||Vicious||

Chapter 22

THE NIGHT WAS RAINY AND cold, almost cold enough for snow but not quite. I was glad for the coat I'd invested in with Vicious's money. I didn't even feel guilty.

My new boss, Brent, a man in his late thirties, lived near the apartment we were about to vacate, so we'd shared a cab and then had a quick drink while he filled me in on what to expect at the exhibit.

My new job at the gallery was just an internship, and the pay was awful, but when Rosie saw the look on my face, she'd basically forced me to say yes. My baby sister was feeling much better and was picking up her old job as a barista once we moved. A job where the tips were great, and the owner was flexible with the hours she could work.

I tried not to give myself too much crap for agreeing to work for Vicious in the first place. My situation was dire, with Rosie's health and everything, but never again. I was glad it would be over this weekend after we moved into our new place. I was eager to release myself from Vicious's painful claws.

It was the New Year, and he was my resolution. I was done with him.

Brent and I hurried the short distance to the gallery through the horrible weather, and I heard a familiar voice that made my heart stop.

"Emilia!"

My first instinct was to not turn around, to keep on moving, especially since my new boss was there. But I wasn't capable of ignoring anyone. Not even him. I spun slowly on my heel, the sleet lashing on both our faces as I drank Vicious in. He ran across the street to get to me, his whole body tensing when he noticed Brent next to me.

"Who the fuck is this tool?" He scowled.

Oh, God.

I blushed furiously, turning to Brent with a crimson face. The last thing I wanted was for my new job to start off this way. I inwardly cursed Rosie for telling Vicious where I was, because I knew he had no other way of finding out I would be here. Then I proceeded to also inwardly curse Vicious for having a broken gaydar, because Brent was clearly playing for his team, not mine.

"I'm so sorry, Brent. Please don't mind him." I kept moving, my eye on the entrance door ahead.

Brent quirked an eyebrow but thankfully didn't say whatever was on his mind at that moment.

Vicious chased us, his long strides catching up with our hurried steps with ease. "I don't care who this fucker is. We need to talk."

"Please turn around and walk away before this evening ends with a restraining order. I'd hate for it to ruin your glowing finance career." My face was dead serious and my voice so cold I wasn't even sure it belonged to me.

We were power-walking on the sidewalk as he jogged beside us on the street, his hands tucked into his wet coat. I refused to glance at him because I knew I'd surely cave if I did.

"It's important," he said, ignoring my threat.

"Not as important as my career."

"I'm not leaving this spot until you talk to me."

Brent was looking all kinds of uncomfortable beside me, his expression begging for cues about how to respond: Did I need help? Did I want some time alone with this guy?

Sleet slashed down angrily and blew icy needles in my face, each like a sharp slap.

I narrowed my eyes at Vicious. "Stand here if you like. Turn into an icicle. I'm going inside to work."

I let the doors swallow Brent and me and even managed not to look back once as I tramped into the gallery. Over the next two hours, I downed three glasses of champagne and discussed art with avid collectors. But not even my new job and Brent's animated nods at everything I'd said made me feel better. My mind kept drifting back to Vicious and the fact that he had returned to New York.