Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Emma
Fuck.
And now all the banks are closed, so I can’t even get cash out.
I’m really beginning to sweat bricks now. I think of the alternative of not finding it.
Please, no… I can’t spend an entire weekend in an airport.
I call Kara, my best friend. She’ll know what to do.
“Hi.”
“I’m right in the middle of a fucking disaster,” I blurt out.
“What…?”
“I’m at Denver and my flight to Aspen from here has been canceled, and now I can’t find my wallet to rent a car, and now the last one just went.”
“Where’s your wallet?”
“I don’t know. I had it at the bar in LAX and now it’s not in my bag.”
“Fuck. Did you cancel your credit cards?”
My eyes widen in horror at the thought of someone spending my every last cent. “No.”
“Cancel them right now. Get off the phone, why are you even calling me?”
“I don’t know,” I cry. I hang up in a panic and check my bag one last time. Nope, not here.
I google my bank’s phone number and dial the number as my heart races in my chest.
It answers, “Welcome to Bank of America. For phone banking, press one.”
Oh god, not the slow, annoying woman’s voice recording machine.
“For home loans, press two.”
I close my eyes as I desperately try to hang on to my sanity. Why can’t a person just answer the fucking phone once in a while?
“For insurance, press three.
“For lost cards, press four.”
I press four so hard, I nearly crack my phone screen. “Four, bitch.”
White Shirt walks past. “Come on.”
“I’m on the phone, canceling my cards,” I whisper through gritted teeth.
“Do it on the way.”
“Way where?” I screw up my face.
“You want a lift to Aspen or not?”
“Oh.” My mouth falls open. “Really?”
“Yeah, but don’t start your negative crap.” He turns and marches off.
“Okay.” I pick up my bag and take off after him.
“Hello, this is stolen cards. How can I help you today?”
“Hi,” I answer as I power walk through the airport. “I’ve lost my wallet and I need to cancel my two cards, please.”
“What was the name?” the woman on the line asks.
“Emma Barret.”
White Shirt turns around and scrunches up his nose as if disgusted. “Emma Barret,” he mouths.
“Why are you so annoying?” I widen my eyes at him. “You’re very rude.”
He shrugs as if agreeing, turns, and keeps walking, and within seconds he’s fifteen feet in front of me. I half run to keep up with him. “What’s the rush?” I call.
“Do you want to get there or not? The weather is closing in.”
I turn my gaze to the windows and the snow that’s coming down outside. Shit, he’s right.
“Has the card been stolen, or did you lose it?” the lady asks down the phone.
“I’m unsure, I just know I had it and now I don’t.” I pant as I struggle to catch my breath. “Sorry for puffing, I’m running through the airport right now.”
“Okay, let me run through some security questions to verify your identity.”
Jeez… How long is this going to take?
“Hurry up,” he calls from in front.
“I’m going to break my damn ankle,” I call back.
“I’m sorry, can you repeat that, please?” the lady on the phone replies.
“Sorry, that was to someone else,” I reply.
“If you break an ankle, I’m not taking you to the hospital,” he calls as he strides toward the exit.
“Of course you wouldn’t,” I call back. As we walk out through the doors, the bitter cold bites my face.
While I follow him through the parking lot, I go through a million security questions.
“You have been verified, Miss Barret.”
“Thank you.” Finally…
“Now let’s have a look at what’s been going on with this account.”
I hold my breath as I wait for her reply.
Please let nothing be missing.
He stops in front of a car and frowns over at me. “This can’t be it.”
My eyes widen in horror. “Is this even a car?”
“Apparently.”
“Fiat.” He reads the brand logo on the back of it.
“You agreed to this?” I frown.
“I see that the last transaction was in Chuckies Bar in LAX Airport,” the lady on the phone replies.
“Yes, that’s it,” I cry in relief. “Nothing has been taken.”
“When she said it was a Fiat, I thought it was a big car.” He puts his hands on his hips as he looks it over.
“It’s tiny.” I shrug. “Does it even have snow chains?”
“Can you repeat that, please?” the lady replies.
“Not you, I’m sorry. I’m having multiple conversations. Please put a hold on that card immediately until I contact you again.”
“For sure.” I hear her typing.
He pops the trunk and peers inside. “Yeah, it’s got chains. I’ll put them on when we get out of the city.”
My eyes roam over the skinny wheels. “This does not look safe.”
“I’ve put a hold on the cards for you, Miss Barret.”
“Thank you.”
“Is there anything else—”
I cut her off before she can finish the sentence, “Nope, thank you. Have a good day.” I hang up in a rush. “No money is missing from my card.”
“Great.” He picks up my bag and puts it on the backseat and throws his in too, and we climb into the car.
