Page 13 of Fight

“Why do you care?” she asked, immediately defensive, even more so than she’d already been.

I unlocked the door. “I don’t. Walk.”

She looked at me accusingly, her face a mix of anger, disappointment, and something like hope. “I’m not a whore,” she said, eyes locked on me, her expression and the way she held her body daring me to contradict her.

“Congratulations. Your father should certainly be proud. Get out,” I said.

She didn’t move, but I watched as she took in the surroundings outside the window and then relocked the door.

I nodded my satisfaction. “So that means you don’t want to walk? Then tell me where you live.”

“I…uh…” She looked down and to the right, her face now in shadow.

A sinking feeling hit me, but I ignored it and instead snapped, “Well?”

“It’s been a rough month. I’m…between places,” she said, looking up at me again.

Her voice wasn’t a whisper—she didn’t strike me as the whispering type—but I could see the flash of shame in her eyes and how she quickly covered it with bravado, tilting her chin.

“So, I’m-not-a-whore, what’s your real name?” I asked. I shouldn’t have cared what her name was, didn’t really, but I still felt compelled to change the subject, for some reason wanting to smooth her ruffled pride.

“Does it matter?” she asked.

“I guess not. But I’m-not-a-whore is a mouthful.”

“Fine. P. My name is P,” she said grudgingly as if sharing it was a ridiculous intrusion. “You’re Ioan?”

I nodded. “Ioan Cristi.”

“Ukrainian like Markov?” she said.

“I’m nothing like Markov. Romanian. Now I need to make a call,” I said.

I stopped at a convenience store, one of the few that still had a pay phone, my heart starting to speed when I got out. I looked back at the woman—P—who didn’t try to pretend she wasn’t looking at me.

My heart sped again.

She was defensive, but she was also curious, and I felt a little tug of something as she watched me. She was my responsibility now, but I wouldn’t be able to protect her, do anything for her, if I didn’t live through the night.

And I might not.

When I reached the pay phone, I grabbed it and dialed quickly, both relieved and worried when Nicky answered the phone.

Nicky would relay my message, but until I got a response, all I could do was wait.

She looked at me when I got into the car.

“A pay phone?” she said skeptically, her brows furrowed.

“Yeah,” I said, shrugging.

“Still have dial-up, too?”

I looked over at her, gave her a withering glare, one she seemed to brush off. In fact, one she seemed to relish.

I recognized her type. She was one of those who thrived on anger, strife. Headstrong, one who would cause endless trouble.

“I see now why you ended up there,” I said.

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