For the billionth time, I curse Boston’s cobbled, winding streets and crummy weather, which are making an already miserable moment even more painful. The sky is doing that half-rain, half-snow, not-quite-sleet-not-quite-hail thing, leaving me drenched and shivering in less than a minute.
I don’t care.
I’d rather be out here — I’d rather be in the seventh circle of hell — than spend another freaking moment in the stadium with every set of eyes locked on me and my dickwad, now-officially-ex-boyfriend. And Green Eyes. And the three security guards who swooped in as soon as Ralph went airborne.
I didn’t stick around to see the aftermath. I grabbed my jacket, turned on one heel, andbolted— out of the arena, into the cold April night — without so much as a thank you to the man who saved me from public humiliation.
Belatedly, I realize I should’ve just hopped on the subway — aka “The T” to everyone but tourists — at the Garden and headed back to my apartment, but I must’ve left my brain behind along with my shredded self-confidence, because now I’m out in the cold with a too-thin spring jacket and I’m not sure whether the moisture on my face is leaking from the sky or my eyes.
Plus, even if I go back across the river to my tiny, fifth-floor, one-bedroom in East Cambridge — the small neighborhood crammed between the MIT campus and Charlestown — I’ll never be able to relax. Not when a single glance across the hall will make me think of Ralph, and the questionable things —girls— he did somewhere in my apartment.
Before I deal with that, I need several more beers and at least two bottles of Lysol to scrub every surface where his bare ass potentially rested as he boinked Susie from 3B. I just hope they did it somewhere unoriginal. Like the kitchen floor, which can withstand a thorough dousing of bleach.
And if not…
Come to think of it, I’ve wanted to move for a while now. And redecorate. And maybe burn every possession I own in a large sacrificial fire.
But that’s a problem for another day.
Right now, I need to get inside, preferably somewhere with a change of clothing and a lot of alcohol. And there’s only one place close by where I might find both of those things.
Chrissy’s.
I duck under an awning and peek into my wallet but, to my disappointment, no cash has magically appeared in the hours since I left my apartment. I know the funds in my bank account are dangerously low — too low to splurge on a cab, even if it means getting there faster and not having to take the subway in my current sodden state.
Alas… I’m broke.
Head tilted forward against the rain, I hug my arms around my torso and trudge onward to the closest T-stop. My Chucks are soon soaked through, the grimy puddle-water seeping through the soles so they make a sickeningsluewp!noise with every step I take.
At this point, my night really can’t get much better.
Five minutes later, I finally spot the Haymarket station across the street. With a quick glance in either direction, I bolt across an empty intersection and beeline for the entrance. I’m nearly there, so close to making it out of the driving rain I can almost taste it, when a black town car slows to a stop on the curb by my side. My eyes swing involuntarily in its direction just as the darkly tinted back window slides down with an audible buzz.
I open my mouth, fully prepared to tell whoever’s inside that I am not, in fact, a prostitute working her corner, and that he can go straight to hell for assuming the worst in someone simply because she may or may not be wearing a tiny, tight dress, now fully plastered to her every curve thanks to the rainstorm.
Not a single word makes it past my stunned-silent lips.
Because sitting in the backseat of what appears to be a very expensive black sedan, his gaze locked firmly on mine, is Green Eyes.
“Hi,” I blurt dumbly.
“Hi,” he echoes, the hint of a grin on his lips. “Need a ride?”
Mind reeling, I glance from his car to the station entrance, considering my options for less than a second. A twenty-minute ride on a cold, plastic seat in a train-car full of judgmental stares and a lot of uncomfortable commuters? Or… a short trip in a toasty town-car with a stranger who, for all I know, is a serial killer but kisses like he’s part Greek-god?
It’s barely a question.
He sees the answer on my face before I’ve voiced it, throwing open the back door and sliding over on the leather seat to make room for me. I don’t even hesitate as I slip inside the warm space and settle back against the soft cushions with a relieved sigh.
***
Eyes firmly closed, I pull a series of deep breaths though my nose in a futile attempt to collect myself. Now that I’ve stopped moving, my emotions have finally caught up with me and I’m so full of anger, self-pity, embarrassment, and every other sensation under the sun, I’m not sure what I’m feeling besidesoverloaded.
I’m all too aware, however, that I’m a hairsbreadth away from losing grip on my last scrap of composure — it’s all I can do not to break into a fit of semi-hysterical laughter as soon as I’m out of the rain and settled inside the car.
The gentle sound of a throat clearing startles my eyes open.
Green Eyes.