• • •
Okay. So maybe Madeline’s plan wasn’t foolproof, but it’s working.
Despite wanting to watch her put on the worst-ever alcohol-induced, embarrassing version of the belly dance, I turn away from her diversion show. Better for me, the sandy-brown-haired, unsuspecting twentysomething dumbass who’s sitting in his Trailblazer—enthralled with her twisting capabilities—is buying into her less-than-stellar Marilyn Monroe award-worthy bullshit.
Score!
At a speed that’d surpass Superwoman’s, I round Fifth and Washington, my panicked gaze snagging my golden-horse-driven ride. I cross over State Street, still within earshot of Momma Maddie as she continues to flirt her way through my escape. I grab the handle to the taxi and swing open the door. Nerves skyrocketing, I lunge into the backseat, my sporadic breathing trumping that of a burglar who’s committed armed robbery as I tell the overly confused, and somewhat scared, driver my destination: Ryder’s apartment.
No questions asked, Bin Laden’s ghostly doppelgänger takes off, the vehicle slipping in and out of traffic like a centipede as we head toward Ryder’s casa. I have to hand it to Middle Eastern men. They might scare me a bit, but they sure as hell know how to navigate the busy streets of Baltimore on a frantic Friday night. Before I can blink, we’re in front of Ryder’s apartment. However, he’s not. My heart sinks some as my sluggish vision lands on his empty parking spot. Knowing this was a possibility, I tell the driver plan B, directing him to Glen Burnie, where, hopefully, Ryder’s hanging at his mother’s house with Casey, possibly in the midst of a game of Hedbanz.
Fifteen minutes later and no such luck, another piece of my heart bruised as I try to think of where he’d be. The only other place is Ram’s Head Tavern, down in the heart of Annapolis, where Lee’s sure to be the man of the night tending bar. Going with an unexpected plan C, we’re off and running again, my nerves mounting as we hit West Street, tear through the roundabout, and land on Main Street, smack-dab in front of Ram’s Head. I ask the driver to hang on a second before jumping from the cab to see if Ryder’s Mustang’s parked around the back.
Touchdown!
The orgasm-producing muscle machine is sitting pretty under a streetlamp, its black-cherry glow a condescending balm to my nerves as I pull in a shuddered breath, worried. Scared that Madeline’s spiel was just that—a drunken spiel, filling me with false hope—I clear my throat, a snowflake hitting my nose as I scurry, like the desperate woman I am, through the alleyway and back over to the taxi.
“I’m going to stay here.” I pluck a twenty from my purse, eager to get inside as I hand it to the driver. “Thanks.”
“It taking you long enough to decide,” he answers, shaking his head. “And it fifty for the ride, not twenty.” He sticks his wiry hair–smothered hand out and, with his unibrow scrunched up—its angry wave staring me straight in the face—he huffs. “You think I going to go all the way to the jungle, stop in the semijungle, and come down here into wasteful-wealth land for only twenty dollars?” Another huff, this one as he sticks his nasty hand out farther. “If this is truth, then you Americans are crazier than us.”
And to think I was gonna slip the undercover terrorist an extra twenty for his speediness.
Shame. On. Me.
Keeping my narrowed eyes on his, I dig another thirty bucks from my purse, Mr. Captain Morgan himself—another bastard contender in tonight’s Hunger Games—kicking the shit out of my brain as I slam the correct fare into the driver’s palm.
He smirks.
I smirk in return, but decide a proper dose of patriotism’s due. With my middle finger saluting the asshole like a true-blooded American, I spin on my heel, my feet nearly coming out from beneath me as my boots slosh through a few centimeters of freshly dropped snow.
Paying no mind to the dickhead driver’s tires grinding through the white blanket of slush, I approach the crazed bar, my heart imploding as I witness Hailey Jacobs, a she-devil in the flesh, place a long, lingering kiss on Ryder’s cheek from beyond the frosted window.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” My muscles tense, the hot strands of emotionally fueled gas lines reacting of their own accord as they send a signal to my hand, causing it to grab hold of the door. Yanking open the door like Hercules’ long-lost daughter would if she were stuck in my mental state of WTF, my teeth skid across my lip in an angry attack, my pulse trying to fight its way out of my veins as I . . . swoop into a vacant booth like a petrified coward?
God. I can’t do this. Can’t approach Ryder as his cheek enjoys a second, then third Hailey-diseased kiss. I might’ve fooled myself into thinking I didn’t love Ryder, didn’t need him in my life. But as I watch him rest his hand on the porcelain curve of Hailey’s neck—a smooth-as-they-come grin curling his mouth in the process—I’m convinced he’s the magician who’s fooled me, his talent blinding me to the truth in more ways than my liquor-fueled brain can comprehend.
He doesn’t need or want me, our connection a figment of my desperate imagination.
On that horrifying note, I unsuspiciously wave down a waitress, my body twisted in the fetal position in the corner of the booth as she approaches somewhat cautiously.
“Are you . . . okay?” she asks, setting a napkin in front of me.
“I will be after I murder one of the patrons across the bar.” I laugh maniacally.
Mute, she stares at me, appearing marginally scared.