CHAPTER FOUR
I step off the plane and flip open my new budget cell phone—one of two my sisters and I bought to communicate with one another while I’m off the farm. They kept one and they’re supposed to keep its existence a secret from our moms. I don’t want the old ladies to try to contact Lister and cause trouble for my big plan.
As I make my way to the exit of JFK Airport, I send Rose and Em a quick text, telling them I arrived safely and am headed out into the Big City. I didn’t check a bag because I don’t plan on being here longer than a day, so all I have is my big multicolored-patchwork purse slung over my shoulder.
I’m trying to blend in with the crowd and act like a native New Yorker as I make my way through the airport, which shouldn’t be too difficult since there’s every size and shape of person in here with me, but damn . . . all I can do is gawk. I’ve never seen so many people in one place in my life.
I was worried I’d stick out in my homespun hippie wear, but I just passed a woman who’s dressed like an African queen, complete with a giant, sparkling, colorful headdress, so I think I’m pretty much invisible to the people who live here. That’s fine with me. It’ll make it easier for me to get from point A to point B and then back again without any hassles.
I thought about the plan on my way over and I’ve decided: all I’m going to do on this trip is meet up with those old fogies who call themselves Red Hot so I can give them a piece of my mind and tell them to shove their money where the sun doesn’t shine. Then I’ll go back to my real life—my wonderful, fulfilling, fresh-air-filled life—and forget they even exist . . . just like they did with my mothers, my sisters, and me. Out of sight, out of mind.
I mean, how dare they demand we come to New York to collect on that guilt money? They actually believe that because we share their DNA my sisters and I are hollow-souled assholes like they are? That we’ll take their money and smile and say thank you for ignoring us for twenty-five years? Well, they can think again because I’m about to bring them a little education from down on the farm, and show them exactly what we girls think about their big-city, coldhearted, family-abandoning nonsense. Huzzah!
I do a little fist pump to give myself a boost. Neither of my sisters had the lady balls to come with me, but that’s okay because I have righteous indignation riding shotgun on this trip, and we are going to kick some butt together . . . set some people straight about what’s what.
I walk outside into a stiff breeze that’s heavy with the odors of jet fuel and car exhaust. The noise is incredible. I expected this place to be busy, but this is beyond belief. There are cars all over the place, men and women running, shouting, hugging, laughing, arguing, and eating. And God, does it stink here. Not only is there the fuel and exhaust but now something else too. Sulfur? Garbage? “Yuck.”
I wave my hand in front of my face to keep the toxins from entering my respiratory system. I knew it was going to smell bad here, but this is something else. A man walks by who I’m pretty sure hasn’t showered in a few weeks, so I wave my hand faster. It’s not helping. My efforts only serve to push the stench up into my sinuses.
After living on a commune with hippies and free thinkers, heavy body odor is nothing new to me; however, where I come from, odors dissipate quickly. Not here, though. Something about the atmosphere is keeping the odors down at nose-level.
Clearly, New York is trying to smother me with its wicked stench cocktail. Double yuck. This city is already assaulting me, and I haven’t even been here for ten minutes yet. Maybe I made a mistake. Maybe I should go home. A sliver of panic seeps in.
Three seconds after those thoughts pass through my mind, I reject them. No. Go away, panic. I’m not going anywhere. I’m on a one-woman mission, and I’m going to complete it before I run back home to where I want to be . . . or where I belong, anyway.
An answering text beeps on my phone. My sisters wish me good luck and tell me to be careful and not talk to strangers. I smile at their concern as I shut my flip phone and slide it into my bag.
So . . . how exactly does one call a taxi if one cannot talk to strangers? I try waving at one, but he just drives right by. I try again, this time sticking my thumb out, but the same thing happens. There must be some kind of trick to this thing, but I can’t figure out what it is by watching the people around me. Everyone else seems to have a ride—a loved one or a business associate picking them up. I walk closer to the edge of the curb and stick one of my legs out, lifting my skirt a little. I know it’s old-school, but I’m thinking perhaps a flash of my dainty, lily-white ankle will do the trick.
“Watch out, lady, before ya get run ovah!” an angry taxi driver shouts at me and swerves out of my way, forcing me to jump back. My heart is beating twice as fast as it should now and everyone is staring. I want to disappear into a hole in the ground and tunnel my way back to Glenhollow. Country girl alert! She’s right here, folks! Feast your eyes on this strange and unusual animal who is way out of her element!
Someone taps me on the shoulder.
I spin around, expecting whoever it is to lecture me about getting too close to the curb. I’m ready to defend myself and say I wasn’t anywhere near it, really, but the words freeze in my mouth when I see what’s there in front of me.
Heaven.
If heaven were a person, he would be this man holding a pair of sunglasses in his hand. Oh my goodness, he is so devilishly handsome, even wearing that dirty baseball hat. How can a man be heaven and hell at the same time? I don’t know. Ask him. He looks like the devil himself, totally prepared and qualified to lure someone into making bad decisions.
“Hey,” he says.
“What?” I ask briskly. I step sideways to put some distance between us, my face burning with embarrassment. He probably saw me lifting my skirt to get some taxi pickup action. I’ve turned into my mother already and I’m only twenty-four.
He reaches out with his free hand and grabs my forearm as he puts his glasses on. They’re the aviator kind that cover up half his face.
I jerk myself out of his grip. “Hands off the merchandise, buddy.” Maybe he’s not so cute after all. My sisters warned me about New York and what it does to people—it makes them pushy and callous, or so their online research has led them to believe. I should have appreciated that bit of advice more than I did.
