The Heiress Read online

  I looked up at the sound of the receptionist’s bored voice.

  She waved a piece of paper in the air, which looked suspiciously like a check. “He took care of your rent,” she said, looking annoyed.

  I turned to Jerry, but all he did was shrug.

  What the fuck just happened?

  Karma

  It took me a minute to regain my bearings, then I raced outside to find Mr. Meyers. I charged through the double glass doors. Momentarily blinded by the bright sunlight, I blinked furiously to adjust my vision.

  The August heat pressed in on me as I frantically scanned the street for any sign of a man in a suit. But we were less than four blocks from the stock exchange in the heart of the financial district. There were suits everywhere.

  Panic rose inside me as I realized I was now indebted to a complete stranger. Not exactly the resolution I was hoping for when I strode into Golde Property Management full of self-righteous anger. How could I let this happen?

  My mind flashed back to that night. Every time I screwed up, my mind automatically conjured the memory of the night I fucked up worse than I ever would again. Almost as if my brain was trying to reassure me that whatever I’d done this time wasn’t as bad as it seemed.

  The only problem was that this time, my memories of that night couldn’t distract me from how royally fucked I was.

  I slid my phone out of my pocket, opened up my favorite contacts, and touched my mom’s name. Two rings passed before someone tapped me on my shoulder. I gritted my teeth, prepared to turn around and face whatever transient was going to ask me for spare change and tell them that I could really use some spare change myself. But as I turned around, I found a face that I knew was going to cause me nightmares, and maybe a few naughty daydreams.

  “Looking for someone?” Meyers quipped with a knowing smile.

  “Uh…I…uh…” I was suddenly having trouble forming words. “I…I can’t accept your money,” I finally spat out, ending the call as I realized our answering machine was playing.

  He cocked an eyebrow and I couldn’t help but notice how his smooth, tanned skin seemed to glisten in the sunlight. “I don’t understand. I didn’t give you any money.”

  My jaw dropped. “What? Are you trying to pretend like you didn’t just give that receptionist in there seven grand to pay my past-due rent, which, by the way, is not actually past due. It’s just—”

  “I know. It’s a glitch,” he said before I could finish. “Which, by the way, is why I wrote the check. And it wasn’t a gift,” he continued, his eyes flickering with satisfaction at the objection in my eyes. “I mean it wasn’t a gift from me. It was a company check. It’s really just an incentive for Jerry to fix your account.”

  “What kind of incentive is that? If you pay my debt—that I don’t even owe!—what incentive does he have to fix my account if he just got paid double the rent?”

  He looked down at me with a smile that made my heart stutter. “Because now it’s my business. If he doesn’t fix your account and return my money, I won’t buy him out. Not many investors looking to buy these old property management firms anymore.”

  The way he said the word “property” caught me off guard. He pronounced it “prop-uh-tee.” For a moment, he sounded like someone from my neighborhood.

  “What did you say your name was?” I asked.

  He looked confused for a split second before he replied. “I didn’t. But my name is Daniel. Nice to formally make your acquaintance, Kristin.”

  Now I was the one scratching my head. I must have been hearing things. Or maybe he really was from the Bronx, and he used the magical world of finance to pick himself up by his bootstraps. You could take the sexy man out of the Bronx, but you couldn’t take the sexy Bronx out of the man.

  I smiled to myself as I thought of how much Petra would like that joke. Then, I shook my head to free myself of thoughts of my former best friend.

  “You really think Jerry’s going to fix this mess?” I asked, unable to hide the note of worry in my voice. “I really can’t deal with getting thrown out on the street right now.”

  Daniel pursed his full lips. “Would next week work better?”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “Not funny.”

  He shook his head. “You have nothing to worry about,” he said, looking cool as a cucumber. “Jerry’s in so much debt right now. He won’t do anything to jeopardize the deal we discussed. And if he does, well, let’s just say…I know people who can help him change his mind.” He laughed when my eyes widened, a deep, hearty laugh that was sexy as hell. “I’m kidding,” he assured me. “I’ve always wanted to say that.”

