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“Were you asked to pick Pearl up after her shift tonight?”
“Yeah, she called and said she didn’t feel well and was getting a cab home. Didn’t want to wait for me to come from the boatyard.”
“Right.”
“Everything all right?”
“Fine.”
“Am I getting Anya at the normal time?”
“Please.” I hang up and notice the flash of red getting smaller in the rearview mirror. Keep driving, keep driving. My knuckles begin to turn white on the wheel. My shirt starts to stick to my back. “Jesus Christ, Brad,” I mutter, indicating and cutting across the traffic to the side of the road, earning myself a collection of angry horns. I get out and stride up the sidewalk toward the ATM, looking at the endless potential threats to a young woman in central Miami at this time of night. I’m fucking livid.
With her.
With me.
I see Pearl pull some bills from the machine and slip them into her purse as she backs away from the ATM, and then she lights up—I fucking hate that she smokes—and when she looks up and sees me stalking toward her, she stops dead in her tracks, her lips—those fucking lips—parting, her chest rising.
An inhale.
My vision fogs for a moment, a red haze blinding me. I’m putting it down to anger. I should be fucking my way to a clear conscience. Instead, I’m chasing stupid little girls around town. “What the fuck are you doing?” I yell as I approach, my skin burning.
Anger.
Pearl backs up, wary, the can of soda she’s holding pulled closer into her chest, the cigarette limp between her fingers. “What are you doing here?”
“You don’t look very ill to me.”
She blinks, frowns, looks completely caught off guard. “I’m?—”
“And why the fuck did you tell Len you’re getting a cab?”
“I wa?—”
“And cash at this time of night? For what?”
“I—”
“Get in the fucking car.” I throw my arm back, indicating my Mercedes down the street.
She recoils. “Excuse me?”
“Now.”
“Fuck you, Brad,” she whispers angrily. “Go fuck some whores in a hotel and shove some coke up your fucking nose.” She tosses her can of soda in a nearby trashcan with anger and accuracy—that pisses me off too—then storms past me, taking a long drag of her smoke, and I turn with her, watching her go. Fuck you?
No, fuck you.
She doggedly marches straight past my Mercedes, and to add insult to injury, flips me the bird.
“The fuck?” I go after her, my ego ruling me. She is one brave woman, and I’m a killer in a foul mood. “I said, get in the fucking car.”
“And I said, fuck you.”
“Get in the fucking car!” I grab her bare arm and yank her to a stop, and she swings toward me, her creamy skin taking on a fiery blush.
“Get the fuck off me!”
