Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84075 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84075 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
“Sharing a cab with you, which is something people do from time to time. Apparently. So I’m told.” Ford leans back against the seat and watches me. “You didn’t come over and say hello.”
I clear my throat and wonder what the heck this guy is doing right now, but I’m too flustered to think properly.
“And neither did you.” I bristle slightly and lean away from him. “It’s weird you just barged in here, you know. Like seriously, very weird.”
“It’s weird you never called or at least sent a dirty late-night text. We can call that even.”
I let out one sharp laugh. Maybe I’m drunker than I realized because normally, I’d shrivel up and die at the thought of sparring with Ford Arc, but right now I’m feeling happy that I have friends who care about me and a job I like and good wine flowing through my veins, and I have a vision of what I want for the future, and I’ll be damned if I’m about to let Ford Arc ruin my good mood.
“It’s amazing you think someone not calling you is weird. That’s like the height of arrogance. And do women seriously send you late-night dirty texts? Sounds desperate and sad.”
“Is it arrogant? I thought it was rational. I saw the way you were looking at me that night, Kat.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“You know what I’m talking about. It’s the same way you were looking at me tonight. Very intense fuck-me eyes.”
“You’re absolutely out of your mind.”
“Oh, good, now you’re going to deny it. Are we going to skirt around the issue then? That’s fun, I like to play.”
“I’m not playing games, Ford.” I gape at him, trying to understand what the heck is happening as the cabbie navigates through the Dallas streets. “I really have no clue what you’re talking about. I wasn’t looking at you like anything.” Although maybe come to think of it, there might have been a bit of fuck-me vibes happening inside my head and maybe that translated externally, but no, Ford is just being an asshole.
“Okay, how about we make a deal? If you open that clutch up right now and show me that my card isn’t still inside, I’ll get out of this cab and walk the rest of the way home. But if it’s there—”
“I’m not playing,” I say quickly, which only makes him laugh.
“If it’s there, you’re going to send me that dirty text right here and now. I want to watch your face while you type it out.”
Anger pierces through me. What the hell is wrong with this guy? He barged into my cab and is talking to me like we’ve known each other forever, except we’re basically total strangers. We’ve interacted a grand total of twice, once at the Oak Club, and years before that at the homecoming game when I was just a kid. Otherwise, Ford’s nothing more than a rumor to me.
Who does something like this?
Men like Ford do. Men that have everything: money, looks, intelligence, charm. Men that are used to getting whatever they want, whenever they want it, especially from quiet, meek girls like me. Ford probably thinks that just because I’m not the slimmest girl in the world, I’ll throw myself at him and be tripping over myself to please him just for one second of his attention. I bet Ford’s been using that card trick for years and years, and the girls almost always call him. I bet he isn’t used to a woman not throwing herself at him.
Anger turns to bile, and I feel stifled and trapped. Ford’s gorgeous but there’s a gleam in his eye that I remember from the part of that first interaction I try not to think about too much: the pure, sick glee on his face as he hurt Sara Lynn. For years I’ve held on to that memory because Sara Lynn has so rarely gotten what she deserves, but that one aspect has always haunted me.
Ford looked like he enjoyed hurting her. Like he got a sick pleasure from it. And when he told me she could throw me off a cliff for all he cared, I realized it really wasn’t about me at all, and it wasn’t about getting some kind of justice for Sara Lynn’s bullying.
It was entirely about the pain.
He liked hurting her.
I don’t know why—there could be a million reasons—but he liked it.
And now I’m alone with that monster in a cab, and we’re playing some game.
“You definitely still have my card,” he says, watching me from his side of the cab. “How many times have you taken it out? Have you smelled it? Tasted it? Did you think about me while you licked it?”
“I don’t put disgusting things in my mouth.”
“Oh, darling, I have so many things I’d love to see you put between those lovely lips of yours.”