“Get in the car, Poppy.” Graham’s voice booms from the driver’s side.
My head tilts, mouth pursing, I bite back the urge to let him know he’s not my boss. “No. That’s quite all right,” I say between clenched teeth.
“You have to ask nicely,” Casey tells him.
“Nicely? To get inmycar to givehera ride? You’re joking?”
“Be. Nice.”
“It’s fine. I’m not going home, anyway. I’ll just take the next train.” I’m not sure why I tell them that. There’s no reason to give any details. My business is my business, and it opens me up to more questions I won’t answer. In three, two…
“Where are you going?”
My lids slam shut.Nice job, idiot.Panic slithers into my chest as I search for a believable response. I rub my nose. “Jersey.”
Jersey!I’m freezing my ass off, wearing next to nothing beneath my coat, standing on an Upper Westside sidewalk, spewing lies when all I have to do is walk away.
Panic induced intrusive thoughts for the win.
“What’s there?”
“My… my boyfriend.”Oh my God, what’s wrong with me?I don’t owe them anything, but my mouth and brain aren’t communicating.
“Then we’ll take you to Penn Station.”
“Of course you will,” I mutter.
“Great. It’s settled. Climb in.”
With tight lips and a slight twitch in my left eye, I open the shiny black back door and climb inside. Despite my argument, I won’t deny the warmth is amazing. And at least the train station is in Midtown, not too far from the club. I guess, once they’re out of sight, I’ll grab a cab or a rideshare.
I grab the seat belt as he pulls away from the curb, noticing a black SUV behind us following the same path. “You’re being followed.”
“Ignore it. It’s just my bodyguard.”
Bodyguard. Because, of course. Most billionaires have bodyguards, right?
The next few minutes are spent with me weaving my web of lies as I detail my plans with my nonexistent Princeton boyfriend. Casey points out that Graham went to Princeton—because, of course, he did—making the web weaving more tangled.Butif you’re going to lie, make it believable, or what’s the point?
When we reach the station, I swing the door open before the car stops. My fingers wiggle over my shoulder as I yell thanks. Casey’s goodbye is barely heard over the sound of the crowd.
Instead of running into the station, I dart through the throng of people and then slide in the opposite direction of Casey and Graham. With my fingers to my mouth, my shrill whistle blasts through the Manhattan noise while my thumb jerks out as I hail a cab.
I feel no remorse when I jump between a stupidly cute couple to grab the taxi first.
“West thirty-ninth. Midtown. An extra twenty if you get me there in five minutes.”
“Lady, do you see this traffic? Be more like fifteen.”
“Fifty.” I tuck my tongue in my cheek so I don’t bite it off for offering what I can’t afford.
He gets me there in six—a minute late. “Hey, where’s my fifty?” he yells as I climb out of the car.
“You’re late. No deal.” I slam the door shut and ignore his curses.
Jagger
Perfection doesn’t exist. The perfect life, perfect job…perfect parents. It’s a standard people aspire to, reaching, searching, and praying for the unattainable. But whether you’re the king, living in a castle with millions, or a bum, living in a refrigerator box under a bridge, no one gets by in life without issues. Tragedy or trauma or simple brain chemistry, no one escapes life without something making their life a little less perfect. It’s kind of comforting. Too bad that comfort does shit all to stop the raging in your head—in my head.
