Last Resort: S.I.N. Series Page 2

  “It’s not as easy as you think.” I’m embarrassed to even utter those words because I’m in my mid-twenties and should have my life together. Lizzy’s aware of my mountains of student debt but not my almost non-existent savings. There’s nowhere in New York I can live on my own.

  I grimace.

  That’s not a good enough reason to be living with Clint.

  My God. Is that why I’ve stayed?

  “I know it’s not easy. In fact, I know it’s harder than hell because he’s stolen so much from you and conditioned you to believe that you can’t do it.”

  “We live together. I can’t just up and leave and—”

  “You can, Sutt. You actually can just up and leave. I told you before that you’re welcome to stay with me till you figure shit out. That offer is still there.”

  “Thank you.” It’s all but a whisper because her words are screaming in my head and beginning to drown out the oppressive fear that has owned me for longer than I want to admit.

  It’s a weird thing to know what the right thing to do is—to want to do it—but to fall victim to the guilt and shame over why you can’t.

  “I miss my friend who used to dance on bar tops with me and the one who’d call me to go get ice cream at three in the morning because she was working late and missed me. I miss your laughter and your sense of humor. I will never forgive him for stealing that from you. Sutt, I just miss you.”

  I cough over the sob stuck in my throat as I make a hasty exit from my office to the bathroom where I can hide to gather my composure.

  “Lizz . . .” My hiccup echoes around the empty tile room as I lock the door behind me. “I’m still here. I’m still me. I’m . . .”

  “And I still love you.”

  Her words hurt too much to hear. “I have to go.”

  With my back against the door, I slide down to the floor, tears flowing and emotion overwhelming me.

  She’s right.

  She’s right, and I’m terrified because is this moment—right now—the straw that breaks the camel’s proverbial back?

  The question is, do I want it to be?

  The tears come harder as I sit unladylike on the expensive marble floor and allow myself a moment to feel sorry for myself. And then a few more to come to grips with everything Lizzy just laid out on the table.

  My phone alerts a text.

  Lizzy: Are you okay?

  Me: I will be.

  Lizzy: I love you. I only want the best for you.

  I sniffle as the screen blurs through my tears. I shove them away with the back of my hand and take a deep breath. I then type the hardest question I’ve asked in forever.

  Me: How do I do this?

  Lizzy: With baby steps. You’re not alone. Start with doing one thing for yourself today. Just one thing. Promise me you will.

  Me: I promise.

  I stare at the screen, at my promise, as my tears subside and my resolve fortifies.

  One thing.

  I can do that.

  Baby steps.

  And as I collect myself off the bathroom floor and press cold towels to my cheeks to wipe away the tears, I realize there is something potent in the notion of acceptance. That once you accept the truths you’ve been running from, you begin to have power over them.

  “You okay?”

  I give a quick glance to my cubicle partner, Melissa, and nod. “Fine. My allergies are acting up.”

  “You sure?” She takes a closer look, and I offer her a smile. Hiding my puffy eyes will only serve to further her suspicions.

  “Yep. Happens every once in a while.” I shrug as if I wasn’t just bawling my eyes out while questioning my life’s decisions. “What’s up?”

  “I was just coming to look for you. Roz wants to see you.”

  I do a double take. “Me? Why?”

  She never wants to see associate consultants unless they are in trouble or getting fired. Did someone hear me in the bathroom? Did she see me take a personal call on company time? Am I—

  “No clue, but I wouldn’t keep her waiting.”

  Within minutes, I’m sitting in the glass palace that Resort Transition Consultants’ owner, Roz, calls an office. Its floor-to-ceiling windows claim to look out over Manhattan but actually look at another skyscraper nearby. I rub my clammy hands up and down my slacks and hope to God she doesn’t notice the evidence of my emotional breakdown and mistake the red eyes for drinking while on the job or something random like that.

  She sits across from me in her trademark black sweater, black-framed glasses, and matching black pixie cut and studies me.

  “We have a last-minute project that’s come on board.”

  “That’s great,” I say. Internally I groan because we’re already spread thin as it is.

  “It is, especially since this client is next level for us. The commission on this project alone would be worth it, but the notoriety and reputation that we’d achieve from being a part of it is invaluable.” She twists her lips, and I swear if I weren’t sitting in front of her, she’d be rubbing her hands together, already counting the money rolling in. “The only downside is that we’re expected to be up to speed, ready to work, and on-site in five days.”

  “Okay,” I say just to simply participate in the conversation because, as much as we all love working for Roz, there is nothing Roz likes more than hearing herself talk.

  But five days? What is this insanity?

  “Our client recently purchased a property in the Virgin Islands that is floundering. It’s a great location, scenic and gorgeous, but it has issues.”

  “As they all do.”

  “That’s where we come in.” Her grin beams. “We’ve been hired to come in and assess the issues so the owners can make the resort shine like the beauty it can be.” With five days to prep? Seriously?

  A resort in the Virgin Islands, though. What I’d give to have time away from normal life to devote to my work while sorting through my personal problems.

  “Sounds like a great opportunity for RTC.”