  “Thanks for clarifying,” I said sarcastically. “I really don’t need to add co-conspirator in a murder plot to my resumé.”

  His gaze traveled down the length of my body and returned to my face. “Don’t worry. I’ll be your alibi.”

  Suddenly, I was aware of how hot my face felt, and I cursed my body for turning me into a blushing cliché. “It’s really hot out here. I have to go,” I said, fanning my face as I turned on my heel and headed for the subway.

  “Wait a minute,” Daniel said, catching up to me. “Shouldn’t we at least exchange numbers so I can keep you abreast of any new developments in the hunt for your missing rent payments?”

  I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and a woman on her cell phone bumped into my back, then cursed at me as she passed. “Yeah, get over it!” I shouted at her as she sped away, her four-inch heels clicking on the pavement as she flipped me the bird.

  Daniel smiled and shook his head. “You are something else. You really are,” he said, pulling his cell phone out of his pocket. “What’s your number?”

  “Why do you need my number? I thought it was your company that paid my rent, not you. Shouldn’t I be exchanging numbers with your accountant, or something?”

  “Sweetheart, you do not want to give my accountant your phone number. Trust me.”

  The way he said sweetheart, with a smooth lilt, made me want to give him a lot more than just my phone number.

  I sighed, as if he was really asking too much of me, then I gave him my phone number. Within a couple of seconds, my phone chimed with a new text message. I flashed him an amused grin as I slid my phone out of my pocket and read the text.

  * * *

  The receptionist gave me your address. I’ll pick you up at 8 p.m.

  * * *

  When I looked up from my phone, I was not at all surprised to find him gone. What an arrogant, presumptuous, absolutely fuckable human being. Too bad I’d be working at eight.

  I deleted his text and made my way home.

  My mom should be back from shopping with Leslie by now. I didn’t want to worry her, but I had to tell her what had happened. When I started working and paying all the bills, my mom made me promise to tell her if we were ever in danger of not making the rent.

  We were in no danger of lapsing on the rent, not since I’d decided to take a double shift on Tuesdays and Fridays. But it seemed that even—or especially—when things were going well, karma was always waiting just around the corner with a baseball bat to deliver a death blow to my confidence.

  Today, it was an eviction notice. Tomorrow, it could be a shitty customer who would complain to my boss because I didn’t let him grab my ass. Whatever I did, the karma police were always hot on my trail.

  Truthfully, I didn’t know if I even believed in karma.

  The saying “what goes around, comes around” was one I used to laugh at when I heard it repeated. But nowadays, I found myself hoping it was true, because if karma was real, then maybe I could turn my negative karmic value into a positive with enough good deeds. For instance, forgoing college to take care of my mom instead of pawning her off on one of her sisters in South Dakota, whom I’d never met.

  Entering our apartment on the fifth floor, a cool air-conditioned breeze doused the flame of summer heat throbbing in my skin. My first instinct was to panic th
at I had left the window AC unit on full blast while no one was here, and I would surely pay for that mistake when our next electric bill arrived. But as soon as I saw my mother lying in her hospital bed in front of the TV, sound asleep, I knew it was she who had turned it on, probably so she could get some rest after what was probably an exhausting trip to Target.

  Despite the fact that I was an only child, my mom never babied me. She taught me to cook dinner when I was six. I began making trips to the local bodega by myself when I was nine. Though, I did that mostly so I could pet the cats that wandered the aisles. Sometimes, though, I wished my mom would baby herself.

  Closing the front door softly behind me, so as not to wake my mom from her nap, I quietly lifted the two un-emptied Target bags sitting at the foot of her bed and tiptoed to the bathroom. When I reached into the first bag, I smiled as I pulled out a bottle of coconut shampoo I mentioned in passing to my mom a few weeks ago.

  I had been complaining about how difficult it was brushing the tangles out of my long brown hair. I told my mom how envious I was of Helen’s—one of my coworkers—silky, coconut-scented locks. How I’d never have hair like Helen’s because I couldn’t afford fancy hair products.

