Driven By Fate(54)

Porter’s chest filled with cement. Francesca. He meant Francesca. That Neville simply knew she existed filled Porter with white-hot irritation. At least irritation was better than loss. Vacant, sickening loss. “Do not speak about her as if she’s an object, or some sort of nuisance. Do not speak about her at all.”

Neville eyed him a moment. Absently, Porter noticed the differences in the other man. He’d changed, grown more confident since being at the helm of their company. “We’ll wait until she leaves the room to collect your things,” his partner said, invading his thoughts. “She’ll never know we were here.” His expression changed. “You are coming with us, Evans. Aren’t you?”

There must have been shred of hope left inside him, some hope that he might see Francesca again—driving her cab past him on the street, or on the news when her company inevitably made headlines. That hope dissolved now like sugar under hot water. He had nowhere else to go now but back to the life he’d known before—without her, but still having the knowledge of her. The worst torture he could imagine, and there was no way out.

“Let’s go.”





Chapter Eighteen


Frankie stared down at the half-eaten apple on the break-room table. The half she’d managed to choke down sat in her stomach like a lead ball. After class three mornings ago—the Tuesday morning after she’d returned from Miami—she’d driven her cab all afternoon, straight into the night. With finals approaching, her professors had ended regularly scheduled lectures so students could study and prepare. Instead, she’d kept driving. She’d taken fares to Jersey, the airport, Staten Island. The further from Manhattan, the better.

Porter had sat in her seat one time. One. Time. Yet she still felt him there. Felt his eyes on her. His hands. Heard his sensual voice—that accent she’d made fun of so many times—and it kept her in the cab. She’d managed to fool herself the first day into thinking she was escaping memories, distracting herself from the pain. But mid-afternoon on day two, while driving down the Grand Concourse in the Bronx, she’d admitted to herself that his presence was strongest in the cab, maybe because he’d always disapproved of it, and she desperately wanted him to appear. Why wouldn’t he appear?

An envelope had materialized at the base of her work locker that morning with no return address. It had held a check for the balance of what Porter supposedly owed her for working, although it had been a high enough amount to make her wince. On her breakfast break, she’d cashed it at the bank and dropped the entire sum off at Serve for Jonah. She’d hoped paying down the debt would make her feel at least marginally better, but being at Serve only hurt. And her vow to never owe anyone anything only seemed childish and stubborn now.

Tomorrow she would give her presentation, which meant she needed to go home, eat something substantial, sleep. Shower, for chrissake. Without the road to focus on, though, she would have to think. About his hand on the base of her spine. His rare, amazing laugh. Words spoken urgently against her ear in the dark. You and me, Francesca. Please. Just you and me.

Without a direct command from her brain, her hand curled around the apple she’d been attempting to choke down, and threw it against the wall.

It dropped at her uncle’s feet. She hadn’t noticed him there. Why would he be when he wasn’t driving anymore? The concern on his face answered her question. He’d come there to see her, but she didn’t care, didn’t want to talk or think or listen. Nothing.

Her uncle dropped onto the bench across from her. “Hiya, Frankie.”

She stared down at her hands. Why didn’t they look like her hands anymore?

“You haven’t been home in a few days.” He scratched the back of his neck. She recognized the poker tell right away, the one that signaled he’d been dealt shitty cards. “I thought you might be with the British guy or something, but I checked your log on the way in.” A long pause. “You think maybe you need to pack it in?”

“Yeah.” She cleared her dry throat, but her voice still sounded rusty. “Right after this shift.”

More neck scratching. He was going to give himself a rash. “You know I don’t like to tell you what to do. We’ve got a system, you and me, right? But this…you look bad, kid. Let’s go back to the neighborhood and split a six pack, huh?”

Avoidance was all she had. At least, that’s why she started to change the subject, but everything else poured out instead. She’d left her filter in Miami at the bottom of the bathtub. “Frankie’s Fleet.”

“What’s that?”

“Frankie’s Fleet. That’s what I’m presenting tomorrow for my final.” Funny, she’d kept the idea to herself for so long, so afraid of disapproval, being told to stick to what she knew, not mess with an institution almost as old as New York City. But now? She knew it was a winner. And if the people in her life didn’t think so, she would just prove them wrong. Underneath the impenetrable layer of misery, there was confidence that hadn’t been there before. It kept her voice from wavering as she told her uncle about Frankie’s Fleet, her cab company for women, by women. She could discern exactly zero from his expression, but that didn’t slow her, didn’t make her second-guess herself. At the end of her speech, she sat and waited, unfamiliar hands folded on the break table.