Solid Stone Series
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E. G. Patrick
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1,4M
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51
Chapter 1
The car smelled like cheap cologne and fast food. My fingers dug into the seatbelt, aching. I was in the back seat. Again.
Fear pushed my heart to beat in my ears. His breath hit my face—rancid now, sour from the energy drink and greasy burger he’d downed only an hour earlier.
He's talking, laughing, but I couldn’t hear the words, only the dull thud of my heartbeat. He was close. Too close.
The smile that made the cheerleaders scream on Friday nights—the one the football parents and fans adored—was gone. Now it twisted into something else. Something hungry. Predatory. Cocky and too sure of itself, as if I belonged to him.
“Don’t,” I whispered.
But he did.
My hand fumbled along the door, searching for the handle. Panic. Sweat trickled down my back.
Then—
I bolted up in bed drenched and gasping for air. The apartment was quiet except for the whir of the heat coming from the vent above my bed. I pressed my palm to my chest. Still racing.
When would it stop. When would I no longer wake up in that back seat.
It was 6:01 a.m. Taking a long breath I swung my legs out of bed and sat on the edge for a moment. Some scars aren’t visible, but they’re there.
Always there.
Today, I needed to focus.
“I need this job!” I said out loud, trying to shake it off. “I need to prove myself,” I said pulling the shower curtain closed.
Dressed and ready, the rhythmic ticking of the small clock was louder than normal – counting down to the moment that could change everything. My fate was one meeting away.
I answered my phone on the first ring.
It was Ann. “Big day!” she sang with enthusiasm.
“Yeah,” I muttered, wrapping my red scarf around my neck. “I appreciate you getting up so early to call.”
“You’ve got this, Vee. You’re smart, hardworking—”
“You always say that.”
“That’s because it’s true. You worry too much.”
I loved Ann, but she had a fully paid for degree, a reliable boyfriend, and parents who texted her just to say good morning. I had a student loan, a grave-sized hole in my chest where my mom used to be, and a rent payment due next week.
“Things always work out,” she added.
I forced a smile even though she couldn’t see it. “Sure. Okay.”
“Call me after, okay?”
“I will.”
I was a History major. Wrong century, wrong economy. I’d bounced between temp jobs, until Oliver & Harold, a boutique law firm. I had no legal experience but worked overtime for free and had an aptitude for taking notes and reading contracts thoroughly.
Last week, Paul Anders, one of the firm’s senior partners, offered me a permanent job as his Assistant. This morning, I was meeting him at a major client meeting. A potential merger between E&B Dominion, a powerhouse bank repped by the mega- law firm Laurier & Stone, and us with our client, Berkley’s Bank. Today’s meeting was huge. I couldn’t screw this up.
I paused in front of the hall mirror before heading out. Mom had passed almost a year ago, but even before that, I’d had bad luck, so optimism didn’t come naturally to me—not the way it did for Ann.
The past is the past. At least, that’s what I kept telling myself.
As I stepped onto the street the wind slapped my face. I hunched into my coat and made for the subway. Stupidly I’d forgotten my hat. I walked past a poster for an upcoming museum exhibit - The French Royals. My heart tugged. That was the kind of job I’d dreamed of—curating exhibits, living in archives, finding meaning in the past. But dreams didn’t pay bills.
The rush hour crowd and I exited the train. Outside in the cold again, I walked another block, and the Paramount Hotel was just ahead.
I checked my bag—files, laptop, USB backup—and crossed the street, my mind already rehearsing how professional I’d be during the meeting.
Then—Bang!
I slammed into the revolving door. My laptop bag had gotten caught, jamming the glass in place.
Startled, I looked up—and froze. A man stood trapped between the glass panels. Tall, broad-shouldered, sharply dressed.
I blinked, heart skipping. His face came into focus. His dark blue eyes locked on mine.
He wasn’t just attractive. He was striking. Hair nearly black, jawline sharp, the kind of face that looked like it belonged on magazine covers.
My breath caught in my throat.
