“Where’s your ride?” he asked.
“I take the subway.”
“A little late don’t you think? Seems a little dangerous.”
“I’m touched that you care.”
“Let me give you a ride.”
“Your Murder Van parked around the corner?” I said before shutting him down. “No thanks. I prefer the subway.”
“Looking to end up a statistic? The subway at this time of night isn’t the best way to get home. If you won’t let me drive you home, let me call you an Uber.”
“I’ll admit the concerned gentleman act is a nice touch but—“
“I never said I was a gentleman,” he corrected me with silky smoothness, sending a shiver of unwanted awareness down my skin. “But you interest me enough to want to see you safely home.”
“Why are you interested?”
“My reasons are my own.”
Okay, I was done with the Twenty Questions Game. The ache in my feet had progressed to an angry throb. I just wanted to climb into bed but I sensed that if I didn’t at least let him call an Uber…he’d never let me leave.
Exasperated, I slapped my thigh, with a huff. “Fine,” I said. “Call me an Uber.”
His slow smile was sensual as fuck — and the last thing I wanted was my insides to react to but my stomach did a suspicious flippity flop that always begged for trouble. “Already done. Your car awaits.”
As if summoned by magic, a mid-sized sedan pulled into the alley with the Uber sticker in the window. The man flashed his cell screen. “Does this look like your driver?” he asked me.
I compared the driver with the picture on the screen and nodded, still wondering how he got that Uber so fast but I had to admit, riding home without having to keep my knife clutched in my hand, was a plus.
“Thanks.” I returned my pepper spray to my purse, readjusting for a better fit on my shoulder. “Well, um, yeah, this has been super weird but I’ll accept your offer of the Uber. Goodnight.”
I didn’t wait for his reply as I climbed into the awaiting vehicle. “Home Jeeves,” I muttered to the driver, giving him my address. “And step on it. This guy is mucho creepo.”
I closed my eyes, ready to put the whole night behind me.
Why did the cute ones have to be whores, psychos, or gay?
3
Morning came way too quickly as was often the case when I worked a double.
‘Everything hurts and I’m dying’ was my T-shirt anthem these days.
For being twenty-six I felt sixty-two. My bones ached and my muscles protested every time I moved and I was pretty sure my hair was going to start falling out at some point.
I rose from the bed and hobbled to the bathroom catching a quick glimpse of myself as I passed to the toilet. What the hell did that guy want with me last night?
I wasn't anything special. I wasn't a supermodel. I wasn't perfect. I guess I had a semi-okay face, I mean I didn't scare children or anything but I wasn't hot by any means.
In fact, I thought Sasha was way prettier than me. Sasha had naturally red hair that screamed exotic coupled with those brilliant green eyes that looked chipped from freaking jewels.
And the biggest natural tits that were the envy of every woman working at Jimmy’s. She was practically sex on a stick. Compared to Sasha, I was as alluring as a desk lamp.
So why had he singled me out? If I were a naive girl like Sasha, I would’ve melted at the seemingly thoughtful gesture of ordering me a car.
But I wasn’t naive.
He wanted something; I just bailed before he could get to the point.
I guess it didn’t matter any longer. Mr. Engimatic Stranger was part of the past and definitely not part of the future but a shower definitely was because I smelled rank.
I scrubbed the smell of last night from my body and ran a brush across my teeth before dressing and heading for the kitchen to mainline some coffee.
A polite knock at the door waylaid my trajectory. I paused, my immediate thought of the stranger and how he’d found me.
Torn between climbing out my third story onto the rickety balcony to the fire escape and opening the door to face my fate, I went with the latter because I was too tired to scale the balcony.
Imagine my surprise when a reed-thin bike courier stood at my door, looking pretty harmless with a benign smile.
“Mari Jones?” I nodded. The court courier handed me an envelope. “You've been served.”
“What?”
But the courier split, leaving me to open the envelope to resolve the mystery.
My mouth dropped open.
