Chapter 1 "Can you still track me?" "That doesn't make me sound creepy at all," I say, watching dollar bills flow from my bank account into my gas tank. My compact car may not be flashy, but what it lacks in style, it makes up for in gas mileage. Thank God. "But, yes, I can see where you are unless you removed yourself from our friend circle in the app. Why?" Gianna sighs. "Because I'm about to meet a guy in front of a defunct carpet store, and all I can think about is a scene in a horror movie where the killer asks the girl to help him load a rug. You can guess how that ends." "I'd rather not." I release the trigger, let the residual drips of gas fall into my tank-gotta get every penny's worth in this economy-and return the dispenser to the pump. The late morning is unseasonably warm for spring. Birds perch along the power lines, forming neat little rows overhead. The sky is cloudless, allowing the sun's bright rays to heat my face as I duck back into my car. "Okay," I say, giving my friend all my attention once I'm settled in my seat. "Do you know this guy you're meeting?" "Nope. Met him on Social last night." "And why are you meeting him?" She groans. "To buy a urinal." "As one does." "Don't be a smart-ass, Astrid." I laugh. "I just wish this surprised me a little more. That's all." I start the engine and wait for my phone to reconnect to Bluetooth. Gianna and I have been friends since we were kids. A classmate put gum in her hair in first grade, so I dumped my juice on his crotch and made it look like he peed his pants. Turns out that juice on your pants is a much bigger travesty than gum in your hair in elementary school. It also creates the best friendships, even if her dreamy Pisces tendencies occasionally drive my goal-oriented brain bananas. "Finding a urinal has been on my bucket list for a long time," she says. "You'd be surprised how hard they are to find. And they're not cheap." "At least tell me it's a new one." My response is met with silence. I rest my head against the seat and take a long breath. "Let me get this straight. You're meeting a stranger in an abandoned parking lot to buy a used urinal you found on the black market?" "Don't say it like that." "Why? Because it sounds utterly ridiculous?" I sigh, fastening my seat belt. "I love your love for art, but I really need you to implement more stranger-danger protocols-like not meeting strange men in strange places for strange items." I glance at the clock. "If you can wait an hour, I can go with you. I just have to take care of a few returns for my boss's wife, and then I can get away for a little while." "Can't. I'm meeting him in fifteen minutes." Oh, for the love of Pete. I stare out my windshield and wonder if this is what parenting feels like. You watch someone you love toddle into the world, hoping they don't kill themselves. Over a urinal. It's amazing humans still exist, especially ones like Gianna Bardot. That she's survived for the last twenty-seven years amazes me. I grab my phone and find the app our friend group uses to share our locations. "You're logged in," I say, watching her designated car emoji travel south out of the city. "I'm watching you now." "Good. Okay. If you don't hear from me in twenty minutes, I've probably been stuffed in the back of a van. Literally, not figuratively, unfortunately." I snort, glancing in the rearview mirror as a large black truck pulls in behind me. The engine rumbles, creating a low vibration that I feel in my bones. I narrow my eyes to see who's sitting in the driver's seat, but the window tint's too dark. "What are you doing for dinner?" Gianna asks, pulling my attention back to our conversation. I drop my phone in the cup holder. "No clue. I just finished breakfast." "Just now? I've been up working since six thirty." "I didn't say I just woke up." I've already done a load of laundry, loaded the dishwasher, and cleaned out two closets today. "Not only have I finished my chores a d completed nearly all my tasks for Renn and Blakely for the day but I've also spent a couple of hours looking for a new side hustle." "Your last side hustle just ended. Can't you take a few weeks off and relax for once?" I wish. "No. If I have time on my hands, I need to pay down this debt faster. The interest is killing me." Gianna sighs. "That means you don't read enough. If you read more books, you wouldn't have time to worry about your debt." "That's a responsible take on things." I laugh. "Besides, I can't sit still long enough to read a book for fun." "Audiobooks were made for a reason, Astrid." "So were books about personal safety, but you ignore those." She laughs. "Sometimes you have to risk things for art." Her joy over this urinal and the sense of adventure she feels about the process brings a smile to my face. If there were one thing, one habit, that I would adopt from someone else, it's Gianna's passion. She throws herself into random art pieces, recipes, and side quests she unearths as a wildly successful advice columnist. It's something I could never do. The lack of structure makes me itchy, and I feel the overwhelming need to put it all on a calendar ... and take the fun out of it. "Want to meet at Stupey's for overpriced sandwiches?" Gianna asks. "My treat since you bought last time. I think Audrey's going to be around this weekend. The three of us haven't been all together for two whole weeks." "Sure." I glance back at the truck again. It's still behind me despite nearly every other pump available. Weird. I consider pointing out how aware I am of my surroundings and suggesting that Gianna do the same. But she's too fixated on the urinal to listen now. "I'll drop