Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
I’m busy giving myself a mental high five when a clearing of the throat gets my attention.
He’s leaning against the brick building with his head tipped back, breathing deeply, his shirt bloodied and tie hanging like a limp noose around his neck. One eye looks worse for wear, but it’s his lip that took the brunt of it. It’s split in half and will probably need a stitch or two.
“That was stupid,” he croaks.
Hmm, okay then. “You mispronounced thank you, but you’re welcome anyway.” I start to walk away because now I’m getting legit annoyed. No good deed and all that.
“Hey…where are you going?” I hear him grumble.
Is that a serious question?
“Hey!”
I guess the answer is yes. I turn to blast him and catch him swaying on his feet. Empathy strikes again and puts a damper on what was going to be a very satisfying verbal smack down.
“Home. I suggest you go to an ER and get that lip stitched.”
Head tipped down, he gingerly touches his swollen eye. “You can’t leave me here.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said you can’t leave––”
“I heard you. I just can’t believe my ears.”
That sounded a heck of a lot like a statement of fact. Or an order. Which is arguably worse in my book, but he did take a couple of direct shots to the face, so I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt. For now.
“Want me to call an ambulance?”
Stepping away from the wall, he wipes his mouth with his thumb and frowns at the blood. “No,” he says in a not very nice tone.
“Hey, ray of sunshine. I just saved your life. Call me crazy but I’m not sensing even a small measure of appreciation from you.”
“I need you to drive me home.”
This is quickly descending into the realm of the absurd. “Are you kidding?” The nerve of this guy.
He runs his hands through his hair and stretches out his shoulders. “Can you drive?”
I look around, genuinely confused at this point. Is this some kind of set up? Is someone playing a prank on me? “Don’t you have like…a driver?” Obvious question. It’s Manhattan––this is standard fare for the rich. “Or a security person or something?”
“If I had a security person, would I have gotten my ass kicked?”
Fair point. Although I don’t appreciate the sharp tone one bit.
“Anyone you can call?”
“No.”
I find that impossible to believe.
“Do you know how to drive or not?” he repeats, tone downright petulant.
“You know…I thought you were rude back at the restaurant. But now you’re making me sorry I didn’t let them give you more free plastic surgery.” After which, I continue walking toward the subway. I’ve got stuff to do, sleep to catch up on, a life to live that does not include standing on a downtown street arguing with a bossy ungrateful stranger.
“I’ll pay you a hundred bucks,” he shouts.
My feet stop moving because, well, money. I can always use more money. Turning, I watch him walk toward me. Talk about false advertising. By the looks of him, you would think he’d know how to handle himself. It’s kind of tragic how bad he is at it. For a man his size, he at the very least should’ve been able to get a few licks in.
“Two fifty,” I counter because it’s late and I don’t like his attitude.
He scowls, wincing as his now swollen eye tugs at the corner. “Extortion.”
“Cool––see ya.”
“Two hundred,” he counters and by the sound of the muttering that follows he’s not too happy about it. Good.
I would’ve settled for one fifty but that’s tough crackers. He needs to learn how to negotiate better and God knows his sunny disposition doesn’t help.
“Where do you live?”
His expressions perks up. “Seventy-Second and Fifth…across the Park.”
The opposite of where I should be going. That’s probably a bad sign.
Chapter Two
Riley
Uptown may as well be planet Mars to me. I never travel that far north unless I’m visiting Veronica at Bergdorf Goodman. Under normal circumstances, I would decline but these are definitely not normal circumstances. The night’s already shot, the ferry long gone. At this point it doesn’t look like I’ll be getting any sleep, so I might as well take the money and run. Small problem, however…
“I don’t have a car.”
“I do,” he says, motioning to the metallic gray Bentley Continental GT with a racing stripe parked at the curb.
I blink. Perplexed. Bewildered. Blink again. “You parked a quarter-million-dollar car on the street. And you accuse me of being stupid?”
“You know cars,” he says in a flat, completely disinterested tone. In a prior life, I knew cars all too well. Like I know how much you can get for the parts and which chop shops know how to dismantle the GPS tracker on this baby. “Do we have a deal?”
He has a way of speaking that makes everything sound inconsequential. As if he’s doing me a favor. Something about it bothers me. Maybe it’s that he doesn’t realize how good he has it, that the rest of us are struggling to get from one day to the next. But whatever, the car has my attention now. And it’s a spectacular example of sleek sophistication and epic horsepower. I’ve seen a few around town. Though nothing like this limited edition with a custom paint job.