“Watch out, you’re too close to the street.” He grabs me again, successfully pulling me toward him this time.
“Hey!” I look around, wondering if anyone is going to step in and save me from this person who thinks it’s okay to put his hands on a stranger. No one seems to even notice, though.
I’m dragged two steps before I dig my heels in and stop my forward movement. “Get off me!”
Now some people are looking. Finally.
He holds his hands up like I’ve pulled a gun on him. “Hey . . . I was just helping you not get hit by a car.” He looks around at the people still watching and then draws a few small circles in the air with his finger near his ear.
It suddenly hits me what he’s saying to them. “Are you suggesting that I’m the crazy person in this scenario?” The nerve of this guy! And now that I have a better look at him, I decide he’s not cute at all. He’s scruffy and annoying, and he sure could use some clean clothes.
He points at his head. “Who, me? Suggesting you’re crazy? No. Never.” He drops his hands and rubs them on his jeans a few times before holding one of them out at me. “Uh . . . nice to meet you.” Tattoos wrap around his forearm from his elbow to the back of his hand.
Stranger danger! This is the type of man my sisters warned me about. I’m to avoid him at all costs.
I shake my head. “No, it’s actually not nice to meet you. Go away.” I turn my back on him. Two seconds later it dawns on me that it probably isn’t smart to expose my vulnerable parts like that, because crazy people sometimes carry knives, but we have lots of witnesses and several of them are still watching us, so I feel safe. I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?
Suddenly, I’m blinded by a flash of light. I throw my hands up to my eyes involuntarily. All I can see are white blobs now. “Ow, what the heck?”
“Ty! Ty! Look over here!” a man yells. More flashes go off.
Then someone’s grabbing me by the arm. As my vision returns, I see it’s the scruffy guy trying to drag me away.
I panic. Having a thousand witnesses within spitting distance doesn’t seem to matter in this place. “Help! Assault! Help me!”
More flashes go off.
“Stop yelling that, Amber,” he growls. “Come on.”
I pause, making him stop with me. Do my ears deceive me or did he just call me . . . “Hey! How do you know my name?”
He points to a black car down the curb from where we’re standing. “I was sent to pick you up. Come on.”
“Who sent you?”
“Please. The paparazzi’s here. Do you want your face splashed all over the tabloids, or what?”
My eyes bug out. “Tabloids?” Why on earth would someone want to put me in a tabloid? Another flash hits him in the face, glinting off the lenses of his glasses and catching me in the eye again. I spin around to find the culprit and find a short, fat man poised to take another shot with a giant camera that probably has a lens so powerful it’ll get a crystal-clear shot of the pimple that erupted on my forehead this morning as I woke up to take this fateful trip.
“Get that out of my face!” I yell, swinging my giant purse around in a wide arc. It hits the end of his super-long camera lens and busts it right off. His equipment skitters along the sidewalk, making people dance out of the way.
The guy who accosted me drags me toward his car.
“You’re gonna pay for that!” the cameraman yells.
“Pay for this!” I yell, shooting him a bird.
Some people cheer. Others laugh. Several members of the crowd are pointing their phones at me. The man who accosted me is swearing.
I turn around as we’re arriving at his car. “What’s your problem?” I ask, slightly out of breath.
“No one warned me I was picking up a hellion. I thought you were supposed to be some kind of peace-loving hippie chick.”
I pull myself from his grip as I realize where we are. There’s a taxi stand in front of this guy’s car, and there’s a space for me right at the front of the line. A driver is waving me over. No wonder they weren’t picking me up before . . . I was in the wrong spot!
I straighten my purse strap across my shoulder, doing my best to brush the wrinkles out of my clothing. “Yeah, well, no one warned me I was being picked up by Mister Grabby Hands either. Now . . . why don’t you just bug off and leave me to my business?”
He looks at me like he’s confused. Then he smiles. “Bug off? Really?” I get the distinct impression that he’s laughing at me.
I make a face at him and storm away, my bag tucked under my arm and my head held high as he laughs behind me. If he thinks he’s going to get me into that car, he’s nuts. I don’t know him from Joseph, and I wasn’t born yesterday; New York City is filled with crazy people, and just because he’s easy on the eyes and says someone sent him to pick me up, it doesn’t mean I’m going to let myself get chained up in his basement.
So he knows my name? Big deal. He could have seen it on my boarding pass. Maybe he works for the airline. He’s probably a baggage handler, with muscles and tattoos like that. My sisters and I didn’t tell our so-called fathers or our mothers that I was coming, so they don’t even know I’m here; therefore, Mister Grabby Hands is not their emissary and he is not here to pick me up, either. I have no idea what he thought he was going to accomplish by getting me into his car, but the important thing is that his nefarious plan was thwarted by my quick thinking and big-city savvy. Huzzah again! I will not be a victim. I refuse to be taken advantage of by him or anyone else.
I come to a stop in front of the open door of the taxi. The man smiles as I point to his car. “I can get in here and you’ll take me where I want to go?”
He has two gold teeth, right in front. Snazzy. I like his style. “Anywhere your heart desires.” His voice is like smoooooth jazz. I’m instantly charmed, which is a nice change from what I was just dealing with.
“I’d like to see this man.” I hand him Greg Lister, Esq.’s business card.
He glances at it and nods, giving me the card back. “Midtown. You got it.”
I slide into the cab and don’t look back as it pulls away from the curb and merges into traffic.