it in the chat, and we'll work it out." "Sounds like a plan." My boss's name flashes across my infotainment center. At the same time, the black truck revs its engine. Is he revving that thing at me? "Hey, Renn's calling me," I say, glaring at the truck. "Text me when you secure the toilet and you're on your way home." "Urinal, Astrid. Ur-in-al." I laugh. "Bye." "Bye, friend." I tap the button to accept Renn's call, push in the brake, and then move my hand to the gear shifter. But as soon as I touch the knob, the truck revs again-and that stops me in my tracks. He's definitely revving his engine at me. "Hey, Renn," I say, watching the behemoth behind me. Irritation snakes its way down my spine. "What's up?" "It's been a hell of a morning. I didn't catch you in the middle of anything, did I?" "Nothing much. Just waiting out some guy who's overcompensating for something by having an extra-large truck." Renn pauses. "Waiting him out? For what?" "He pulled in right behind me even though every other pump but one is open. I'm at the gas station, by the way. And because I haven't rushed to get out of his way, he's revving his engine at me." "Oh." "What can I do for you?" "Don't get arrested? That would be great." The engine roars again-louder this time. "Can you hear that?" I ask, my fingers gripping the steering wheel. "Yeah, I can. Are you able to leave?" "Sure, I could. And I would if he hadn't tried to bully me." I roll my window down and hold my hand out, palm-side up. "Now, I'm going to sit here until he leaves." "Astrid." A large, thick forearm sticks out of the driver's side window, mimicking my gesture. Fucker. "Why did you say you called?" I ask, annoyance stinging my cheeks. Renn sighs as if he doesn't know what to say. It's like a part of him wants to continue persuading me to leave, but the rest of him knows it's pointless-and that side is right. I'll gladly back down from a skirmish if I'm wrong. I'll even apologize. But in this case? I'm not. So I won't. "I have a proposition to discuss with you," he says. "That sounds vaguely interesting." "Will you move?" a voice shouts from the truck. I mute Renn. "Yeah. When I'm ready!" I yell back before unmuting my boss. "Do you want to discuss it now or later?" "Do you think you can swing by my office this afternoon?" Renn asks. "Some of us have things to do today!" he shouts again. I hit mute and then stick my head out the window. "Then pick another pump!" I settle back in my seat and huff before unmuting Renn again. "Sure. I have a couple of errands to run for Blakely, and then I'll be free." "That works." A horn blasts out of nowhere, the sound echoing thanks to the awning covering the gas station. I jump, anger prickling my scalp, and unbuckle myself. He did not just do that. "I'll see you then." "What's going on?" Renn asks. "I gotta go." "Astrid, what's happening?" I pop the handle, and my door swings open. "This asshole just honked at me." "Let it go." "Thanks for the advice, Elsa," I say, my finger hovering over the button to end the call. "I'll let you know when I'm on my way. Talk soon." I drop my fingertip against the red button, then fling my legs out of the car, slamming the door behind me. I storm toward the truck, my anger singeing the edges of my restraint. My tennis shoes pound against the asphalt with more force than is probably necessary, but I can't help it. If there's one thing I hate more than anything, it's men who audaciously think that their penis gives them a free pass to act like a chump. It's like they believe that their five-incher has magical powers. In my twenty-eight years of life, I've never met a woman who claims a penis gave her more than a headache and, on the rare occasion, a semi-satisfying orgasm. Heat billows from the front of the truck, blasting me as I march by. The top of the tires are waist-high, and I can't fathom why anyone driving in the city needs tires this big. It's obnoxious ... kind of like the driver. "Do you have a problem?" I yell over the sound coming from beneath the hood. The scent of gasoline and grease fills the air, stinging my nostrils. It crosses my mind for one quick, fleeting moment that this may not be significantly different from Gianna's meetup for the urinal. I'll just have to be a hypocrite today. I round the side mirror jutting out and come face-to-face with my nemesis. He stares down at me from his perch in the cab of the truck with a sardonic expression that sends my temper soaring. He arches a thick brow, pinning me to the spot with deep, walnut-colored eyes. "Yeah, I do have a problem. You're blocking the pump." "There are literally ..." I peel my gaze from his and quickly count the vacant pumps. All of them are open. Every. Last. One. "You have nine different options. Pick another one." "I want this one." "You can't always get what you want." His lips twitch. "True, because I'd also like to take that stick out of your ass, but that's probably off the table, too, huh?" I gasp, startled by his crudeness. Surprise siphons the blood from my face. Words wedge themselves in my throat from the shock of the moment. "You're a fucking asshole." "I've been called worse," he says with a nonchalant shrug. "Will you move now?" "I would've happily moved out of your way if you'd asked nicely. But you didn't," I say, pointing a finger at him. "Instead, you rolled up here in this ridiculous truck and revved your engine at me like some kind of threat." He makes the cockiest face-quirked brow, subtle smirk-like I'm acting irrational, and he thinks it's funny. "Then you honked your horn at me, which is unacceptable anywhere except maybe to avoid a collision." I'm fighting to