Love to Hate You

Chapter 7 - Lucy

"Shit." I fumbled around with my keys, managing to finally get the right one in the lock. I didn't know why I'd suddenly turned into a major klutz, but it might have had something to do with the late hour, the glass or two of wine, and the fact that I'd just had mind-blowing sex with a man I was supposed to hate.

Finally, the door swung open. Relieved to be in the comfort of my home, I shut the door behind me and leaned against it, staring at the ceiling above. What did I just do? Why did I go up to his place? Sure, it was hot, and I needed it. I still remember the way his cock filled me and stretched me, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't want it again. But...but it would complicate things. Big time. I couldn't afford distractions. Not when I was trying to score a sweet promotion and get the hell out of this dingy apartment.

I allowed my purse to drop to the floor and pulled off my high heels, shoving them into my closet. I made sure to lock the deadbolt. Checking that the blinds were drawn, I pulled my skirt off. It was too tight, and I'd been wearing it for too long.

My mouth was dry, and my heart was beating hard and fast. I needed a drink of water. And fast.

Oh great. The kitchen lights flickered on and off. As if I didn't have enough on my plate. Now I'd have to go out and find the right lightbulbs out there somewhere. Of course, it would have to wait until the next day.

I called my place "cozy", when it was really just small and cramped. Although they would never say anything to my face, I knew my friends wondered why the hell I still lived in this apartment. I probably could have afforded something a little nicer, at least in their eyes.

I probably could have rented something a little more upscale, but there's something they didn't know. There's something no one knew. They didn't know that my widowed mom relied on me a great deal. They didn't know that she spent a big chunk of her monthly income on medications to manage her schizophrenia so she can continue to function and work. I kept those kinds of details to myself. Not because I was ashamed. No. I would never be ashamed of my mother. I loved her more than life itself. But I didn't want the pitiful looks, the whispered words, the rumors. No. I kept these sorts of problems to myself. My friends couldn't help me with that, so what was the point of offloading my issues onto them?

Did they really want to hear about how she burned some of my toy puppets in the backyard when I was six, because she thought they were possessed? Or about the time the cops came out because my father had to physically restrain her when she wanted to take off with me during one of her episodes? No, I was pretty fucking sure they didn't want to deal with my baggage, and why would they?

I've been helping her ever since my dad died, so a bit of my income went to her every month. Every few weeks, during one of my visits, I would tuck a couple of hundred dollars into an envelope and leave it in the same kitchen cabinet where I've been leaving envelopes for the past three years. She wouldn't accept money if I gave it to her directly. She was too proud for that. I tried it once in the beginning. She chastised me and told me she didn't want it, but I knew that she appreciated it. And what's more, she needed it.

After downing a glass of water, I stuck my head into the fridge. Sure, I'd had dinner earlier, and a snack with Cole, but my sweet tooth was buzzing and had to be satisfied. Yes! Score! There, behind a pot of old mash potatoes was a box that should have the remains of the frozen cheesecake I popped in the oven the previous night.

Excited, I pulled it out and whipped the box open. My smile widened. I hadn't eaten as much as I thought the night before, and half the cheesecake was still there, ready to be devoured! Perfect. A wine glass peeked out at me from behind a cabinet door that I'd left ajar, and I thought why the hell not? I poured a glass of merlot. The Hungarian vintage Tokaji Aszu could wait for a more special occasion.