Chapter 21 My Type Is Truly So Fucking Toxic
AMANDA
I check my phone again.
Still nothing.
Whatever. His loss.
I mean, seriously, what was I thinking? Getting all twisted up over some guy who won’t even show me his face? Amanda Bennett does not chase men. Men chase Amanda Bennett. It’s been that way since I figured out how to walk in heels and weaponize winged eyeliner.
I scroll back through our messages with the detached amusement of someone reviewing a particularly entertaining reality show. Look at me, practically begging for attention from a faceless stranger. How embarrassing. How completely unlike the badass I actually am.
Real Chad thinks he can just ignore me? Cool. I’ve got better things to do than wait around for some motorcycle-riding mystery man who communicates primarily through cryptic bullshit.
Like my Sunday routine. My perfect, predictable, Chad-free Sunday routine.
I lock my phone and drop it into my purse with the satisfaction of someone who’s just made an excellent life choice. No more checking for messages. No more wondering what he’s doing or why he’s not texting me back. I’m done playing whatever game he thinks we’re in.
Brookfield Place it is. One expertly crafted coffee, two perfect pastries, and absolutely zero thoughts about men who don’t deserve my attention.
I step outside, expecting to be greeted by the warm sun of a beautiful Sunday morning in New York and nothing else that could complicate my carefully planned routine.
Instead, I get him.
Real Chad.
Sitting there on his bike. Looking stupidly hot in that effortless way that makes me furious.
Leaning against his dumb-sexy motorcycle like he just rode out of my darkest, horniest dreams and decided to make himself my real-life problem.
Wearing a leather jacket that fits like it was custom-made for his body and probably was, because, ugh, of course it was.
I see him. And I do the only logical thing I can think of. I turn and keep walking. No acknowledgment. No reaction. Just a brisk, unbothered power walk down the block, arm raised to flag a cab, like I do not see this six-foot-plus problem sitting in front of my building.
If I don’t look at him, he doesn’t exist. That’s how this works. I created him, so I can decide when he ceases to exist.
My phone pings almost immediately.
I glance at it.
CHAD
Are you happy to see me?
I scoff loudly enough that a passing jogger gives me a concerned look.
“No.”
A cab pulls up, and I slide inside without breaking my stride. “Brookfield Place,” I tell the driver, adjusting my sunglasses, pretending like I don’t hear the sound of Chad revving his engine loud enough to wake the entire Upper East Side.
I grit my teeth and stare straight ahead as the cab takes me downtown, the city slowly waking up as sunlight shimmers against glass and steel.
I don’t have to look to know that Chad is not-so-subtly following my cab.
At every stoplight he pulls his bike right next to my window, and I keep my head buried in my phone, because I am not going to give him the satisfaction of attention.
Not when he couldn’t do the same for me.
Somewhere around City Hall traffic slows and then comes to a complete stop.
“Accident,” the driver gruffs, and I sigh.
“I’ll get out here,” I say, tapping my phone to the reader and stepping out of the cab.
By the time my heels hit the sidewalk, I can already hear the low roll of a motorcycle easing up beside me.
I refuse to look. A few early-morning New Yorkers glance at him, muttering things like “asshole” and “seriously?” under their breath.
I pretend I don’t hear it. I pretend I don’t notice the way he’s moving next to me, keeping pace, like this is a totally normal and acceptable thing to do.
My phone pings.
I think you are happy to see me.
“I think I am going to file a restraining order and possibly call the police.”
But you won’t.
“No, but I will trip you the next time you get off that bike.”
Kinky.
I grit my teeth and keep walking, my heels clicking against the pavement with what I hope sounds like determination rather than barely contained sexual frustration.
Brookfield Place is still a few blocks away, and if he thinks I’m going to stop and acknowledge his existence, he’s dead wrong.
Another ping.
You look good today, baby doll.
I ignore him, adjusting my sunglasses like a woman who has her shit together. He’s right, though.
I mean, you always look good, but today? Extra good.
Right again. But still, I ignore him harder, picking up my pace.
If you were any hotter, I’d have to pull over for safety reasons.
I whip my head toward him, glaring through my sunglasses with the full force of my barely contained rage.
“You are literally on the sidewalk, Chad.”
Somehow, even through his helmet, I know he’s smirking. I can feel the ego radiating off him.
I know.
I groan, turning back toward my destination. I walk faster.
Chad keeps up. Because of course he does.
I exhale sharply, refusing to look at him, refusing to acknowledge the fact that he is literally gliding next to me looking like he escaped from the pages of every dark romance I’ve ever read and decided to torment me personally.
Nope. Not engaging. I am a strong, independent woman who does not need validation from mysterious motorcycle men.
My phone pings again.
You missed me.
“I did not.”
Lying isn’t a good look on you, baby doll.
“Neither is harassing women before they’ve had their morning coffee.”
I’m not harassing. I’m courting.
I snort so loudly that I probably scare the pigeons. “Is that what you call stalking these days?”
I’m very dedicated to my romantic efforts.
“You are very dedicated to being the most annoying man currently alive on this planet.”
We reach a crosswalk, and I pause, waiting for the light to change while pretending I’m not hyperaware of every movement he makes.
Chad idles next to me, resting one arm lazily on the handlebars like he has all the time in the world.
