Page 43 of Strings
There’s a black limousine sitting on the street outside the entrance. I give the area a once-over to make sure no one important will see me head to the bus.
A man jumps out of the driver’s seat and rushes around as I’m almost past. I try to see who’s inside, but the windows are tinted black.
“Miss Pearson?” he questions.
I stop in my tracks and hesitantly turn toward him. “Yes?”
“Are you ready?”
“For what?”
He smiles. “To go home.”
“I’m sorry, do I know you?”
“No, ma’am, but Mr. Corronov requested I bring you home this evening. He said I might have to ask you nicely. Or beg.”
“Is he in there?” I ask, pointing to the car.
“No, miss. He’s home. But he left me strict instructions to make sure you arrived safely. I was told to call him once you’re inside your apartment.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. That was… thoughtful.” I smile as I lift my bag higher on my shoulder.
“Shall we go?”
A loud noise catches my attention. I look to my left as bus 112 pauses where I should be waiting. It doesn’t take me long to make a decision about how I’m getting home. I slide into the limo and the driver closes the door. I sink into the soft leather.
“Do you need my address?” I ask.
“No, miss. Relax. Everything is under control.”
I close my eyes as the soft lull of the limo’s tires on the pavement creates a rhythmic beat. The driver’s words replay in my mind as I drift to sleep.“Everything is under control.”For the first time ever, I believe it could be true.
Control is not just a Janet Jackson song.
It’s a beautiful sunny morning and I’m brushing my teeth and listening to “Good as Hell” by Lizzo when I get a text.
Bash:You’re welcome.
I shake my head then spit. I told the driver to tell him I said thank you when he dropped me off last night, so I’m assuming he thinks now is a good time to respond. Or, he didn’t get my thank you and is saying you’re welcome because he thinks I’m being rude.
There’s another ping, so I glance down at it as I apply my lip gloss.
Bash:How much longer will you be?
“How much longer will I be for what?” I say out loud. What does he mean?
Me:Are you high this morning or just texting the wrong girl?
A few seconds go by and I see bubbles, indicating he’s typing. I brush my hair while I wait.
Bash:I told you I didn’t want you riding the bus.
My head jerks back. How in the fuck does he know I’m riding the bus to work today? My text pings again before I can type anything.
Bash:I will explain how I know when you come downstairs. I’m waiting. Chop chop.
How does he already know me well enough to predict what I’m thinking? That’s equally impressive and disturbing. And what is thischop chopshit? Picking up my phone, my fingers fly as I start to tell him to chop chop his way to work by himself. Before I hit send, I remember what it’s like to ride the bus to work verses a car, and I quickly erase my text. I start and stop several sarcastic responses to him.