  “You don’t know the half of it.” She waves a hand at me to let me know she does. “Who would turn down working in paradise for a few months? Hell, I’d take on the project if I could, but I can’t leave with everything that’s going on.”

  “So . . .” I try and gauge what she’s asking me without verbalizing. “You need me to help Gwen get everything together for it since she’s busy with the Rothschild’s properties, then?” I ask, referring to the senior consultant I’m assigned to on most projects. And by assigned, I mean that I do all the work and she gets all the glory.

  “Not this go ’round.”

  “Then what do you need?”

  She pushes a few things around on her desk before looking back up to meet my eyes. “I know I’m wasting my time asking since you’ve previously told me you didn’t feel prepared to take on anything more than a role as an associate, but I’m going to ask anyway. Would you be interested in this project, Sutton?”

  “Of course. Like I said, I can assist any way possible.”

  “I know you can, but that’s not what I’m asking.” She smiles. “Would you like to run this project?”

  I stare at her dumbfounded for a beat. “Run, run?”

  “Yes. Run, run. Be the lead on it. The senior consultant in charge. The one making all the decisions with the clients.”

  “In the Virgin Islands?”

  “That is where the project is, yes.”

  I clear my throat as my palms grow even more sweaty and my pulse races. “You are aware that I’ve never worked on a project this size let alone run one before, right?” Only projects with small budgets and low stakes. Projects that aren’t an entire resort with what seems like unlimited funds or that require ten times more experience than I have. “I mean, I have no doubt I can do it and do it to our client’s liking . . . but it’s a huge risk putting me as lead.”

  “I’m aware.” She nods and gives me a reassuring smile. “But I al
so know you have to learn sometime and maybe that time is now. There is nothing better than hands-on experience to teach you. Everything I ever learned in this business was from being pushed out of my comfort zone.”

  She’s forgetting the part where my lack of experience would embarrass RTC if I screwed up and possibly lose us this huge opportunity working with the client would offer.

  “If this client is so important, why aren’t you asking one of the senior consultants to take it? I’d be happy to finish up one of their existing projects already in the works.”

  “Because our client has asked for a dedicated designer who will focus solely on their project and their project alone.”

  “In other words, they’re demanding.”

  “When you’re successful like they are, you can be anything you want to be. Why change when people would kill for the chance to have you as a reference on their portfolio?”

  I stare at my boss with a million questions running through my mind. Why me? What if I fail? What if, what if, what if . . . and yet I know she wouldn’t have asked me if she didn’t have confidence in me and my abilities.

  “And the second part of my answer,” she says when my silence remains, “is that I believe in you, Sutton. Not only are you a quick study with good ideas, but I’ve been following your work. Gwen tells me all the time about your dedication and contributions to her projects, and I think it’s time you realize your full potential. Of course, the project would come with a raise, lodging at the resort while you’re there, and the potential for a promotion upon the project’s completion.” Our eyes meet and our gazes hold. “I’m not trying to pressure you into saying yes. The last thing I want is for you to take it on out of obligation and then be miserable because that will show in your work, but at the same time, if you keep refusing opportunities, there will be no more growth here at RTC.” She offers a soft and encouraging smile as adrenaline begins to hum beneath my skin. “So, what do you say?”

  Do just one thing for you today.

  I recall the last time Roz asked me to step up. The mountains of excuses I made why I couldn’t take it because, God forbid, I advanced quicker than Clint in his career. How he told me it was for the best that I didn’t take the project and embarrass myself, the firm or, more importantly, him. And then how I cried in the shower that night so he couldn’t hear, feeling like I’d let myself down, all while rationalizing it in some futile way.

  I think it’s time you realize your full potential.

  Oh my God. How could I have done that to myself? I’m damn good at my job.

  My pulse thunders in my ears, courage mounting with each beat of my heart as I look at Roz and smile. “Yes. I’m very interested . . .”

  Roz startles at my unexpected words. “Really?”

  I inhale a shaky breath and nod. “Yes. I’d love the opportunity.” Baby steps. “It’s terrifying but I’m more than ready.”

  “All good things in life should scare you a little. That’s how you know you’re really living.”

  Eighteen Hours Ago

  “Sutton? Honey?” Lizzy says as she stares at me on her doorstep, bags at my feet, and a lost look on my face.

  “You were right.” My voice is barely a whisper as I stare at my best friend. I don’t say anything else and yet she knows why I’m standing here and exactly what I need. She ushers me inside her apartment, wraps her arms around me, and just holds tight.

  “It’s going to be okay,” she murmurs over and over in a soothing voice as we stand there. I feel like I can actually breathe for the first time in way too long. “Tell me what happened.”

  So I proceed to tell her about Roz’s offer. About my acceptance of the job in an attempt to stay true to my word to Lizzy to do one thing for myself. And then about Clint’s explosion when I got home and told him I’d taken the offer.

  How at first his words were composed, even, but biting. How I thought he just needed time to warm up to the idea. Hell, I even invited him to come to the Virgin Islands with me and work remotely. But the more I insisted I was excited for the opportunity, the angrier he became. His fist through the drywall, his insults degrading, and his fury and pettiness undeniable.