stay calm. "You are rude and disrespectful, and I have a personal rule that I don't acquiesce to men who try to bully me." "Wow." He grins, displaying a set of dimples. "Bully you? Okay. You realize that you were sitting in your little car, taking up real estate while you had social hour, right?" "Not that it's any of your business, but I was talking to my boss." The lively twinkle in his eye is like throwing fuel on my simmering fury. "Do it in the office, sweetheart. Not here." "Sweetheart?" I bark, my eyes widening. "You will never get the pleasure of knowing me well enough to call me sweetheart." "Thank God for small favors." The chuckle he only half-heartedly tries to suppress proves otherwise. "Know what I find interesting?" he asks, rolling his tongue along his bottom lip. "I find it interesting that you claim to be some kind of manners police when you're the one blocking the damn pump." My hands go to my hips as I bite back the first thought that comes to mind because, unfortunately, I know he's technically right. It is bad manners to block a pump. But they say the devil is in the details, and I try to avoid the devil at all costs. I take a breath, then wear the biggest, most facetious smile I can manage. "I'll leave when you ask nicely, sweetheart." He rests one massive forearm along the window and gives me the most blasé look ever. I pointedly ignore his pouty bottom lip and the perfect amount of scruff peppering a rock-hard jawline. Instead, I remember his insolence. "I should sit here all day just because you're a jerk," I say, unblinking. He turns off his truck without breaking eye contact. "Fine by me. I have time today." Before I can think of something quick-witted to say-didn't he just say he has somewhere to be?- an older sedan pulls up to the pump beside us, nearly clipping the bollards protecting the equipment. A small, older lady gets out, oblivious to the standoff happening feet from her, and waddles around the back of the car in her Velcro-strapped shoes. She fiddles with the pump, groaning as she tries to lift the nozzle from the machine. Whiffs of grandma perfume float in the air, and I suddenly crave snickerdoodles. I fold my arms over my chest, unable to argue with this guy in front of somebody's grandma. He sighs. "Move," he says more softly this time, bringing my attention to him once again. I take a step back as the truck door swings open. He doesn't bother with the step rail but instead hops down with a natural ease. He doesn't bother to look my way either. He's taller than average, which surprises me. Broad shoulders fill out a plain black T-shirt, and thick thighs stretch the denim covering them. Dark hair is cut close to his head. He carries himself with a confidence that's universally accepted as attractive-and it's such a shame. Why waste a package like this on a guy with such a bad attitude? "Are you doing okay over here?" he asks the woman like he wasn't just being awful to me five seconds ago. "These pumps can get a little tricky." "Yes, they can." She sighs, clutching her pocketbook in her free hand. "I have a heck of a time wrangling these things. My arthritis is something awful. My John used to pump my gas for me, but he's been gone for twenty-three years now. Feels like yesterday sometimes." "I'm not John, but I'd be happy to pump your gas for you today." Oh, please. I shuffle a bit closer so I can hear more clearly. She coos, clearly smitten with him and his thoughtfulness. And, although she's getting played by Truck Boy, I can't blame her. He must seem genuinely sweet from her perspective. There's no way for her to know he's a fox in sheep's clothing. "You don't mind?" she asks. "I don't want to take up too much of your time." He glances at me out of the corner of his eye, his dimple shining in his cheek. "Not at all, ma'am. I'm going to be here a while anyway." I glare at him. "Oh, you're such a good boy. So many young men don't want to bother with an old woman like me." She loops her arm through his elbow, and they slowly move to the driver's side. "When you get to be my age, you feel like you don't belong in the world anymore. You can barely work the new gadgets, and everyone's so impatient with you. It's terrible." "I'm sorry you feel that way," he says as he opens her car door. I stand beside his truck and watch them, trying to make sense of this encounter. He flipped from prick to prince in five seconds flat. My mind spins in bewilderment. "Wait just a second," the lady says, dropping into her seat with a huff. "I forgot to put my card in to pay." "It's on me today," he says. I roll my eyes so hard it hurts. He comes back to the pump, his gaze leveling with mine. A smug grin is all it takes to send me back into a free fall. But, before I can get a word out, he steps to the left and out of sight. My first instinct is to stand my ground and wait for him to finish. If I move, he wins. But with each second that passes without him in my line of sight, I think more clearly. And a glance around reminds me that I'm standing at a gas station, arguing with a stranger over a pump. It's like a bucket of cold water being tossed on my head. So what if he wants to be a child about this? I have errands to run ... and I'm getting off schedule. "If you want to play games, Truck Boy, you'll have to find someone else to play with you," I say. I throw my hair over my shoulder in a final act of defiance and march my way back to my car. Take a deep breath, Astrid. Get out of fight or flight. It's over. I fill my lungs again and slowly exhale. At least my asshole quota has been met for the day, and it can only get better from here. Thank God for that.