  I shook my head as I imagined my mom sitting in the electric shopping cart, asking Leslie to help her find a nice coconut-scented shampoo.

  It’s the little things people do for you that show how much they truly care.

  My shift didn’t start for more than two hours, so I took my time in the shower, washing and conditioning my hair twice with the new products my mom had bought. Then, I took my time blow-drying my hair and using the cheap flatiron I bought at a flea market to create a luxurious beach waves hairstyle I saw on Pinterest. It wasn’t until I was finishing up my “no-makeup makeup” look that I realized I wasn’t getting ready for work. I was getting ready for Daniel.

  How stupid of me.

  It wasn’t as if I was going to skip work to go on a date with a guy I’d known all of ten minutes. The new Kristin didn’t do things like that. She wasn’t impulsive or flighty. She wouldn’t hurt someone she loved—her mom—to satisfy a primal urge.

  I hadn’t taken a single sip of alcohol in almost two years, and I would not allow myself to become addicted to anything or anyone.

  The memories of that night returned and, before I could stop myself, tears spilled from my eyes, carving trails through my fresh makeup. I allowed myself to cry as I washed my face in the sink. If my mom walked in, she wouldn’t be able to see the tears through the soapy water. But as soon as I patted my face dry, I drew in a deep breath and pushed aside all those feelings that had become a part of my daily life since the night I lost my best friend.

  The loneliness, the sadness, the fear that the loneliness and sadness would never go away. I stuffed it all down, locking it away to be dealt with another day.

  For now, I had to go to work and do my job, while trying to forget that I could be out there somewhere in this glittering city, probably enjoying a lavish dinner at a fancy restaurant with one of the hottest guys I’d ever laid eyes on.

  Blood Sisters

  Ten years earlier

  Blood. Everywhere.

  I wanted to cry.

  No, I didn’t want to cry. If I cried, everyone would hear me.

  I couldn’t help it. I cried.

  “Are you okay in there?” a voice called to me from the other side of the door of the restroom stall I occupied.

  “I’m fine,” I called back from inside the stall, unable to hide the desperation in my voice. “Just a headache. I’m fine.”

  It was just my luck. Less than two weeks had passed since I transferred to this new school. I hadn’t made a single friend yet. I’d been eating lunch alone in the computer lab while surfing the six websites allowed through the “kid-safe” internet filter. I had actually just fallen into a Webster’s Dictionary rabbit hole of words related to the word “pathetic,” when I felt a strange, warm sensation in my crotch.

  I had gotten my first period about a month ago, over the summer, so I had no idea I was supposed to wear preemptive feminine protection at school. Shit, between all the stuff we had to do to get me registered at this new school, and my abysmal first two weeks, I’d completely forgotten the disturbing appearance of my first period last month.

  Now, I was sitting in the bathroom, and the bell was about to ring for everyone to get to their fifth-period class following lunch. The crotch of my panties, and the back of my blue skinny jeans, were soaked through with a ghastly splotch of blood the size of my fist. There was no way I’d make it to the nurse’s office without at least one person seeing me. I was doomed.

  Rumors of my bloody mishap would spread fast. I’d never have any friends at this new school, or whatever high school I went to next year. I’d be branded the “gross girl.” I’d be a loner for the rest of my days. I’d probably be better off just waiting in this restroom stall until school let out in about two hours. No, that wouldn’t work. I’d have to wait until all the sports teams and after-school clubs had let out. That wouldn’t be for another four or five hours.

  “Did you bleed through your pants?” the same voice asked.

  My stomach ached as I realized this person probably saw me walk into the stall. She was probably going to go run and tell her friends how the new girl was in a restroom stall, crying over her gross panties.

  “Here,” she said.

  I flinched as a large black T-shirt flew over the door of the bathroom stall and landed in my lap. I quickly scooped it up so it wouldn’t accidentally come in contact with my bloody pants.

  “That should cover your ass enough for you to make it to the nurse’s office. And take this, too,” she said, holding her chubby, freckled hand under the door.

