haven’t taken Metro North since we were kids.”
“Suit yourself. If you come up, maybe you can ride back with me in the Mustang. If you behave.”
“Shut the door, would you?”
I smile and close the door behind me as I continue making my way to my office.
Closing the door behind me, I take the small wooden box out of my bottom drawer, along with the letter Mom sent me.
I tuck the letter and box into my inner jacket pocket and text Ma.
Care for some company?
The draw to stay in the city for the rest of the weekend is there. I want to go back to that club, find Molly, and give her what I know she wants. I imagine her pretty, pink, heart-shaped lips on my cock as I show her what a real man is like.
She doesn’t belong cooped up in her apartment. She’s too pretty for that. She needs to be out and meeting people. Loosen up. She’s too serious. I’d show her something that would loosen her up, and she’d beg for more.
But I have to get out of the city. And I have to check in on Mom.
9. Molly
After researching the Anderson brothers and their firm, and getting my more important research out of the way, I decide that instead of borrowing something from Jess, I’ll go out and buy a new outfit of my own for my first day of work.
I hop into the G train subway station and give a few bucks to the man playing U2 songs on his guitar, case out and filled with crumpled bills. He’s always there, and he always sounds amazing. He has the voice of an angel and is good with the guitar, and I wonder if he ever tried to really make it, and when he stopped.
The train comes quickly and I get on. It’s crowded for a Saturday afternoon, but I get the one empty seat left near the door.
I finally get to the L train, stay on for a few stops, and get out at 14th Street to go shopping at my favorite discount designer store.
It’s a hot day, and I smile because this is always how summer comes on in New York City. Last night was freezing, and today is the day all the women trade in their boots for flip flops and their rain coats for tank tops.
It’s a city of extremes - high highs and low lows. No grey areas. No room for in-betweens. The best of times, the worst of times, and all that. Even the weather follows suit.
When I open the door to my destination, a cold, air-conditioned gust of wind hits me squarely in the face. I feel like the beads of sweat on my back freeze into little ice crystals as I trade in one form of discomfort for another.
I take my time browsing the store. I look at the shoes and settle on a pair of cute patent-leather flats. I pick up a trim little black suit with a cropped jacket and a navy blue shell. Everything looks on-trend and classic at the same time.
There’s a woman browsing the aisles near me - a really pretty, tall blonde woman. She looks familiar. I swear I’ve seen her before.
Holy crap!
Clarissa? Could it actually be Clarissa, Drew’s ex?
Why would she be shopping here? Shouldn’t she be on Fifth Avenue, shopping in some chi-chi boutique?
I try not to stare, but I need to know if it’s her.
Call it research. For my new job. I’m on my way to becoming a real journalist, after all. I shouldn’t stifle my desire to get the scoop.
Tonight at eleven: Wealthy heiress seen shopping at a bargain store. What was she doing there? Coming up after the weather.
Maybe I should go into TV journalism, instead of print.
I try to study her face, without looking too obvious. I notice everything about her - the who, what, where and why, which are the basics of reporting.
Who? I’m not quite sure. I think it’s Clarissa. I try to look for clues as to whether it is actually her or not.
The what? Shopping. It’s what lots of young women in the city like to do on a lazy, hot Saturday afternoon, maybe after some brunching. Go to one of the big makeup stores, try out some new eyeliner, and pick up a few new pieces to freshen up the old wardrobe.
But our mystery woman doesn’t look
“Suit yourself. If you come up, maybe you can ride back with me in the Mustang. If you behave.”
“Shut the door, would you?”
I smile and close the door behind me as I continue making my way to my office.
Closing the door behind me, I take the small wooden box out of my bottom drawer, along with the letter Mom sent me.
I tuck the letter and box into my inner jacket pocket and text Ma.
Care for some company?
The draw to stay in the city for the rest of the weekend is there. I want to go back to that club, find Molly, and give her what I know she wants. I imagine her pretty, pink, heart-shaped lips on my cock as I show her what a real man is like.
She doesn’t belong cooped up in her apartment. She’s too pretty for that. She needs to be out and meeting people. Loosen up. She’s too serious. I’d show her something that would loosen her up, and she’d beg for more.
But I have to get out of the city. And I have to check in on Mom.
9. Molly
After researching the Anderson brothers and their firm, and getting my more important research out of the way, I decide that instead of borrowing something from Jess, I’ll go out and buy a new outfit of my own for my first day of work.
I hop into the G train subway station and give a few bucks to the man playing U2 songs on his guitar, case out and filled with crumpled bills. He’s always there, and he always sounds amazing. He has the voice of an angel and is good with the guitar, and I wonder if he ever tried to really make it, and when he stopped.
The train comes quickly and I get on. It’s crowded for a Saturday afternoon, but I get the one empty seat left near the door.
I finally get to the L train, stay on for a few stops, and get out at 14th Street to go shopping at my favorite discount designer store.
It’s a hot day, and I smile because this is always how summer comes on in New York City. Last night was freezing, and today is the day all the women trade in their boots for flip flops and their rain coats for tank tops.
It’s a city of extremes - high highs and low lows. No grey areas. No room for in-betweens. The best of times, the worst of times, and all that. Even the weather follows suit.
When I open the door to my destination, a cold, air-conditioned gust of wind hits me squarely in the face. I feel like the beads of sweat on my back freeze into little ice crystals as I trade in one form of discomfort for another.
I take my time browsing the store. I look at the shoes and settle on a pair of cute patent-leather flats. I pick up a trim little black suit with a cropped jacket and a navy blue shell. Everything looks on-trend and classic at the same time.
There’s a woman browsing the aisles near me - a really pretty, tall blonde woman. She looks familiar. I swear I’ve seen her before.
Holy crap!
Clarissa? Could it actually be Clarissa, Drew’s ex?
Why would she be shopping here? Shouldn’t she be on Fifth Avenue, shopping in some chi-chi boutique?
I try not to stare, but I need to know if it’s her.
Call it research. For my new job. I’m on my way to becoming a real journalist, after all. I shouldn’t stifle my desire to get the scoop.
Tonight at eleven: Wealthy heiress seen shopping at a bargain store. What was she doing there? Coming up after the weather.
Maybe I should go into TV journalism, instead of print.
I try to study her face, without looking too obvious. I notice everything about her - the who, what, where and why, which are the basics of reporting.
Who? I’m not quite sure. I think it’s Clarissa. I try to look for clues as to whether it is actually her or not.
The what? Shopping. It’s what lots of young women in the city like to do on a lazy, hot Saturday afternoon, maybe after some brunching. Go to one of the big makeup stores, try out some new eyeliner, and pick up a few new pieces to freshen up the old wardrobe.
But our mystery woman doesn’t look
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