“Shit. I left my phone in there.” I rise on my toes, staring at the blackened windows of The Mintz and the closed sign on the door. A moment later, I’m pounding on the glass. I wait before pounding again. And again. And again. They’re either ignoring me or they can’t hear me.
Isaiah stands back, quiet and contemplative.
I’m sure he doesn’t want to give me a ride home any more than I don’t want to ask him for one, but right now I’m stranded.
“Is there someone you can call?” he asks, yawning.
Exhaling, I shake my head. “I don’t have anyone’s numbers memorized.”
“Seriously?”
I wave my hand at him. “Now’s not the time.”
Digging into his pocket, he retrieves a set of keys, lifting them. “I’ll take you home.”
Eyes wide, I lift my brows. “You sure? I live an hour from here. And you live an hour from me. You won’t get home until after three AM.”
“I’m not going to leave you here, stranded in downtown LA,” he says. A Yellow Cab whirs past us and we both steal a glance. “You’re not taking a taxi. It’d cost you an arm and a leg to get home from here. Come on.”
He looks both ways before darting across the street, and I follow, keeping a few steps behind.
“What about my phone?” I ask.
“I’ll text Case and see if he can have someone look for it.”
His white, dented Porsche stands out amongst the flashier cars in the parking lot, but in a good way. Painted in warm moonlight under a starless sky, we hit the road with windows cranked and tunes playing softly from his old speakers. Sinking into the worn, buttery leather passenger seat and decide that maybe … just maybe … he’s not all that bad.
Four
Isaiah
* * *
“I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. And I still think you’re a miserable asshole,” she says as she leans over me and punches in a code to a gate outside a sprawling Brentwood estate. The smell of her citrus perfume mixes with the sweet tang of liquor, filling my lungs until she returns to her seat. The gate swings open and I pull ahead. “But you were yawning every five minutes the whole way here and I can’t, in good conscience, let you drive another hour home. You’re crashing on my couch tonight.”
“No.”
“Yes.” She points to the left. “Around back there’s a guesthouse. You can park out front.”
Passing a circle drive and a bubbling fountain and rounding the rambling hacienda-style mansion, I spot a smaller version of the main house positioned next to a turquoise pool lit up like Christmas for no other reason than to look pretty. First impressions are everything out here amongst the rich and fabulous locals.
I have no idea how some diner waitress can afford to live in a guesthouse next to an estate like this, but I’ve seen crazier things in LA, and to be honest, it’s none of my damn concern anyway.
I let the engine idle as she climbs out but when she realizes I’m not following, she crouches down, sticks her head back inside the car, and reaches for the ignition, yanking my keys out.
“Come on,” she says, not giving me a choice.
My eyes are heavy and a cool pillow sounds like heaven right about now, so I surrender and follow her inside.
The place is dark, window shades pulled. There’s a faint light from the kitchen leaking toward the entryway and living room, as if someone left a bathroom light on, but other than that I can’t make out much besides outlines until my eyes adjust.
“There’s the couch.” She points toward the living room as I kick off my shoes. “Let me grab you a pillow and blanket.”
The gentle tinker and click of nails on hardwood precede some small furry critter trotting toward me.
“Oh, that’s Murphy. My roommate’s dog,” she says.
I glance down at what appears to be a little pug with a smooshy, alien-like face and eyes round as saucers. He pants, head tilted like he’s confused as to why I won’t pick him up.
“Come here, Murph. Let’s go back to Melrose’s room.” She swoops down to grab him before telling me she’ll be right back, and I hear her open and close a couple of doors.
I take a seat, running my palms along what feels like velvet. The tick of some clock in another room echoes in the dark, quiet space. Several minutes later, Maritza returns, a folded blanket in her arm topped with a white pillow.
“Thanks.” I take them from her and begin converting her sofa to a makeshift bed. All I need are a few hours of shut eye and then I’ll be out of her hair before the sun comes up.
Maritza saunters toward the kitchen a second later, opening the fridge to retrieve two bottles of water, and it’s only then I notice she’s wearing a skimpy, damn near transparent pink tank top with matching shorts. She must have changed when she grabbed my bedding. How I missed this, I have no idea, but now I can’t stop staring at her long legs, the curve of her lower back, and the way her top clings to her perfect tits.
I shake myself out of it when she returns and hands me a bottle of Fiji water.
It’s funny … an hour ago she was ripping my head off and spitting down my neck and now she’s doing everything she can to ensure that I’m comfortable and can get home safely.
“Why are you being so nice to me?” I ask.
“Don’t get it twisted. The pillows and blankets are so you don’t drool all over my velvet sofa cushions and the water is so you don’t wake me up in the middle of the night stumbling through my kitchen just because you’re thirsty.”
“Thank you,” I say, silently admiring her comeback. I deserved that.
“Sorry about your shirt,” she says a second later. “You want a different one?”
I shake my head. “It’s dry now.”
My eyes adjust enough that I can see the velvet I’ll be sleeping on tonight is a vibrant shade of what appears to be emerald green. I’ve slept a lot of places in my life—buses, airports, pup tents, floors … but never on the emerald green velvet sofa of a complete stranger who served me pancakes and rear ended me and then threw a glass of water at me after I so generously secured her a VIP pass to see her favorite band perform.
“Thanks again for the ticket,” she says, one hand resting on her hip. The hem of her tank top lifts up just enough to expose a hint of soft skin. “I had a good time. All things considered.”
I smirk. “All things considered meaning … me.”
Maritza rolls her eyes. “Basically.”
“You still mad at me?”
“I can’t be mad at you, Isaiah. I don’t know you.” She exhales, head tilting and dark hair curtaining the side of her face.
Part of me can’t help but wonder what would’ve happened had this night gone in a different direction and she hadn’t blown up at me. Maybe I had her all wrong. Here I thought she was this doormat, this Pollyanna ray of sunshine but it turns out there might be more to her than meets the eye.
Not to mention the best sex I ever had was with a girl who hated my fucking guts.
Talk about fire and ice.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks, shifting as she adjusts the fallen spaghetti strap on her left shoulder.