“How was I supposed to know calling you a prick would get us both kicked out? What the hell kind of archaic rule is that?”
“You didn’t just call me a prick. You yelled and pointed your finger in my face and then dumped your water on me. The situation was escalating. They just did what they had to do before it got out of hand.”
Shaking my head—at him, at the situation, and at myself—I dig into my tote to locate my phone so I can order an Uber and get the hell out of here …
… only I don’t feel the familiar glassy screen or smooth plastic case.
Stepping beneath a street lamp, I dig deeper, unearthing my wallet and various lip balms and travel-sized perfumes—but no phone.
“Shit. I left my phone in there.” I rise on my toes, staring at the blackened windows of The Mintz and the closed sign on the door. A moment later, I’m pounding on the glass. I wait before pounding again. And again. And again. They’re either ignoring me or they can’t hear me.
Isaiah stands back, quiet and contemplative.
I’m sure he doesn’t want to give me a ride home any more than I don’t want to ask him for one, but right now I’m stranded.
“Is there someone you can call?” he asks, yawning.
Exhaling, I shake my head. “I don’t have anyone’s numbers memorized.”
“Seriously?”
I wave my hand at him. “Now’s not the time.”
Digging into his pocket, he retrieves a set of keys, lifting them. “I’ll take you home.”
Eyes wide, I lift my brows. “You sure? I live an hour from here. And you live an hour from me. You won’t get home until after three AM.”
“I’m not going to leave you here, stranded in downtown LA,” he says. A Yellow Cab whirs past us and we both steal a glance. “You’re not taking a taxi. It’d cost you an arm and a leg to get home from here. Come on.”
He looks both ways before darting across the street, and I follow, keeping a few steps behind.
“What about my phone?” I ask.
“I’ll text Case and see if he can have someone look for it.”
His white, dented Porsche stands out amongst the flashier cars in the parking lot, but in a good way. Painted in warm moonlight under a starless sky, we hit the road with windows cranked and tunes playing softly from his old speakers. Sinking into the worn, buttery leather passenger seat and decide that maybe … just maybe … he’s not all that bad.
Chapter Four
Isaiah
“I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. And I still think you’re a miserable asshole,” she says as she leans over me and punches in a code to a gate outside a sprawling Brentwood estate. The smell of her citrus perfume mixes with the sweet tang of liquor, filling my lungs until she returns to her seat. The gate swings open and I pull ahead. “But you were yawning every five minutes the whole way here and I can’t, in good conscience, let you drive another hour home. You’re crashing on my couch tonight.”
“No.”
“Yes.” She points to the left. “Around back there’s a guesthouse. You can park out front.”
Passing a circle drive and a bubbling fountain and rounding the rambling hacienda-style mansion, I spot a smaller version of the main house positioned next to a turquoise pool lit up like Christmas for no other reason than to look pretty. First impressions are everything out here amongst the rich and fabulous locals.
I have no idea how some diner waitress can afford to live in a guesthouse next to an estate like this, but I’ve seen crazier things in LA, and to be honest, it’s none of my damn concern anyway.
I let the engine idle as she climbs out but when she realizes I’m not following, she crouches down, sticks her head back inside the car, and reaches for the ignition, yanking my keys out.
“Come on,” she says, not giving me a choice.
My eyes are heavy and a cool pillow sounds like heaven right about now, so I surrender and follow her inside.
The place is dark, window shades pulled. There’s a faint light from the kitchen leaking toward the entryway and living room, as if someone left a bathroom light on, but other than that I can’t make out much besides outlines until my eyes adjust.
“There’s the couch.” She points toward the living room as I kick off my shoes. “Let me grab you a pillow and blanket.”
The gentle tinker and click of nails on hardwood precede some small furry critter trotting toward me.
“Oh, that’s Murphy. My roommate’s dog,” she says.
I glance down at what appears to be a little pug with a smooshy, alien-like face and eyes round as saucers. He pants, head tilted like he’s confused as to why I won’t pick him up.