The Widower (18+) | [Complete]

Eleven

I woke up in an unfamiliar bed. The white linens smelled fresh like a hotel, the pillows fluffy and plentiful. Through the huge window beside me, I recognized the signature neighborhood of SoHo. Wow, who put me up in such a fancy hotel?

My memory flooded back along with a splitting headache. I remembered exactly who put me up.  

As I sat up, I found myself in the same LBD and stockings as last night. My panties felt unwrinkled and dry. It would be foolish to think Augustine would take advantage of me in an inebriated state. Hell, he would barely take advantage of me when I begged him. Cringing over both memories, pulled up my hair, stripped myself of the wretched nylons, and left the room. 

When I stumbled out of the bedroom and into a hallway, my confusion worsened. To my right, the hall extended a great length; two doors in line with the one I just walked through, and another at the very end. To my left, bright light poured. Tall windows with squared mullions and arched tops showed how old the building must have been. As I walked toward them, my eyes took in every inch of the space. The window's black frames matched the dark, painted wood of a floating stairwell with glass handrails. Hardwood floors added warmth to the otherwise white aesthetic. 

I walked out of the hallway and into an open living, dining, and kitchen area. At the end of the dining table sat Augustine.

This was obviously not a hotel, but rather the infamous SoHo loft Mildred told me about months before. I had imagined it to be much smaller in my mind—I wasn't sure why. 

I padded over the hardwood floors toward the table. Augustine lifted his gaze from his phone and spotted me. "Good morning, Ms. Neilson," he greeted me.

"Good morning."

He appraised me, the hint of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. "Care for some coffee?" He gestured to the chair beside him.

"Sure." I pulled the chair over and sat, hoping to maintain as much distance from him as possible and to hide the lingering scent of alcohol seeping from my pores. My hands shook as I poured the coffee from the French press into my cup.

"Cream?" he asked. "Or, do you prefer your coffee like your recollection of last night? Black."

I rolled my eyes. "My recollection is just fine, thank you. I believe it's you who wants clarification."

He sat his phone to the side and peered at me—the kind of attention I rarely received from him while clothed. "You made quite the claim last night."

I blew the steam from my mug to hide my smile. "It wasn't a claim," I corrected him, "British bitch."

The pregnant silence that followed made me look his way. His glare was icy. He leaned his elbows onto the table, and in the warning tone of a father, said, "Care to say that again?"

"You heard me," I took a welcomed sip of my coffee, letting him stew. He did just that. "This is the SoHo loft, right?"

He maintained his scowl. "Yes."

"Mildred told me you had this place. I guess I expected it to only be for you."

"The children all have rooms. As will you. If you manage to maintain your employment," he threatened.

"I always hated this neighborhood. It felt like a slap in the face to anyone making a teacher's wage. But so did most of the city," I started to explain just to drive him crazy. "When I lived here, teaching didn't pay enough to actually live in the city, so I got a second job working at this little club called Risqué." I paused and looked at him over my mug, waiting for him to expose himself. "I'm so close with the staff, I still fill in on occasion. Which is why I was there Friday night."