Page 22 of Contention

She concentrates on balancing as she walks, because she’s moving fast and the ground isn’t perfectly even. Wouldn’t that be lovely, to trip or lose a heel while flouncing out of that elevator. God, what if he saw? Kara’s insides cringe; it’s bad enough having anyone witness a stiletto mishap, but it’s far worse to have your nemesis see it!

Nicholas Havenwood-Calais probably lives life surrounded by women who easily float about in those absurd six-inch, name brand heels that cost hundreds of dollars. Absurdly expensive and absurdly painful looking. Okay, so her ass is in a twist over the price, not the pain of such sky-high heels, but no doubt she would tip over in those iconic stilts.

Within the last few feet of her car, she quickly grabs the handle and practically throws herself inside, heart in her throat. Like a deer that expects to be caught, she freezes in her seat and slowly looks to the left, almost sagging in relief when she realizes that no one was behind her at all.

She’d been scaring herself over nothing. Calais likely got in his own car already and drove off.

But. To be sure, she locks her doors even as she starts the ignition.

Her car rumbles…and rumbles. Then, it graciously doesn’t turn on.

Kara blinks. Tries again. Gets the same odious result. Because, how dare her car do this on the absolute worst day? Her headache creeps back as her stress level rises, a vein throbbing in her temple. She inhales deeply, trying to calm her rising anger, her fuse always short.

Something she inherited from her father, something that always made her wonder if she was sane or not, as a result.

Her teeth grind together as she tries to not burst out with the red-hot emotion clawing its way up her throat, but she can’t keep it in.

She curses viciously, screaming the words out in her silent car. Kara’s been told her mouth is terribly foul and it’s true.

With lingering hangover aches and about as much energy as her pinky finger has muscle, she knows waiting around is not an option.I’m not sitting here waiting for a tow truck. I’m exhausted. I just want to be home. I’ll call tomorrow.

Cab it is. Kara twists to see if her flats are in the back seat and groans when she sees empty space. No luck. She’s going to have to keep grinning and bearing it.

Her feet hurt, the old cuts on the backs of her heels screaming under the pressure of being contained in her tight stilettos all day. Walking to find a cab hurts every step of the way, but Kara bears it, pretending her best that there’s no pain.

It’s a fine art, actually. Walking in heels that are literally making her feel like abandoning all sense of pride and simply walking through the filthy streets barefoot while everyone watches on, judging. Walking like every step isn’t making her insides wither and die in agony.

Torture. That’s what it is. Except, she’s pretending it isn’t torture, in fact, she might even keep a lovely, serene expression on her face even though her pain receptors are firing at will.

Yup. She’s in that mood at the moment, living that life in these heels. Kara curses herself for forgetting to pack her flats in her car, but regardless, the flats would have hurt too. Anything with a back on them would hurt.

Once she gets out front of the building, she stands on the curb and holds up her hand, whistling for a cab. The street is already jam packed with traffic, everyone trying to get home after a long day. The cabs at this time are usually full up, which is a nightmare in the making.

One by one, cabs slowly drive by, their occupants on their phones, oblivious to Kara’s envy of their seat. Another cab drives through the light and Kara curses after him. Bastard had been empty.Never try to get a cab during rush hour. Your luck will always be shit.

As she continues glowering, stretching up as tall as she can to be seen, a car, something nice, something deep red and shiny, pulls up beside her on the left. The light is red up ahead, so Kara thinks nothing of it, refuses to sit and gawk at the car that she doesn’t even recognize, so she continues scanning up the street for a cab, mentally squealing over her aching feet.

Will she be crippled? Are her toes going to crunch up? Is she bleeding? Why, why did she wear these shoes?

Oh, because she not the tallest flower in the field and high heels make her stand out a bit more. Yeah. That’s why. Stupid reasons earn stupid outcomes.

Cars start to move again, the only cab in view currently occupied. Kara scowls, letting her hand drop down to her side. The car beside her still hasn’t moved and she distantly wishes they could have decided to idle elsewhere, not beside her, witnessing her abject failure to hail a cab in rush hour.

There’s a slight whine as the passenger window rolls down. Alright, what’s the deal here? Huffing out angrily through her nose, Kara lets her eyes cut over to the driver.

“Are you working?” The utter shithead asks, a deceptively bland expression on his stone-cut face, in his fancy ride.

Kara blinks, squinting at Nicholas Havenwood-Calais in abject confusion, mixed with the absolute loathing that’s leaking out of her heart like a disease. “Am I…?” She shakes her head as soon as she realizes what he’s inferring. Ah. Funny. Jokey jokes. Working. Hooking. Same difference. “What the fuck!?”

His lips twist wryly. “I beg your pardon.”

Making a sound of anger fueled frustration, Kara feels her fingers clench around her work tote. It’s like he lives just to torment her, making small talk, threats, or cryptical nonsense for no good reason. “Excuse me?”

Calais is rolling down his driver side window now, gesturing with his left hand to the honking asshole behind him to go around. He turns back to her, peering at her through the passenger window. “’Excuse me’ is an improvement. Just trying to teach you better phrases to express your obvious confusion. You sound like an illiterate trollop every time you speak, you know,” he comments idly, like this is the most normal conversation to be having.

Kara stares at him, then stares some more. He’s got an ivy league, old money way of talking. Like he’s been beat over the head to talk nice, all the time. Even when he says something insulting, it sounds completely pleasant, like he’s complimenting her on her on a job well done instead of calling her an uncultured swine from the bottom of the pig pen.

It's a skill, she thinks darkly as her eyes narrow on him. “Not all men assume I’m working the street just because I’m standing here, looking for a ride. Stop projecting your perversions on me, thanks.”

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