course, there’s also a smaller, identical dressing room for him—stocked with a few perfectly tailored outfits from his favorite Dubai designer. Only because I insisted, he included one pair of jeans.
“I called you a million times last night—and this morning. I almost thought you were dead, and not just looking the part,” he huffs, snatching my phone from the desk.
The look of satisfaction and disgust on his face says it all. He’s right: I hadn’t read a single message.
“Did you know she called my private line last night?” he says, furious. “No, of course you don’t, because you didn’t answer any of my calls. What are we going to do? What does she want? Shit, the tits on that one.”
His face contorts with a level of disdain he reserves for very few—and at the top of that short list is Raven.
“She was at the press conference,” I say quietly, adjusting my jacket in the mirror.
Akua’s dark olive skin turns a shocking shade of pale green. For a second, I worry he might faint.