LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

42nd Street subway stairs and pushed her way through the turnstile, following the commuting crowds the same way she always did. But instead of bleary-eyed, leaden, sheeplike, obedient herding, she practically danced onto the subway platform. Hello, New Yorkers! Laine’s here!

      She must be practically glowing. People would raise their heads and murmur when she walked by. Who was that woman with so much joy in her heart? What was her secret?

      Instead she stepped in some just-chewed gum and spent a good three minutes trying to scrape the goo off the bottom of her chunky black heels.

      No more black! The rest of the summer she’d avoid it like the plague. Except of course a killer black minidress on a hot date.

      She filed onto the C-train, headed downtown and clutched her box of belongings, bumping against the other commuting bodies when the train swayed. She gazed at the ads along the top of the car to avoid gazing at other people, though she wished sometimes she could stare openly, like a child. Maybe she would do that sometime. People were so fascinating.

      A body came a little too close behind her, pressed a little harder than the crush of commuters would make necessary. A pelvis planted firmly against her rear end. Ewwww. She grimaced and let her elbow make “accidental” forceful contact with the soft male belly behind her. There was a grunt, and the body moved away. City living could be so charming. But nothing could keep her down today. Nothing! Not even a gross grinder.

      So what would she do tonight? Champagne? A soak in the tub? Maybe rent a nice romantic movie? Or maybe her roommate of six months, Monica, would want to go out, not that she ever did that anymore since she’d started dating Joe the Smotherer.

      Just as well. Laine shouldn’t go too wild too soon. Taking into consideration her grad school tuition and expenses, she’d saved barely enough to scrape through the summer without a salary, but finances would be tight if she went too crazy. She had a part-time job as a marketing writer with an architecture firm lined up this fall, but she’d really, really wanted the summer totally free.

      The train arrived at Fourteenth Street. She got off and tossed a glare at the subway humper, who grinned back obscenely.

      Ick.

      Somehow she was always the target for the creepos. Maybe because she was tall, she hadn’t a clue. Maybe she had been born with weirdo-magnet genes.

      She charged up the stairs, enjoying the challenge to her body, and strode down Eighth Avenue to Jackson Square and toward her building on Horatio Street, mildly breathless. The sun was shining. Pigeons fluttered, shop windows sparkled, subways rumbled underground, taxis endangered pedestrians.

      Everything was perfect.

      She pushed through the revolving door to her building and waved at the tall, bushy-haired evening doorman. “Hey, Roger, what’s going on?”

      “More flowers.” He bent slowly and pulled out a huge spring bouquet of tulips and irises from behind his station.

      She shook her head, chuckling, and glanced at the card, not that she needed to. Ben. A guy she’d gone out with once or twice, a close friend of her cousin, Frank. Sweet man. Lovely man. Zero chemistry. At least on her end. And she wasn’t sure on his, either; he acted more like a protective brother than a suitor. Maybe Frank had told him to watch out for her.

      “This guy is nuts about you, huh?”

      “Between you and me, Roger? He’s just nuts.”

      Roger shrugged and fingered one of his enormous ears. “He’s sure trying hard.”

      “He loves sending flowers, I guess. You want this one for Betty?”

      Roger’s red, lined face broke into a smile that transformed him from a sour, craggy Scrooge to an indicator of the handsome man he must have been thirty years ago before, she suspected, a love affair with the bottle had begun. “Betty thinks I’ve gone nuts. But she sure appreciates it.”

      “They’re yours. He won’t let me send them back, refuses to stop, and the bouquet upstairs is still plenty fresh.”

      She waved to acknowledge his thanks, got her mail from the back room and took the elevator to the eighth floor.

      Friday evening, sprung free from employment, the city waited, the summer was at her feet.

      She put her key in the lock of apartment 8-C, pushed open the door and stopped. Monica was sobbing over an open suitcase on the living room couch, clothes strewn all around it.

      “Monica!” Laine rushed into the room, forgetting to hold the door, which slammed behind her, sounding like doom. “What’s going on?”

      “He…he…he…”

      Laine waited while the word surfed out on sobs. “Joe?”

      She nodded. “He…he…he…”

      “Oh no.” Laine moved forward and put her hand on Monica’s shoulder. Whatever he…he…he had done, it didn’t sound good. And from what she’d seen of Joe—cocky, brash, overbearing, big-nosed, obnoxious—she was only surprised it had taken this long.

      “Dumped you?”

      “Yes.” The word came out on a wail of anguish.

      “So—” Laine gestured around “—why are you packing?”

      “I’m going home.”

      Laine turned her shaking roommate around by the shoulders, melting in sympathy. She’d been exactly where Monica was four months ago, with Brad—a stunning, charming, self-absorbed, cheating sleazebag. “I totally understand. A little TLC from your parents is just what you need.”

      “No. You don’t understand.” Monica pulled back and wiped her blue eyes, smudging her already smudged mascara into bigger raccoon circles. “I’m not visiting. I’m moving.”

      Laine’s melting sympathy froze temporarily. “Moving?”

      Monica nodded and fished inside the pocket of her black stretch jeans, most likely for a tissue.

      Laine blew out a breath, trying very hard to concentrate on her latest roommate’s emotional needs. No way could she afford the rent on this place by herself all summer with no salary.

      But this wasn’t about her. And even pushing aside her selfish concerns, she genuinely thought Monica was making a mistake. No man was worth running back to Iowa. Not after Monica had worked so hard to make her dream of living in the Big Apple come true.

      “You can’t let him win like that.” Laine gestured impatiently. “You can’t toss aside your independence and career and dream just because one big, butthead male hurt you. You’re made of sterner stuff than that.”

      “That’s not all.” She sniffed and tried another pocket.

      “Oh.” Laine went for the box of Kleenex, half feeling as though she might need one herself. “Well, what else?”

      “Mr. Antworth made another pass at me this afternoon, and I quit.” She grabbed a tissue and blew her nose, then went back to her misery-impaired packing.

      Laine’s eyes narrowed. “Okay, you’re right. This was a seriously awful day. Mr. Antworth should have a dick-ectomy. But you can press charges. You can fight to get your job back and bring him down. Or get another job. You don’t have to—”

      “And my mom’s back in rehab.”

      Laine took two steps west until the back of her knees hit her couch. She sat. Opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “Oh my God, Monica.”

      Monica closed her suitcase and zipped it. “I’m going home. My dad needs me, and I need to get out of here.”

      “Oh, God, yes. Okay, yes. Is there anything I can do?”

      “I’m really sorry to leave you like this.” Monica started crying again. “I know you wanted to take the summer off.”

Скачать книгу