  I grabbed the pad she was holding, then quickly attempted to place the T-shirt back in her outstretched hand. “Thank you, but I can’t take your shirt.”

  She drew her hand back swiftly, and I tightened my grip on the shirt to keep it from dropping on the grimy floor. “Don’t feel too grateful. The only reason I had that shirt on me is because I was taking it home to wash. It’s the undershirt I use for Phys Ed.”

  I tentatively brought the shirt to my face and inhaled. My nose crinkled at the smell of grass and sweat. Laying the shirt over my shoulder, I cleaned myself up and stuck the pad over the bloody stain on my panties. Then, I pulled the plain black shirt over my pink Paramore T-shirt. I had never felt so cool in my life, wearing a complete stranger’s plain shirt.

  I never had trouble making friends. I had trouble keeping them. I finally found a group of friends I could settle in with last year, then we had to move out of our Brooklyn apartment to a shitty five-floor walk-up in the Bronx because my mom couldn’t afford the “criminally sky-high Brooklyn rent,” as she called it.

  I peeked around the edge of the door, making sure we were alone, before I stepped out of the restroom stall. The red-haired girl standing by the sinks was at least six inches taller and forty pounds heavier than I was. She wore white canvas sneakers, blue skinny jeans, and a striped gray and black T-shirt, which was too long, even on her, as the hemline stopped mid-thigh. Glancing down at the shirt I’d just put on, I realized the hemline skimmed the tops of my knees.

  “You’re in my Algebra class,” the girl said, turning back to the mirror and leaning over the sink to get a closer look as she plucked her thin ginger eyebrows.

  I made my way to the sink and began washing my hands. “Am I?” I replied, knowing full well she sat two rows away from me in Mr. Caldwell’s sixth-period Algebra class.

  She chuckled. “Uh…yes. You’re the one who laughed the loudest when Caldwell put that shitty word problem on the board about the bakery that used math to figure out why they ended the day with too many leftover apple pies, and I blurted out it was because I didn’t work there.”

  I laughed again at the joke, recalling how funny I thought it was that a girl our age would make fun of her weight in fro
nt of a classroom. Then, how mortified I was when I accidentally let out a loud witch-like cackle and everyone turned toward me, and suddenly I became the brunt of the joke.

  “Oh, yeah,” I replied, regaining my composure. “Thanks again for the shirt. I’ll wash it and bring it back to you tomorrow.”

  She looked at my reflection in the mirror and raised her eyebrows. “Tomorrow’s Saturday.”

  “Oh, shit. I meant Monday. I’ll bring it back on Monday.”

  She laughed and refocused her attention on her eyebrows. “Where do you live? I can pick it up this weekend.”

  I thought of the rundown apartment we’d moved into a month ago and how there were still unpacked boxes stacked up in the hallway. We had to turn sideways to pass them.

  “I…I can take it to your house. Where do you live?” I asked, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible as I yanked a few paper towels out of the dispenser to dry my hands.

  She bent over and tucked her tweezers into the red and black backpack on the floor. “Yeah, I don’t live in a house. I live in a janky shithole on Belmont.”

  I chuckled. “Me, too. Well, not on Belmont. We’re one street over on Hughes. We just moved in last month.”

  “Even better,” she replied, hoisting her backpack onto her shoulder and sliding a silver flip phone out of her jeans pocket. “What’s your number?”

  I averted my gaze as I tried to think of a lie for why I didn’t have a cell phone, but for some reason, I didn’t want to lie to this girl. “I…don’t have a cell phone. My mom can’t afford it.”

  She didn’t hesitate at all at this response as she then asked for my home phone number, which I gave willingly. “So…what name should I put on your contact? Blood Sister?”

  I smiled at the mention of the word “sister.” “Kristin is cool.”

  “Sweet,” she replied, tucking the phone back into her pocket. “I’m Petra, in case you didn’t catch that in Caldwell’s class. I’ll call you tonight. Stay dry out there!” she said with a wink before she disappeared into the corridor.