I probably should be praying to the goddess that we don’t crash, but I don’t actually feel all that scared. Just numb.
What am I going to do? I have no clothes, my dog is gone, my phone doesn’t work, and I’m an idiot who does not have her friends’ or family’s phone numbers memorized, so I can’t even call one of them.
I cling to McCarthy as the tears come hot on my cold skin.
The sky opens up when we’re a block away from McCarthy’s building, and we’re drenched as he swipes a fob at the metal gate.
“Don’t cry, Cupcake,” he says when he works off the helmet. “I didn’t drive that fast.”
“Go to hell.” I wince when my ruined feet hit the cold concrete of the parking deck.
McCarthy’s mouth is a slash of anger. Then he picks me up, muddy clothes and all, easily, like I weigh nothing, and carries me to the elevator.
“You don’t have to—”
“It’s garbage day tomorrow, so I’m happy to dump you outside on the trash bag heap,” he says coldly, “if my hospitality is against your moral code.”
Thunder rattles, and the lights flicker.
I inadvertently squeeze him tighter in surprise and can feel the vibrations when he gives a smug chuckle.
“That’s what I thought.”
“Asshole.”
It’s easier to focus on how much I hate McCarthy than it is to think about how Nathan fucked me over, how I’d trusted a managainand he’d screwed me overagain.
McCarthy’s penthouse is dim and chilly when he carries me inside. He sets me down on the plush carpet in the foyer to unlace his boots while I stand there self-consciously dripping on his carpet, which I am sure cost more than all my worldly possessions.
His fingers are an unexpected weight against my chest as he unzips the jacket, slowly works the wet sleeves off my arms, then hanging it up.
Then I’m back in his arms, being carried upstairs.
I hate this, this helpless feeling. Even though when I was younger, I’d swoon over fairy-tale romances—being the princess, being rescued, being taken care of.
But the reality is just that I feel like a failure, like I’m a dumb child who needs an adult to come save her because she can’t handle life.
I’m glad his shirt is wet so he doesn’t notice the tears I quickly wipe on his shirt as he carries me into a bedroom.
I sit on the edge of a swimming-pool-sized tub as McCarthy opens a cabinet then kneels in front of me with a first aid kit.
He hisses when he sees my feet then proceeds to carefully pick out all the rocks and bits of gravel.
“I don’t think it’s too bad, right?” I warble. “I mean, you saw I grew up on a commune. I never wore shoes. Mom didn’t believe in them.”
The antiseptic stings.
“If you’re not going to tell me what happened and who I can kill, then don’t waste my time making chitchat” is the frosty response.
I look up to see my reflection in the vanity mirror flanked by white marble. I look like a ghost.
McCarthy looks amazing in the more utilitarian motorcycle gear as he stands up.
The tub faucet gives a slight squeak, then steaming hot water is rushing to fill the tub.
“I’ll bandage them after you take a hot bath,” he says as he starts trying to comb the mud and leaves out of my hair.
“I can do it.” I snatch the comb from him, not looking at his stony face in the mirror.
