A/N:
As of posting, the story is like a sand running towards writer's block. I hope I could write it until the end, since I have other drafts that involves more Bridgerton stories rather than a contemporary type whose protagonist's mind makes me go insane myself. Deliberately infuriating too. However, my wry humor makes me enjoy writing about it.
Content Warning:
Themes explored in certain section are the disturbing aspects of parental abuse. It may not be okay for everyone.
Anyhow, here's the continuation:
***
Chapter 2
I have a problem. A very recent realization, actually. See, my brain finally processed that this random Midwest town is definitely not Brooklyn, New York. Which means, I suddenly understood, I can't just hail a cab.
A cab. Right. Who would've thought I couldn't just stick my hand out and get a ride? On top of that, I don't know how to drive, so the car sitting in our garage is completely useless to me.
When did I have this epiphany, you ask? The second I stepped outside our yard.
Why the hell didn't I ever bother learning to drive? How dumb can I be?
Mamita!
Fuck it. All this effort for my outfit, wasted. Come on, I wore a sequined two-piece: a glittering sleeveless top that exposes my tits like a fine hoe, and a skirt with a slit so high it offered a generous peek of thigh. My masterpiece, down the drain!
I grabbed my phone, resorting to the only solution I knew. It rang twice before someone picked up.
"Hello?" a voice answered.
"Mike, are you already at Mamita's? Where are you?" This needs no soft launch, what it should be is a rapid berating.
"Uh, no," he replied, unsure what to say. "At 7-eleven?"
I put my phone against my ear in place. "The hell you doin' there?"
"Finding some root beer?"
"Huh? Can't Ricky bring some good punch that you're buying yourself?" I retorted. Weren't there more important things than arguing with this off-duty nurse/forest ranger/lifeguard/Boy Scout?
Oh, right. Off-duty. My brow relaxed slightly at that thought.
Right...
Don't argue, Katarina! Time to shine. Time to lure him in. Mentally, I started scheming.
I cleared my throat with a little cough. "So," my tone brightened considerably, "are you already far from, you know, back home?"
"Hmm..." he mumbled, and I could hear wrappers crumpling on the other end.
"Michael Sanditon! Are you eating? How rude!" I called him out.
"Why'd you call?" The asshole dodged the question.
"Answer my question first."
"Katarina, how would I know--"
"Your GPS, sir!" My patience was wearing thin. "Use your GPS! Or Maps! Or do you want me to hack your IP address and track you myself?"
Oh, I totally could, if you didn't know. It would be my pleasure.
"Easy, woman," he finally relented.
I crossed my arms and started tapping my foot as his end went silent. A minute later, his voice returned, "It says it's a twenty-minute ride."
"Actually, Mike..." I trailed off, "About that offer from earlier? I was hoping... can I take you up on it?"
"Why?" was his flat reply.
"Uh, you know..."
"Katarina, don't tell me you don't have a ride."
"Oh, it's not that we don't have a car," I insisted, hugging myself tightly and starting to pace the lawn. "It's just... I can't use it."
"Why?" he repeated.
For the love of God! Why can't you just agree?!
I clenched my teeth before finally spitting it out. "I don't know how to drive."
Silence. Then, after a few seconds, the asshole tried--and failed--to stifle a very audible chuckle. I could hear it.
"No way... shit," he laughed. "It's not that far from town. Oh, Kat--"
I didn't bother listening to the rest. I hung up on him. Fuck, now I had to wipe off all this dramatic evening makeup. It wasn't just about seducing Mike. Damn him! I was supposed to crash in Ann Arbor with my college friends after Mamita's party. They were meeting me at Mamita's, and then we were going to go pull some guys and get laid.
I'm not joking about my hoe phase.
Groaning, I went back inside. Pissed off, I kicked off my pumps, threw them onto the sofa, and flopped down, sulking. When I got tired of being petulant, I decided to take off my makeup.
I had just swiped some remover and micellar water across my face when two loud honks jolted me, making me stagger. "Son of a bitch!"
After all the shit he put me through, now he decides to come back? Argh!
Well, I didn't waste any time, just in case he changed his mind again--like I do. Who knew if he was just messing with my bitchiness?
Grabbing my pumps, purse, and makeup kit, I rushed out the door, making sure everything was locked up tight for Dad.
When I appeared barefoot in the front yard, his car door was open. He gave a low whistle, checking me out head to toe. "You're looking fine."
Finally drained of any desire to please him, I raised the hand holding my pumps and flipped him the bird, my face deadpan with annoyance, staring straight into his eyes.
"Thanks for the ride, Mike," I spat out his name.
"Hold up." Mike slowly raised both hands in confusion. "I offered, you declined. You called me, I answered. You took back your refusal and demanded I come back and get you because you can't drive, and now you're pissed?"
"It's called being a bitch," I bit back, hopping into the passenger seat and slamming the door shut.
"Be gentle with my baby, woman," he protested.
I whipped my fucking bare face toward him. "Do you see what I already removed? This was supposed to be a gorgeous, painted face, Michael. Now, don't talk to me," I replied, turning my attention back to my makeup kit, pulling out my mirror and foundation.
He started the engine, and we drove off. During the minutes of silence that followed, I managed to reapply my eyeshadow and fake lashes.
"Didn't your father work as a taxi driver?" he blurted out.
"Can't let it go, huh? Well, to satisfy your curiosity, I didn't bother learning 'cause I thought I'd live in New York forever. Meaning I figured I'd never need practical life skills."
"Really?" he shot back.
"City hustle? Got that. Country life skills? Nah."
I turned to face him. "How are my eyebrows? Are they even?" I added, tilting my head for a better look.
He slowed down and leaned over to take a look, then turned his attention back to the road. "No idea."
Thanks, Sherlock.
"Useless boyfriends," I muttered.
Mike's expression tightened. "Excuse me?"
Didn't care.
"If I had a French or Italian boyfriend, he'd be my free stylist."
Mike accelerated slightly, gripping the steering wheel. "Okay, where did that come from? And what about boyfriends? Kat, are you interested?" He smirked.
"Those European boyfriends are so stylish, so handy, they'd know my makeup palette by heart. Speaking of which," my voice feigned surprise, "how come I don't even know if you're single or not? Are you?"
"Yep."
And with that information, I remembered I hadn't really checked out off-duty Mike's outfit. So I did. And immediately dismissed it. He hadn't even bothered. A shirt and jeans, that's it. Given his looks, he could pull it off. But effort-wise? Lazy as fuck.
"You look fine. Lazy, though," I dismissed him.
"Is this you hitting on me right now? Or..." He trailed off, tongue rolling in his cheek. "Are you saying something nice to me for once? Hey, I'm not lazy. Just count the hours I'm spending doing you this favor."
"I meant your outfit, okay? How could I hit on you? You know what, I'm thinking you're off-limits. Sorry, boy, I'll place my hopes elsewhere," I declared.
"Huh?"
"None of your business," I snapped.
He didn't respond. After I put my makeup away, we fell silent for the rest of the ride. We finally arrived at Mamita's. When I saw Ricky's wife, I rushed over and gushed about the food. She told me she brought her signature marinated chicken, and my mouth instantly watered.
"How about your cherry pies, Mrs. Edwards?" I prodded.
"Oh," she waved her hand dismissively. "Those are for Rosana's white neighbors."
Now that I thought about it, I didn't bring anything. Was I really just here to freeload?
The answer was yes.