Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 96742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
He should’ve killed me. If I blew a meeting as big and as important as he said, a lesser man would’ve hurt me over it. Christopher would’ve strangled me, that’s for sure.
Instead, he gave me his card.
He was pissed and he made a few threats, but in the end, he offered to help me even more.
I don’t understand why.
I don’t get Evander at all.
But I’m thinking about him the whole way, right up until the disaster hits. There’s an enormous bang like an explosion and suddenly the car’s rumbling wildly.
I veer left, right, left, and finally manage to pull onto the shoulder, about an hour outside of the city.
I stand there, staring at the mess, and I really regret getting rid of all that cash.
The tire’s totally shredded. I try not to cry, but tears roll down my face anyway. How the hell is this happening to me, now of all times? I was so close to getting away, and a freaking flat tire is ruining this for me.
I pull myself together. No use screaming and throwing a tantrum. I can handle this like I handled everything else so far.
“Fucking fuck,” I say, pop the trunk, and stare at the space where the spare usually goes. “Oh my god. You have to be fucking kidding me! Just fucking great.” I watch cars speed past, kicking up dirt and dust, leaving exhaust fumes in my throat.
I nearly made it out.
Almost, but not quite.
I call the cheapest-looking tow truck company I can find on Google and wait for them to show up. I keep taking out Evander’s card and typing in his number, but I keep closing the app before making the call.
I made my decision. I won’t go crawling back to him so soon.
“Yep, that’s a flat,” the tow guy says when he arrives, frowning at the blown-apart rubber, scratching at his bald scalp. “Where’s the spare?”
“Missing,” I say. “It’s a rental.”
“Ah, that’s the problem, those cheap places cut corners.” He clucks his tongue at me like I’m some stupid teenager. “All right, I can give you a ride back to their place if you want.”
“How much will it cost?”
He studies me and licks his teeth like he’s trying to decide how much he can extract. “Three hundred,” he says.
And I feel like I might be sick. “I can’t pay that much.”
“Tell you what. I’ll give you a break and do two-fifty. That or I can take it to an impound lot?”
I groan and rub my face with my hands, but what other choice do I have? I can’t keep this car, and I can’t afford to fix it, and I don’t know where else to go.
Reluctantly, I agree to pay him even though I have no clue how I’m going to, get in the truck, and we drive back into the city.
The guy at the rental place leans on the counter. “Back already?” he asks, showing his teeth, while the tow guy gets the Altima down off the bed.
“I got a flat and there’s no spare.”
“Ah, that’s a shame.” Rental Guy doesn’t seem surprised, and some ugly part of me wonders if that tire was going to explode like that no matter what. He’s a skinny, slimy dickhead in a shredded Harley tee. “Well, you’ll have to pay to get the tire repaired or replaced and—”
“Hold on,” I say, holding up my hands. “Pay for what now? I can’t pay for anything.”
He points at my pocket. “You’ve got them cards.”
“I don’t know if they’ll work this time. There’s no way I’m paying for a flat tire, especially when you’re too cheap to have a spare.”
He shrugs and taps at his computer. “It’s in the agreement you signed. You can refuse to pay, but I’ll have to call the police and let them sort it out if you want. Or you can run the cards and see what happens.”
I stand in the rundown, water-stained room and my hands ball into fists. It’s happening again, the anger’s getting the better of me, and I want to pound the smug rental guy in the face until his nose is ground meat.
I take a step toward him.
I should keep my mouth shut—but, like always, I don’t.
“Listen to me, you disgusting little twerp, I’m not going to pay your extortion no matter what you do and no matter how many freaking credit cards I have in my pocket. You’re a cheap little asshole, and I could’ve gotten killed on the side of the road because of your piece-of-shit car, and you want me to pay you more? You can go to hell.”
Rental Guy’s face falls. “Okay, police it is.”
“Wait,” I say, but he’s already calling.
And I am screwed.
Again.
All because I can’t keep my mouth closed.
I’m beginning to deeply regret that whole embracing the ‘mouthy bitch’ thing.