His dark eyes grew alert, sweeping her from head to toe. “You okay?”
“Yes, but—” She looked behind her to the sidewalk, where her purse and most of its contents lay strewn. “I need to get my purse. Please, wait just a minute.”
“Hurry, I’m behind schedule.”
She promptly exited the bus, scanning the road just in case, and picked up her purse and the contents that had spilled all over the sidewalk, including her brand new iPhone that thankfully hadn’t broken.
“You’re okay,” she said to herself, her shaky voice belying her words.
“You still want a ride?” the driver called.
Gathering her purse to her chest, she said, “Yes,” as she stepped back up into the bus. As she looked to her right, then left, and behind the bus, the coast was clear. Her instinct was to call Flynn, but he would think she was making an excuse to see him. And really, it could have just been a random act of assholeness.
Random acts weren’t unknown to her. One day last year, she was leaving the professor’s office on campus and as she was crossing in the crosswalk, a motorcycle came out of nowhere and clipped her arm. He would have run her over if she hadn’t been grabbed and pulled to safety by the man walking behind her. Last month she had been followed from the club to BART. It had creeped her out. Usually she was vigilant about keeping her eyes open and her head on a constant swivel. Digging through her purse she found her kubaton key chain. The seven inches of pink metal resembled a thick spiraled icepick. It was deadly in the right hands. Fisting it, she held it with a death grip. She had taken several self-defense classes and kickboxing. She knew how to use the kubaton. It was a menacing weapon, and she would not hesitate to jab it into a bad guy’s eyes, mouth, ear, heart, or wherever she could do some damage.
Sliding her Clipper card through the meter, Izzy moved to the empty back of the bus and sat down on the right-hand side. The bus lumbered away from the curb. As they made the right turn onto Telegraph, she gasped. The white van sat idling fifty yards ahead. This time she was ready to get the license plate number, but there wasn’t a plate. Didn’t matter. Quickly, she dialed 9-1-1. As they passed, she looked directly at the driver, who was disguised by a dark baseball cap and dark glasses. Let him see she was on the phone and draw his own conclusions. If he was still following her when she got to BART, then the cops could deal with him.
Halfway to BART, 9-1-1 was still ringing. Damn budget cuts! She looked behind her. The van was nowhere in sight. Sitting back into the hard plastic seat, she let out a long sigh and tapped the end icon. No sense in calling it in; she had no description other than that it was a white van, and he was probably long gone by now.
As the bus pulled up to the BART station, Izzy hurried off and froze as she saw the van rumbling toward her, just as the bus she had exited drove past her.
She was torn. Run after the bus that was heading straight for the van or make a run for the BART train. Deciding that staying in a public place would increase her chances of survival, Izzy sprinted toward the turnstiles, swiped her card and hurried up to the platform, praying the train would be waiting. It was. She hurried in and moved forward through each car in search of a cop, all while keeping her eyes on the platform, and terrified the driver of the van would materialize before she found a cop. When the driver didn’t show and the train began to move, she dropped to a seat and let out a shaky breath. Where was a cop when you needed one?
As the train pulled out over the tracks, she got a clear shot of the front of the station, where the van was still parked against the curb. With shaky hands she pulled her phone from her purse and took several pictures of the van as it started to move in the same direction as the train. As the distance between them began to lengthen, Izzy stopped taking pictures relieved to know that unless the van had an underwater package, she couldn’t be followed into San Francisco. As she reassured herself that it was just some weirdo, her phone rang to the tune of Bad Boys. Her gut did a whole different anxiety roll this time.
It was Flynn.
“Answer the damn phone, Isadora!” Flynn cursed, when he got her voice mail for the sixth time.
Angrily, he tossed the phone onto the passenger seat of his car. Giving the car more gas, he roared through the streets of Oakland until he pulled up in front of the little bungalow on 34th Street. The same silver Honda Civic that was parked in the driveway when he’d dropped Pink off last night hadn’t moved. He surmised it belonged to the roommate, since there wasn’t a car in the driveway when he’d been there with Pink. Surely she had a car. He glanced at the empty street. Last night, cars had been lined up, but today everyone was at work.
He pulled the key from the ignition and opened the car door. He sat there for a long moment with one foot on the asphalt, the other in the car. Nervous energy rumbled through his belly. He knew that the minute he laid eyes on her, smelled her, he was going to want to touch her. If he touched her, he’d lose it. He couldn’t lose it. He was there for one reason: To deliver a message.
“Fuck it all to hell,” he cursed. He slid out of the car and slammed the door shut, then strode toward the front door. He knocked loudly. A minute later, the door opened slowly.
Instead of Pink, the same lanky man who had told him off last night stood wrapped in a red silk kimono-style robe. The roommate, Charlie, he presumed.
Setting his hand on his hip, Charlie cocked it, and with a raised brow and a bored voice said, “Can I help you, cherry thief?”
Flynn coughed and looked past him. Blocking his view, the guy closed the door almost shut, just the right half of his body visible.
“Would you tell Miss Fuentes that Flynn would like to speak to her?” It took every ounce of restraint he had not to push the slight man aside, stride into the house, and find her.
“Oh, would he now?” Charlie said flippantly.
“Yes. It’s an urgent matter, so if you could tell her now, I’d appreciate it.”
“Urgent as in you’re going to apologize?”
The question caught Flynn off guard. “Apologize?” For what?
“Yes, simpleton, for popping her cherry, then breaking her heart!” Charlie opened the door and moved to the threshold. He was angry. “Who does that to my sweet girl?”
“I—she wanted me to,” Flynn said lamely. He had no defense. They had both wanted it. He had no regrets either. And despite how things had shaken out between them, he knew Pink didn’t regret the night they’d spent in her little bed or what happened on the terrace in Half Moon Bay.
“But you took it knowing what she does for a living and then turned around and treated her like something you wiped off your shoe!” Charlie poked a finger in Flynn’s chest. Flynn allowed it only because the guy was defending Pink. “She’s pure, asshole. As the fucking driven snow, and you ruined her. Fuck, she didn’t need that from a guy like you.”
“A guy like me? What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He wasn’t some slob off the streets.
“An asshole like her absentee father. Loaded, arrogant, thinks he can do anyone or anything because he’s connected and has a gigantic ego.” Charlie drew in a breath and expounded. “Your kind has no conscience, because you don’t feel anything. Like a cyborg, cool to look at, but no heart inside.”
Now Flynn was angry. He was none of those things. He was sure Pink had omitted the drugging-him-part of their night and day together when she talked to Charlie. He wasn’t going to out her, but damn it, he wasn’t the guy Charlie was making him out to be. It was supposed to be one night. One night for a lot of reasons, one being that he didn’t date and if he did, he sure as hell wasn’t going to date a strip club cocktail server who flashed her tits at his coworkers, regardless of the reasons. “She knew the score when she brought me here. I never promised her anything except what I gave her. So, back the fuck up and let me in.”