  And then the cool calm afterwards.

  “You will never be anything without me, Sutton.” His too calm demeanor is unsettling. “We both know that. But go ahead and go if you’re so dead set on experiencing failure. Just remember we have dinner with my boss next Friday. So make sure you’re back by then because it won’t be pretty for you if you embarrass me.”

  “We’re over, Clint,” I repeat for what feels like the tenth time in as many minutes. How did I not hear these veiled threats before? Why have I always complied instead of standing up to him?

  His smile is mocking. The lift of an eyebrow a challenge to how serious my words are.

  My only response is to continue shoving whatever is within reach into my overnight bag. I’m too flustered, too hurt, to properly pack what I really need, but I can’t hesitate. If I do, he’ll pounce, with the intention to show that I don’t mean what I said.

  That we’re not really over.

  “You’ll be back. There’s no way you’ll ever survive on your own without me holding your hand and fixing your constant mistakes.” He looks me up and down and gives a disgusted shake of his head. “But be prepared to grovel.” He chuckles. “There’s a price to pay for realizing I’m the greatest thing that’s ever happened to you.”

  “It was like for the first time I could see his actions clearly, I could really hear his words, but it was almost as if I was so far removed from the emotion in the moment, that I could see what you’ve been seeing all along,” I finally say with a shake of my head. “His need for control. His need to make me less than. His need for me to fit in a box for his use only.”

  She just squeezes my hand and nods where we sit side by side on her couch. “So you left.”

  I nod. “I told him it was over. That we were done and”—I shrug— “I packed a few bags, drove around for a while, and then ended up here.”

  “And how do you feel now that you’ve had some time to think?”

  I twist my lips and try to summon any emotion. I should feel something, right? I should want to scream and yell and punch something after breaking up with a man I’ve been with for two years, but I don’t feel anything other than exhaustion. Simple and utter exhaustion.

  Actually, that’s a lie.

  I can pinpoint one and only one emotion.

  “Relief.” I look at my best friend and give a half-hearted smile. “I feel absolute relief, and nothing more.”

  “Then I guess that tells you all you need to know.”

  And it does.

  I’m sure at some point I’ll grieve the loss of something that used to be my sole focus. The loss of what? I’m not one hundred percent sure because the good memories have been so few and far between these last two years that I struggle to recall one that didn’t result in me either giving up on something for him or biting my tongue for one reason or another.

  I sink into the couch, lean my head back, and close my eyes to take in the moment.

  A moment I’ve known was coming for some time but haven’t had the courage to act on.

  One thing is certain, I obviously disconnected from Clint long before today. Because my nonchalance isn’t shock. Rather it’s me doing something I know I should have done a long time ago. I read once that women leave relationships emotionally way before they leave physically. And I just proved that theory.

  This is me reclaiming me again.

  I did it.

  I finally did it.

  And now I already hate myself for taking so long to get here.

  Fifteen Hours Ago

  I stand at the bathroom doorway and watch Lizzy fuss with putting on her fake lashes. Her makeup is flawless, her hair stunning, and the tight, sparkly dress she’ll be putting on any minute hangs in the corner. Its sequins create prisms of light all over the room.

/>   “They look like a nightmare to put on,” I murmur, pointing at the lashes between her fingertips.

  “You get the hang of it when you do it enough.” She turns and tugs on my hand to pull me into her space. “Let me put some on you.”

  “Kind of a waste using them on me, don’t you think?”

  “Then come with us and it won’t be a waste,” she says as she grabs both of my arms and squeezes. “I know you don’t feel your best right now, but maybe some girlfriend time and cocktail therapy will help cheer you up.”

  “I don’t know,” I murmur. “Will it . . .”

  “Will it what? Look bad to go out and let loose after being held back for so long?” She rolls her eyes dramatically. “Of course, it won’t. People do it all the time. C’mon. Get dressed up and come with me. I have a dress that’s perfect for you. And if you want to leave at any time, we can.” She pulls me in for a quick hug with her one lash on and one lash off. “It’s okay to want to feel alive, Sutton.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Sutton

  Twelve Hours Ago

  Club Coquette is everything it advertises. Swanky. High-end. Overwhelming. Ridiculously pretty people flit about from table to table in the VIP lounge area where Lizzy has set up court. Music plays, its bass thumping a dull throb but not overwhelming, as the dance floor is in a separate area on the other side of the bar.

  The lights are dim and the conversation a low hum as people flirt, mingle, and decompress after a hard day’s work.

  And then there’s me. A little tipsy, simply enjoying myself as I stand at the far end of the bar, waiting for the bartender so I can order another drink.

  My phone vibrates in my hand, and I glance down at it with a resigned sigh. I’m not sure if I want it to be Clint—so I know that at least I’ll be missed—or if I don’t want it to be as a means to prove that I was right; I mean nothing to him.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a voice from my left says.

  “You wouldn’t do what?” I reply in reflex without looking, my attention lifting from the text I haven’t read and over to him.