I bet you’ve been thinking about me all night.
I shake my head. “You know what? I was thinking about you.”
He revs the engine slightly, clearly pleased with himself.
I hold up a finger. “But then you left me high and dry like some kind of digital cockblock. And I don’t like being teased like that.”
He doesn’t respond immediately, so I keep walking, crossing another block, the marina coming into view through the trees.
Baby doll, you love being teased.
I scoff, whipping my head toward him. “Not when there’s no payoff, Chad. I am a closer. I like resolution. I like completion.”
His helmet tilts slightly, like he’s amused by my indignation.
I plan to close, baby doll. Thoroughly.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
I stop in mid-stride, turn to him fully, ignoring the fact that we’re now standing at the entrance of Brookfield Place with a few confused passersby glancing our way wondering if we’re some kind of performance art piece.
“Look.”
He goes completely still.
I exhale slowly, trying to keep my voice even, but the words feel too big in my chest, too heavy for what this is supposed to be.
“You disappeared, and it hurt.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t say anything. And that just makes it worse.
“I didn’t know what happened.” I keep going, because now that I’ve started, I can’t stop. The dam has broken, and everything is spilling out. “I didn’t know if you were ever going to talk to me again. If I’d just been played. If you just… vanished.”
My pulse hammers against my throat. My breath is shaky.
“I hated feeling like that. Not knowing.”
I don’t realize I’ve clenched my fists until I force myself to breathe, to unclench them, to step back from the edge of whatever this is turning into. And then it hits me. The weight of my own words. The weight of what I just admitted. And who I said it to.
Oh. Oh, shit.
I blink, my brain catching up all at once, and now I want to crawl into the nearest sewer and die there, a very dramatic, very well-dressed blond rat.
“I—” My voice wobbles, and now I feel extra pathetic. “I know it’s ridiculous. You’re just a stranger. This is supposed to be fun. But clearly, I’m mixing it up in my head with my past, and I don’t know why.”
I force a dry laugh, shaking my head at my own stupidity.
“God, I’m sorry. This is my baggage to deal with. I didn’t mean to dump it on you.”
Before I can finish spiraling into a full-blown panic attack, he lifts a gloved hand and presses his thumb to my lips.
I freeze.
A slow chill spreads down my spine, my body going still on pure instinct.
I stare up at his helmet, at the dark visor that gives me absolutely nothing but somehow means everything to me. His fingers move back to his phone, and mine pings.
It’s okay. I’m sorry. Let me make it up to you.
I swallow, my throat still tight with emotions I can’t name.
He lifts his hand again, his thumb brushing the tiniest bit of moisture from the corner of my eye, careful not to smudge my eyeliner.
My chest tugs in a way that feels dangerous. I nod once, not trusting my voice.
Go do your routine. I know it’s important to you. I’ll be right here when you’re done.
I squint at him through my sunglasses. “Right here? In the middle of the street? You might get arrested for loitering.”
I’m not worried. You do what you need to do, baby doll. And get some extra pastries. I love that shit.
I snort, crossing my arms. “You love that shit? Do you even know how expensive those pastries are? We’re talking like twenty dollars for a single croissant.”
Without hesitation, he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a sleek, unmarked card.
I take it, turning it over in my hands. It’s metal.
Heavy. No identifying information, no numbers, just an eerily smooth surface that makes me think of spy movies, offshore accounts, and men with very expensive secrets.
I narrow my eyes. “What is this?”
Haven’t you ever seen a credit card before?
“Not like this.” I tap it against my palm. “Am I gonna get arrested if I use it?”
Probably not.
I deadpan, “Oh, fantastic. That’s so reassuring. Truly, I feel nothing but confidence and peace right now.”
Go buy yourself whatever you want, baby doll. Meet me back here when you’re ready.
I flip the card again. “Is this, like, stolen credit card info? Some kind of dark web cryptocurrency situation? Are you funding my pastry addiction with blood money?”
No, I would never put you in danger or use you like that, baby doll.
My grip on the card tightens slightly. I roll my eyes, shaking my head at myself. “I don’t know why I’m this gullible, but I trust you.”
I turn toward the entrance of the shopping center, slipping the card into my purse like it’s not deeply suspicious.
And then—
A sharp smack lands right on my ass.
I freeze, every muscle in my body tensing. Slowly, I turn around, eyes wide, mouth hanging open in shock.
Chad is still on his bike, but his shoulders are shaking. The fucker is laughing. Under that stupid mirrored visor. Under that stupid, unbothered, cocky attitude.
I glare, pointing a warning finger at him like I’m scolding a very large, very attractive child.
“You better pray that helmet protects you from what I’m about to do to you.”
He just tilts his head like he’s saying, What are you gonna do about it, baby doll?
I exhale sharply, whipping back around and stalking away with all the self-respect I can muster.
“Unbelievable,” I mutter under my breath. “Rich mysterious stalker energy and the audacity to put his hands on me. My type is truly so fucking toxic.”
I look down at my phone as it pings.
Hurry back, baby doll. I already miss you.
I don’t look at him. I don’t give him the satisfaction, but my cheeks are definitely warm, and I hate that more than anything. I hate that I like it. I hate that he makes me feel reckless, and alive, and like maybe taking risks isn’t the worst thing in the world.
I hate that I’m already planning to hurry back.