“I’m not sure about this car.” I look around the inside of it.
“Let me get this straight, you’re with an unlicensed stranger who could be a serial killer who is about to drive you down a deserted road in the middle of nowhere and you are worried about the car.” He pulls out of the parking lot.
“What are you saying?” I glance over to him. “And I know you have a license, or they wouldn’t have given you this car.”
“I’m saying you should be more careful with who you get into cars with. You don’t know me from a bar of soap.” We pull out into the traffic. The snow is falling down, and the wipers go on. “I could be a serial killer who’s about to play tennis with your eyeballs.”
“Nobody plays tennis with eyeballs.” I roll my eyes. “They wouldn’t bounce.” I cross my arms, annoyed.
Idiot.
“I’m pretty sure they would bounce if hit with force with a tennis racket,” he fires back.
“Nope, they’d splat, and I’m pretty sure no serial killers are dreaming about hitting aces with eyeballs. I know you better than you think.”
“Please,” he mutters dryly, “do tell, oh wise one. ”
“I’m guessing you’re a…”
“This is going to be good,” he mutters.
I pause while I try to think of a profession that goes on a lot of work conferences. “A medical sales rep.”
He grips the steering wheel as he listens. “Is that so?”
“Aha.” I google the number of the bar at the airport and call them.
“Hello, Chuckies bar.”
“Hello, I think I left my purse there earlier today.”
“What was your name please?”
“Emma Barret.”
“One moment please. I’ll go and check.”
“Thank you.”
“Go on.” He says.
“What?” I glance over to him.
“I’m a medical sales rep and …?” He widens his eyes as he waits for my answer.
“And you go on all these conferences under the guise of bettering your career when really you are only there for the booty calls.”
“Booty call.” He glances over at me as he drives. “What are you, eighty? Who says booty call?”
“I do.” I scoff. “That’s what it is, having sex with someone for the hell of it is a booty call.”
“Hello Miss Barret, we have your purse here.”
“Thank you so much.” I smile, “I’ll pick it up on Sunday when I come back through.”
“We will put it in the safe for you until you get here.”
“That’s great, thank you so much.” I hang up feeling relieved.
“I prefer to call it a love liaison,” he continues wistfully as he drives onto the freeway.
“A love liaison?” I roll my eyes. “Give me a break, that’s code for fuckboy.” The snow really begins to come down.
“I’d rather be a fuckboy than a bitter, unfriendly, negative Nancy.”
“I am not a Negative Nancy, and for your information, I am very fucking friendly.”
“To whom?”
“People,” I yell. “You know what, just shut up and drive. I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Good. Because I don’t want to talk to you.”
I stare through the windscreen with my arms crossed.
“And I’ll have you know I am not bitter and unfriendly.” I huff.
“I thought you didn’t want to talk to me.”
“I don’t.”
“So why do you keep talking?”
“Because you’re infuriating.”
“I’m infuriating.” He scoffs. “How the fuck am I infuriating? I was just being friendly in the bar, but you being the typical narcissistic female assume that any man who wants to strike up a conversation is only interested in sex. Men can’t win; if we don’t talk to you, we’re gutless, and if we dare do, we’re sleazebags.
And for your information, I did not have to offer you a lift, but I did, and now I’m stuck in this car with you, being judged like a felon when I have done absolutely nothing wrong. ”
My eyes flick over to him.
“So do me a favor.” He holds his hand up. “Do not say a single fucking word until I drop you off at your hotel in Aspen, and then we will never have to see each other ever again.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
We drive in silence for what seems like hours, and darkness falls. The snow begins to really come down.
This is so dangerous… Crap.
“You didn’t put the snow chains on,” I stammer.
“Shit,” he gasps. “Why didn’t you remind me?”
“Because you’re the driver, and you are supposed to be in charge of these things.”
“Go back to not talking. I like you better that way.”
“Well, are you going to pull over?” I demand. “This is heavy snow, we need them on. Especially in this tin can you rented.”
“It’s better than the car you got us. When I find somewhere safe to pull over, we will pull over.”
Eventually, we get to a clearing, and he pulls over the car. “I’ll need you to shine your phone flashlight on while I do it.”
“Okay.”
We both climb out, and he gets the chains out of the trunk and I shine the flashlight on the wheel like he told me. He holds the first chain up and we both frown as we stare at it. “This isn’t going to fit.”
He stretches it over the wheel and it’s way too big for the tiny tires. “What is this fucking shit?” he yells. As he puts the chain on the wheel, it slides straight off. “This is the wrong fucking size.”
“Stop swearing,” I reply.
“We are in the middle of a fucking blizzard with no chains in an oversized go-cart. If ever there was a time to swear, this is fucking it!”