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)
“Just a hunch, but it looks like you can afford security,” I add. More silence from him. This guy is a sphinx. Which, of course, only feeds my curiosity. “I mean––”
“Do you always talk this much?” he finally fires back.
Testy. Good to see he still has a pulse. I was beginning to wonder. “Consider it another favor. You could have a concussion and I’m doing my part to keep you awake.”
“You’re a regular Florence Nightingale,” he deadpans.
“You’re welcome.”
Not long after the side of my face starts to burn under his pointed scrutiny. “What?”
“Do you know how to use that stick or is it a prop?”
I’m really good with it, but I don’t want to give too much away in case I need to remind him who’s boss. Best to keep that critical information to myself.
“I know how to use it,” I tell him. “My friend is a cop. He teaches self-defense.” Which naturally prompts me to throw him a side-eye. “I can give you his number.”
Dominic could teach this guy a thing or two.
“Would you have fought them?” The skepticism in his voice comes through loud and clear. This isn’t the first time a man has doubted what I’m capable of. It never ends well for them.
“I’ve broken a few bones.” The city isn’t as safe as it used to be, tonight being another shining example of it.
“You like to fight?” he continues.
“Nope––” I say, turning to look him in his good eye. He needs to see that I mean the next few words that will come out of my mouth with all my heart and soul. “I hate fighting. I just refuse to be a victim.”
A car behind us honks and I realize we’re sitting at a green light. I hit the gas, buzzing across 57th Street to the east side.
“So…why don’t you have security?”
“Because I don’t need it.”
I glance over to confirm he’s kidding. I mean, how can he not be? His face looks like he ran into the back end of mule. Instead, I find him in deep thought, staring absently out the window at the mostly deserted street. That’s when the late nights on my feet and the long hours working during the day catch up with me. I start laughing. And not just laughing––I’m talking tears-running-down-my-face, barely-able-to-drive laughing.
“Is that so?” I finally get out as the giggles wear off. He’s entertaining––I’ll give him that.
“Yes, it is,” he counters without a shred of embarrassment.
This guy…
He’s definitely entertaining. Even if he doesn’t mean to be.
Ten minutes later, I’m driving down Fifth Avenue when he gestures to the illuminated lobby of a prewar building.
“Park in front.”
I pull the Bentley to the curb, and he jumps out, walking into the lobby without a backward glance. What other choice do I have other than to grab my messenger bag and chase after him. It’s past one a.m. I need to settle our business and head back downtown.
There’s a middle-aged white guy in a dark suit sitting behind a white marble counter in the lobby. He puts down the tablet and mutes the game he was watching. “Boss,” he says to the guy whose name I now realize I don’t know.
“Kevin. Can you take care of the car, please? It’s out front.”
He gestures for me to hand over the keys and I do, laying them on the counter.
“Will do,” Kevin responds while he eyeballs me suspiciously. Whatever. His snobby doorman can stuff it.
On the elevator ride up, the guy whose name I don’t know leans back against the mahogany panel and closes his eyes. The gremlins are back and multiplying by the second. Before I can ask a single question, however, the bell dings and the elevator doors slide open into a richly decorated hallway.
I’ve been in buildings like this before. A friend of mine once worked as a doorman for a similar one on Park Avenue until he got fired for smoking weed on his lunch break. This guy owns the entire top floor.
Pushing his front door open, he steps inside. The apartment is enormous, with an open floor plan filled with sterile contemporary furniture. Large pieces of depressing contemporary art cover the walls. Basically it’s a perfect reflection of the owner. And it’s dark. Dark and lifeless. I’m sensing a pattern here.
“This way,” he says as he walks ahead, discarding his suit jacket and tie along the way. He throws them on a chair that looks too expensive to sit on. Dim lights come on automatically. I have no idea how this happens. It’s not like he has one of those clap on/clap off thingies. They just do.
With my hand on the bear spray in my bag, I cautiously follow him into a very large kitchen. I am always prepared to defend myself at all cost. The swanky digs and the albeit roughed-up good looks don’t fool me. This is how women end up being trafficked and I’m not about to end up a statistic.