Page 17 of Wrong Place Perfect Time

Pity. I was sure he had a handsome face and those eyes that told me things I never thought I ever would hear or do in this life.

Maybe I am dumb after all.

I mean, a guy like that actually makingthosekinds of eyes at me?

No time to dwell on the familiar hurt of rejection. I gotta get outta here and fast.

But I was so sure I felt something back at the restaurant.

Felt like things were looking up for once.

I manage to grab a small bag, stuffing only the bare essentials into it before I head for the fire escape, praying the rusty frame holds my weight while I scale down three floors.

The one and only time it’s been used, too, by the sounds of it under my trembling legs before I feel solid ground under me again.

The back alley leads to a small wall, which even I can manage to get over.

Kind of.

I tumble down over the other side, loudly swearing when I scrape my knee through my jeans.

Hefting myself to my feet and hobbling a little without turning back, I head straight for the one place I know nobody would think of looking for me.

The police.

At least, that’s my plan until I run face-first into a wall of man, making me gasp.

Making me feel foolish for misunderstanding him after all.

I look up, hoping to see those familiar eyes again. The man I want to see, but my gasp turns to a scream which gets muffled.

Suddenly covered by a gloved hand, I realize quickly that this isn’t my dream guy from the restaurant.

This is someone else, and he’s not playing nice.

With one hand over my mouth, his strength easily overpowers me and leads me to a waiting car.

A different car than the one I saw earlier.

Different faces, too, except one. I recognize the driver from the restaurant.

One of those sleazes from by the door when I left.

He sneers at me as I’m bundled into the back seat.

Peeling out from the curb with a screech, he smiles in a way that turns my stomach.

“Mr. Portello wants you to start early,” he says, smiling wide as he takes his eyes off mine to focus on the traffic.

“He won’t be pleased we saw you around that Martinelli prick either…won’t be happy at all,” he adds.

I open my mouth to do more than scream. To tell him I don’t know what he means. Is he talking about the handsome man from the restaurant? The one who followed me? I feel like biting this asshole’s face off. Feeling my hands and arms spring to life as I lurch forward.

Hearing anyone say anything bad about the man of my dreams sets me off in a way like nothing else ever has.

But the heavy hand is over my mouth again.

I get a horrible smell, and the taste of something awful fills my mouth.

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