Chapter 8
eight
“Mama—”
I’m not sure why I even bother trying to cut her off. I only know I am twenty minutes late for my first meeting with Ella and my mother will not stop talking about her doubles partner’s stepdaughter’s back acne.
“Alice, it is unbecoming to interrupt,” she chides. “I spent two hours at the mall last weekend choosing clothes for you, and you wouldn’t even FaceTime me to try them on. The least you could do is listen while I’m speaking!”
She’s right, of course. She went out of her way to buy me a new batch of sweaters and work pants.
I don’t have the heart to tell her that the pants are two sizes too small and the sweaters mold to every roll of fat on my frame.
No matter how many times I work up the courage to mention my current size, she always “forgets” and buys clothes that are too small.
I can’t tell if it is malicious encouragement or wishful thinking.
Tris suggested we burn the “fugly” pants either way and send my mother a picture of the ashes.
“Mama,” I say again, huffing and puffing as I hitch up the giant vision board tucked under my arm.
The sidewalks on the Upper West Side are usually wide and empty, which will leave plenty of room for my glorified poster and the frigid wind.
Unfortunately, I have to get out of the train station first.
Unfortunately, I have a habit of saving pretty blondes.
I swear, if my brain doesn’t stop replaying random snippets of that humiliating encounter, I will pull the New York equivalent of an Anna Karenina and jump in front of the next subway.
And to think that man had the nerve to tell me to call him for a ride, I think. Like I’m some charity case who can’t make it Uptown on my own.
We won’t talk about how he’s sort of right—Tris had to give me a loan to get me through this first meeting, where Ella will hopefully pay my deposit.
And—okay, yes—the card I used to get on the train is the one Marco gave me when we met…
But still.
I don’t care how hot he is or how good his intentions were. He didn’t have to flirt with me. Or buy me that damned muffin.
“Alice!”
I jump at my mother’s screech, nearly dropping my phone and the board. Two men approaching from the steps stop short, staring at my collection of fabric samples and color cards.
Shit. Why would they do that? They wouldn’t want to steal it, right?
When one of them takes a camera out of his backpack and aims it at me, I realize why.
Oh God. The names.
Last night, I painted a ribbon along the top of the board, emblazoning it with Ella & Grayson. Now, as the stranger elbows his buddy, fear sticks in my gullet.
Did Marco want me to call him for a ride because he knew there would be paparazzi at the subway station near Ella’s house? Or am I just being paranoid?
“I-I really have to g-go, Mama,” I interrupt again, ignoring my pinch of despair when I think of all the scolding I’ll receive later. “S-sorry!”
“Alice,” she snips, sharp.
I don’t bother telling her I’m not stammering from nerves, but because my teeth are chattering and there are now two groups of people with their phones out. “Sorry,” I say, emphasizing each crisp syllable. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
My numb fingers fumble my phone as I shove it into my satchel. As I do, one of the guys grabs the edge of my board, his light eyes gleaming hungrily. “This for the Strykers?”
The moment feels surreal on a horrifying, out-of-body level. The man tugs harder, nearly ripping one of the fabric samples off, and some fight-or-flight instinct kicks in. I whirl and dash for the station’s stairs.
It all happens so fast.
The element of surprise gets me to the top of the steps, but the second my foot lands on the sidewalk, someone rips the poster board from my hands.
The sharp tug throws me off balance just as a blinding flash bursts in my face.
I blink to try and clear my vision, but a hard shove rams into my side.
I go sailing to the left, thrown into the railing separating traffic from the mouth of the underground train station.
My body bounces off the cold metal, and I stagger, nearly regaining my footing just in time for the other man to tear my purse off my shoulder.
I flail and fall, crashing onto the cement as hard as one would expect for a woman my size.
I recoil from the cold ground and the sudden pain that jolts through me.
As I expected, the street in this residential, posh part of Manhattan is mostly quiet. Which means my surprised shriek echoes off the twenty-million-dollar townhomes and barrels back into me.
I try to lurch up, but my head spins. The air stings my throat as I drag in shallow, panicked breaths. The quickly dizziness wins out, and I have to grasp onto the dirty metal fence behind me to keep from tumbling down the stairs.
“Fuck,” one of the guys mutters. “Hurry up.”
The other man is taking pictures, I realize, holding my board up and snapping shots of it while his accomplice rifles through my wallet. For a moment, I’m oddly grateful there isn’t anything valuable for him to take. Unless he wants the loyalty card from my favorite book shop.
He only takes one thing, though. “Come on,” his buddy grunts, throwing my tattered vision board on the sidewalk beside me. “We should run.”
The first one tosses my purse down, too, clutching my single card to his chest like it’s a priceless treasure. They disappear in an instant, but my breathing doesn’t slow. My thoughts thin and dim.
And I barely hear the sound of tires screeching before I slip into the dark.