Chapter 4 COMPANY

Slim sunrays streamed through my bedroom windows, obnoxiously bright, warm on my skin, coercing me from sleep.

My eyes opened reluctantly, squinting, both from the intruding sun and from the immediate headache that pounced me. Hangover. Today would be a lethargic, mood-swinging day, I could tell.

Slipping out of bed, I dragged myself to the bathroom. My reflection, a horror show, stared back at me in the mirror; cognac irises surrounded by lashes like palm tree leaves, a heart-shaped face disastrously mascara-blotched and lipstick-smeared.Twenty-six inches of chocolate brown ripples tangled in knots. I looked like death.

Deciding on a long, hot shower, I stripped down and hopped under the steaming stream. Almost instantly, my muscles began to relax. Tossing my head back, I let the water beat down on my face, the heat stinging my already sensitive skin.

I. Am. Such. A mess. The tragic and unexpected news I'd received last night still had me a bit on edge. Though, why I was "shocked" by this news, I couldn't tell, because this was a long time coming.

A month. That's how long it's been since I broke up with him. A month. And now , just like that, he was gone. It was divine intervention that , at just the right time, I'd mustered up the courage to leave him without looking back.

Because there's no question in my mind that as soon as the tough got going, I would've ran right back to him. I always did. When Troy brought me the news last night about him, my ex-boyfriend Calle, being murdered in his house, I'd momentarily lost it.

Even though I'd grown sick and tired of the selfish, insensitive bastard, I'd still spent a great deal of my life with the guy, so learning of his brutal murder did hit me something fierce.

Calle was never the ideal man, but he was there for me at a time when I was lost. Yep, shitty as my life was right now, there'd been a time when it had been far worse.

What if I'd never left him? Watching boxing on Tuesdays was a ritual for Calle. And I no doubt would've been right there, cuddled up in the theater den with him watching boxing, and just like that the assailants would've burst in and killed us both.

I could have been dead. The thought alone was jarring. Sad he had to go that way. I never loved him, no, not even an iota, but Calle was all I'd known for six years.

Rough, tough, hardcore love. Drugs, guns, death, cynicism and disloyalty. Calle had been my shoulder, my refuge, and an oasis in the desert since that time I could no longer torture myself with thoughts about-thanks to my retrograde amnesia.

Back then, I was heartbroken, vulnerable and weak, and Calle was a timely distraction. But I never, ever let myself love him. Never cared to share my heart with anyone. And since Calle was easy not to love, I'd stayed with him.

Many times, when he became overwhelmingly possessive, I'd leave him, but always went back eventually, fearing having to start all over again; or worse yet, meeting someone better and falling in love with them. I didn't want to love.Some unknown force wouldn't allow me to.

So staying with Calle seemed safe-safe only where my heart was concerned, not my life. That's why I'd drank myself into oblivion last night, to numb it all.

After showering, I spent over thirty minutes blow-drying my hair, struggling to school my overly long and unruly curls. Then I rummaged through my closet of self-made apparels and snagged an outfit: a pale green, squared-neck, flared dress made for Spring, to go with some light yellow loafers.

My overt penchant for colors was a secret to no one. I couldn't help it; I love bright colors and I cannot lie. To complete my outfit, I grabbed my oversized Givenchy handbag-black with yellow straps.

The bag was a gift from Calle. But I made my own clothes. I was good at it. So, yeah, I wasn't a complete waste of space. I was good for something. Designing was my vice.

After snatching up everything I needed, I stuck my ear-buds in, fetched my iPod and put Pink's Crystal Ball on repeat. Pretty damn apt for my crappy life right now. There were a million cracks in my crystal ball.

Wrestling the emergent feels of depression into submission, I bounced out of my apartment, tipped my head back to soak up some of the warm, early-March sun, inhaled deeply, and then commenced my walk to Starbucks.

I found a corner-seat in the back of Starbucks. Invisibility, I craved it. Taking a sip of my espresso, I closed my eyes and hummed in appreciation.

The time, 9:25am. Ten o'clock would be appropriate enough to visit Miss De'Lany. That gave me a few minutes to catch up on this Laura Kinsale novel I've been trying to finish for the past two weeks.

Retrieving my paperback of Flowers from the Storm from my handbag, I flipped open to the bookmark page and dug in. Despite his impediment, I was utterly in love with the hero Christian Langland. But overly disgusted and annoyed with the heroine, Maddie.

"Wouldst thou likest..." I mocked at the pages.

A stifled chuckle sounded from above, startling me. My eyes drifted from the pages and upward, where they collided with a curious pair of warm brown ones.

A tall, ashy-blond haired man-a rather handsome man, by the way-was hovering over me, his lips twisted to suppress a grin.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi," I echoed. "Can I help you?"

"Yes, you can. I'm in a rather awful mood today and could really do with some company. Care to lend me yours?"

"Sorry. I'm afraid my mood mirrors yours. My company would only worsen your mood. Plus, unlike you, I desire no one's company. Not even my own."

"Already we have one thing in common. That's got to be a sign."

His grin was charming, his voice soothingly melodic. Clad in a charcoal suit with a crisp white shirt and shiny black shoes, he resembled every bit the confident businessman. He looked...expensive.

"My mother taught me never to talk to strangers," I quipped , bringing my book up to my face as a sign of dismissal.

It was ineffective.