Page 17 of Keeping It Professional

“No, no, let’s split it. Keep it simple, right?” He pulled out a ten, and I put in ten too, enough for our breakfast and a nice tip. I’d hoped if I treated him, he might loosen up, but I got the sense allthat mattered to him was the job. If I wanted his trust, I’d need to earn it there.

CHAPTER 7

MILES

I’d just reached my car when I heard Sophie yell.

It didn’t hit me at first it wasn’t a scared yell, and I took off sprinting, shouting her name.

“Sophie! Hey! Hey!”

She yelled out again, and this time I heard it: rage and frustration. A hint of defeat. I rounded the corner and she was out by her car, staring it down with her hands on her hips.

“Hey. Need a jump?”

She kicked at her tire. “No. Look. I’m booted.”

I circled her car and sure enough, there it was, a big yellow boot locked on her tire. “You got unpaid tickets?”

“I guess my mom does.” She checked the windshield and snatched up the notice. “Nine hundred — are you serious? Damn it, Mom.”

“That’s her car?”

“Yeah.” Sophie sat on the curb. “I was ready to get home and hop in the bath, and soak myself pruney, then fall into bed. Now I'll have to pay this and wait around for the cops, however long it takes. And — what the hell?”

“What?”

“They wantanotherninety bucks to come and unboot me. On top of the nine hundred I’m already paying.” Sophie slapped her own forehead, then she burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. Nothing.” She pulled out her phone and tapped on the screen. “And ofcoursetheir site’s slow. Come on, load. Load!”

I sat down beside her. “I’ll wait with you.”

“Huh?” She glanced up. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I’d feel bad if I didn’t. This isn’t a great neighborhood.”

Sophie tapped on her screen again and groaned deep and tired. I knew how she felt. We’d worked the same shift. Climbed the same nineteen flights, then back down again. All the aches and pains bugging me were bugging her too, her knees and her shoulders. Her back. Her ass.

“You should throw in some Epsom salt.”

She looked up, distracted. “Epsom salt?”

“In your bath. It helps with sore muscles. At least, it does for me.”

“Oh, right. Thanks.” Sophie frowned at her screen. “I can’t even tell if my payment went through.”

“What does it say?”

She showed me her phone, its screen gone blank. “I hit submit, then… this. Should I try it again?”

“I wouldn’t. You might end up paying them twice.”

He phone dinged, an email, and her shoulders relaxed. “Oh, there. They got it. My whole first week’s pay.” She laughed again without humor, and rubbed at her knees.

“Won’t your mom pay you back? They’re her tickets, right?”

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