Page 63 of Billionaire and the Barista

I had walked away, scraped up, and pissed off. But Fred hadn’t. His bike hadn’t been fast enough, he hadn’t missed the front end of that panel truck. That driver hadn’t slammed on his brakes.

I jumped from the car and began kicking it. What the fuck had I been thinking?

I slid down the side of my car and sat on the pavement. Too wrapped in the emotions of the past to do anything. My mind could still see the broken body of my friend, smell his blood, hear the tirade from the man driving the truck that had killed Fredrik.

Cars swerved past me, and I ignored them all. I didn’t look up again until I heard the whoop of a siren, and the bright red and blue lights of a cop car assaulted my vision.

“Everything okay here? Are you hurt?”

I couldn’t see the cop who was asking, blinded by their headlights.

Yes, I was hurt, my friend was dead. My lover wanted nothing to do with me. I was sitting next to a stalled-out car in the middle of an empty intersection in the middle of an uncaring city.

I lifted a hand to block the worst of the glare, and wobbly made it to my feet.

“Yeah. Some idiot ran a red light.”

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