The Professional Lover II (18+) | [Complete]

32 : Leaving It

A/N: Don't listen to the song if you're in a place. Also, don't read this chapter. If you're a baby and don't know this song, you'll probably recognize it about 3:25 in. 

We'll be back to happy(ish) after this! Yay, happy!

_____

After a few nights of solid sleep, I woke up with a sense of clarity. This isn't about anyone else. It never has been. At the end of the day, I am Maggie. 

Maggie is not a hope or dream I will achieve once I cross things like "education" and "getting out of debt" off my list. Maggie is standing right here, in my shoes, looking at me with those stupid gray eyes and telling me to stop fucking up. People either fuck you, fuck you over, or fuckyou up, remember? That's life, and if that never changes, Maggie is still going to be right here holding a middle finger up to anyone who says shit to her.

Fuck whoever you want, and if they try to fuck you over, leave before they fuck up your life.

The dreams I had for myself weren't really for me, they were more like an apology; a way to make something up to the little girl who had her life ripped from her hands. But I can't help that little girl. I can only help the woman I am now. The thing I want most is my independence. The things I don't want are to be in debt and to be surrounded by people who look at me and only see the family I didn't get to choose. When I thought of it like that, my next step looked simple.

I stand in front of Remy's apartment building, nervous to see him for the first time in nearly two months. Staring at the call box for longer than necessary, someone walks past me and holds the door for me. Seriously, I could be a murderer, people. Don't let the lip gloss fool you...

My tennis shoes squeak with every step on the tile of the lobby. I look like shit because I feel like shit, but none of that compares to the guilt I feel about what I'm about to do. I tuck my hands into the front pocket of my hoodie, fingering the edges of the picture inside it.

I take the elevator up, but even before the doors open, I hear the Missy Elliott song bumping. My heart sinks. The doors open and I find the swarm of people, all clad in some version of a black, voyeuristic ensemble. The usual entertainment of dancers and girls entertain the mingling crowd, while a mass of people gathers around a couple going at it hard in the back of the room. 

My stomach turns, wondering who it is, but when I get a glimpse of the pale hand gripping the woman's hair, the feeling subsides. This isn't my scene. I shouldn't be here, I tell myself. 

I turn to flee when a voice calls to me. "Hey! Moxie!"

Looking over, I find Jezebel making drinks behind the kitchen island. "Hey, girlie," I greet her.

"You don't look dressed for the occasion," she teases. Shit, I don't look fuckable in my unwashed daisy dukes and K-Swiss? She's such a bitch. "Are you looking for Remy?"

"Yeah."

"He said he was going to his bedroom. That was a while ago though," she says with a suggestive smile.

My chest clenches with a feeling I've felt rarely in my life; Jealousy. "Okay, thanks."

As if on a mission, my body does a 180 toward his room. I squeeze my way through the crowd, ignoring the ironic sounds of a woman grunting and moaning to the beat of One Minute Man.

This may not be my scene, and Remy may be into things that I really am not, but this was once my home. I still belong here. A point proven by me knowing that the pair of doors leading to his bedroom has a sticky lock. If you wiggle the handle just right ...