Page 46 of Crude Heir

It doesn’t take long to get a driver. Being downtown, there’s always someone in the area. Still, I duck behind the building and wait through the longest two minutes of my life.

Nervous, I reach across the back of my head, pulling the hair away from my temple and into the ponytail I’d intended. My life has been thrown upside down since I decided I needed to pull my hair up.

The little green SUV listed on the app finally comes into sight. I glance behind it and breathe a sigh of relief as the vehicle pulls up beside me. I bite my lip, opening the door then climb into the back.

“Are you hurt?” The driver, an older woman, turns in her seat, on high alert.

“No, I’m fine.” I’m shaking as I slide across the back seat. “I got caught in the storm.” I swallow hard. “Now I just need to get home.”

“Okay,” she says, sounding skeptical. She checks the mirrors, giving me another once-over before pulling into her lane.

My heart’s a lump in my throat as we make our way to the other side of town. Thankfully there’s hardly any traffic.

It’s foolish to think of avoiding my car and still ending up going to my apartment. Will he know where to send the police? Being in charge of the systems, would he have access to my personal information?

“You doing okay back there?” the driver asks with concern.

“Yes.” The word is barely audible. “I just…” I have no explanation to share. It’s all I can do to hold the tears burning behind my eyes. “I should have gone home last night.” I grasp at the first thing that comes to mind.

Her reflection in the rearview mirror changes to an expression of understanding. “Fight with your boyfriend?” It’s more of a statement than a question, and not altogether inaccurate.

“Yes. Kind of.” I let my shoulders slump. “Only he’s not my boyfriend,” I correct her.

“Well, men can all still be assholes. Doesn’t have to be a boyfriend,” she says, as if it’s a given. “They lie, they cheat, they treat you like shit. Get out while you can, I always say.”

Only, this time, it isn’t the guy who’s lying. It’s me. And I lied to everyone, not just him.

She takes the exit off highway forty-five, and we start through the neighborhood in silence. People are packed around the local taco truck. Guys are hanging out in front of the car wash. Soggypiñatas hang outside the corner store. All things I see on my daily drive. I’ll miss seeing all of it.

I fish out my keys as we pull up to the apartments. “You sure you’re going to be okay?” she asks, clutching the steering wheel as she glances at the few people hanging out on their balcony, watching us in return.

She may not understand, but, for me, this is home. It has been for a couple of years now. If not for the rain, there would be a lot more people milling about. “Yes, I’ll be fine.”

“You take care, girl.” She turns in her seat, giving me a reassuring smile.

“I will.” I manage to return her smile.

“Hey, keep your head up. You’re not the first to come home the next day with your panties in your purse and tears on your face.”

Heat rushes across my cheeks. I let myself out, shutting the door carefully. I move away and start down the sidewalk, feeling a pinch every other step now. The driver finally pulls away, and I continue through the light rain.

The scent of flour tortillas is in the air, along with something spicy. A voice rings out over music, complaining about a flooded apartment.

I clutch the banister, trying to keep my weight off my ankle as I go up the steps to the second floor. My grandmother’s words echo in my head:Never get an apartment on the first floor. They’re one problem after another.

The second floor is bad enough. I couldn’t bring myself to go higher; with her aches and pains, she’d have trouble when she visits.

My neighbor comes out on the balcony, lighting a cigarette as she watches my progress. “Girl, you look like hell.”

“Thanks, Terry,” I say drily. Somehow she always seems to be out and about when things happen. Which keeps her up to date on everything.

She blows out a cloud of smoke giving me a once-over. “If you weren’t such a goodie-goodie”—she waves the cigarette, pointing a finger at me—“I’d think you’re coming home with your panties shoved in your purse.”

“The power went out at the office,” I inform her, steering the conversation away from my walk of shame.

“You didn’t get trapped in the elevator, did ya?” she asks, concerned.

While that would solve the problem of where I was all night, it would only create more questions in the long run.

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