That motherfucker.
Landon was suing me for custody of the cat?
As if knowing she was at the center of a stupid custody battle, Miss Switch came and wound her way around my legs, purring as she went, as if to say ‘Don't worry, he's an asshole. I pick you’ but the opinion of a fickle cat was hardly admissible in court, right?
“Unbelievable,” I muttered, kicking the door shut with my foot.
Fuck coffee at this point. I needed something a bit stronger like a Jaeger bomb or straight vodka. Did he have no soul? How could he possibly think he could steal every dime from our account and then have the audacity to want my cat?
I picked up Miss Switch and held her tightly until she protested and I was forced to put her down.
He took my dignity; he took my bank account; he could not have my damn cat.
Was I going to have to retain a lawyer to fight this stupid sham of a custody battle? What the fuck, I have no clue.
And how exactly did one go about hiring a lawyer? Should I just Google someone? Fuck, again, no clue.
I grabbed my cell and stabbed at his contact information. He surprised me by answering with a smug, “Hey Mari,” and I wanted to reach through the phone and hang him by his balls.
“I just got served, asshole! How fucking dare you! Are you insane? You stole all my money, you can’t have my fucking cat, too.”
He sighed as if he were my victim instead of the other way around. “Mari, babydoll, this is why it was never gonna work out between us. You're just mean. I didn't take your money. It was our money and I took what I felt was fair compensation for all the bloodshed that I've had to put up with on your end. Not to mention you fucking punched me so hard I had to get stitches. You know how that's going to slow down my modeling career. Honestly, you ought to be grateful I’m not suing for damages.”
I ground my teeth. “Being Instagram famous is like trying to pay your bills with Monopoly money — it’s garbage and it means nothing. You’re not a fucking model and you don’t have any sort of career. Nobody pays you shit for what you do.”
Ohhh, yes, that one hit the target. “Fuck you, Mari. I have two sponsors on the line right now. You’re gonna be real sorry when I'm popping bottles in the club, my fucking face on billboards and shit, you know? I was willing to forgive you but fuck that, not now. I’ll see you in court, bitch.”
To think I ever bought into his bullshit was humiliating. I didn’t waste my breath on a clapback. Karma couldn’t assfuck him hard enough to satisfy the rage eating at my insides.
I tore the summons in half and let the papers fall to the floor. I remember being so impressed with how many followers he had. I mean, people really seemed to dig what he was putting out there and why not? He was hot AF.
And he’d made me feel special for wanting me.
Turned out, he was just a narcissistic asshole with a small dick and a huge ego.
Focus. I needed to burn off this rage before I punched some innocent fucker just for breathing.
Quickly changing into my sneakers and my running shorts I grabbed my headphones and bailed.
Don’t get the wrong idea, I’m not a health nut — fuck that, give me chocolate, give me McDonald’s, give me freaking junk food — but running helped check the seriously strong current of reckless energy that pulsed through my veins.
I was a total trash monster.
Eating clean was my idea of a nightmare but running kept me in fair enough shape so that when I ate my weight in Hershey’s Kisses while binge-watching something bloody and awesome, like Game of Thrones, I didn’t have to use a Zip Tie to hold up my jeans.
Oh, and I hated running but I hated the idea of prison more so, venting whatever was pissing me off at the moment, was the smarter choice.
Let’s be real — orange wasn’t really the new black if you didn’t have the coloring for it — and, Lord in heaven, I so didn’t.
My feet ate the pavement, my music blared loud and angry in my ear. Mile by mile, the anger leached away, leaving me empty but no longer homicidal.
Was I mad at myself for falling for Landon’s bullshit? Yeah, duh, Dr. Phil.
Was I feeling like a complete loser for not recognizing a snake when it slithered past me? Ding, ding, another winner.
I flopped down on my thrift-store sofa and kicked off my shoes. Sweat dripped down my face and other places. Boob sweat…so sexy.
Another shower was in order.