Dirty Rogue: A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance(5)

Still, I’m starting to think it would be better just to set it down on the sidewalk and walk away, a case of finders, keepers. Everything in there, in some way or another, reminds me of Derek, of Colorado, of being so f*cked over.

But I can’t just leave it. Best case scenario, someone picks through it and finds another use for what’s inside. Worst case scenario, my unidentified large black suitcase causes a terrorism panic. Not the best way to make my debut in New York City, if you ask me.

At least it’s a warm summer rain.

I stop at another intersection and squint up at the street sign. Three more blocks, and then I’ll be at the new place. Carolyn assured me that it was absolutely fine to stay as long as I wanted. Her old roommate, Jessica, went to Europe to be the queen or princess or something of some tiny country there. Lucky for me, Carolyn decided loneliness isn’t her style.

We’ll be great roommates. I’m looking forward to things being a little closer to how they were in college. Back then, life wasn’t nearly so complicated, and I hadn’t been taken for a ride by a jackass fiancé.

It would be a plus, however, if I could get there before it’s completely dark out. I’m not one hundred percent confident that drivers will notice me in my all-black clothing, what with the rain. Even if the sun were out, it would be hidden well below the buildings by now.

Since I have to travel at a goddamned snail’s pace, dragging the suitcase behind me, I’m getting to check out a lot of the local restaurants and shops. An outfit in a boutique catches my eye, and for half a second I consider going in to look more closely. Just in time I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window and realize I look more like a drowned rat than a PR specialist rising through the ranks at Holden Reputation Management, Inc., which is my profession when I’m not carting my belongings though the streets of New York in a rainstorm like an idiot who doesn’t know how to hail a cab.

I laugh out loud at the reflection. Well, what the f*ck, that’s just how my day has gone.

Two and a half blocks to go.

For whatever reason, traffic is picking up. I thought I was doing myself a favor by flying in after rush hour, but it’s starting to look like it’s always rush hour in this city. It’s Thursday night, and people have places to go.

I cross through another intersection. Two more blocks. My arms ache from pulling the suitcase. Thank God I’ve been lifting some weights at the gym, or else I’d really be hurting.

I distract myself from the burn by looking into the shops and restaurants on this block—there’s a sushi place I might want to check out later—then step up to another intersection and wait for the light. A guy out for a jog—really? I think—darts around me and crosses against the light, which looks like a total suicide mission to me.

He’s picked the wrong moment. A cab driver has to slam on the brakes at the last second to avoid hitting him. My heart leaps into my throat. Shit, that was close! There’s a cacophony of horns honking and shouting.

Jogger Man never even turns his head, just keeps on going down the sidewalk, totally unfazed.

Jesus. I like to take the occasional risk now and then—for instance, having my job transferred to New York City, despite only having visited it once a few years ago—but getting nailed by any kind of vehicle is not something I’m going to risk. Especially after my luck with the cab driver earlier.

I’m still recovering from the near-miss I witnessed when the light changes. I look both ways before I step off the curb, the wheels of my suitcase rattling on the concrete behind me.

God that was such a close call.

I’m halfway across the street when my suitcase catches on something, jerking me backward. I give it a sharp tug. It doesn’t come free. What the hell?

Rolling my eyes—is this day ever going to give me a break—I turn to look at what happened. Did one of the wheels break, or…?

Nope. One of the wheels has jammed. Right into a crack in the New York City asphalt.

Seriously.

I wrench the handle of the suitcase with my newly toned arms, but it doesn’t budge. Underneath the sheen of the rain, beads of sweat start to collect on my hairline. The cars are awfully f*cking close, and I do not want to cause a huge scene when the light changes back again.

A glance at the walk sign tells me I don’t have much time—the thing has already turned red, the hand flashing at me and the seconds counting down. Ten. Nine. Eight…

How is this damn thing so stuck? I try a different angle, pulling it to the side, and it moves a fraction of an inch.

“Shit, shit, shit,” I say under my breath, yanking harder with every word.

I hear moving on the street, an engine revving, I glance up again at the surrounding cars, realizing in an instant that the light has changed. An SUV is barreling toward me, making a left-hand turn, the driver on the phone, not looking.

One gasping breath, one last powerful pull on the suitcase, and then I jump out of the way of the SUV, barely making it to safety.

My suitcase doesn’t.

The SUV connects with my Samsonite with a dull thud. The upside is that the wheel is no longer stuck in the crack anymore. The downside is that the top pops open, sending clothes and books and shoes in every direction.

Like the jogger, the driver of the SUV just keeps going as I stand on the curb, staring after him, my mouth hanging open in disbelief.

I get lots of pitying looks, but nobody stops their cars. Some of them try not to drive over anything intentionally, but I’m going to have to wait until the light changes again to try and salvage what I can.