Page 63 of Crazy In Love (Love & War #2)

“No, thank you.” I flip the lid of my case closed and sit on top, flopping down with all the weight I possess so I can drag the zipper around.

I catch sight of his suitcase, rolled up and sitting safely beside his leg.

More importantly, I notice the belt wrapped around it to keep his things together.

Rudely, I reach forward with an unladylike harrumph and unsnap the clip, stealing from him without a single lick of remorse.

“I’m gonna keep this.” I dig the fabric under the bottom of my bag, then around until the buckle meets, and because my case is thicker than his, I adjust the straps until everything comes together, and I’m one step closer to not ending up on the news.

“If you wanna write your number on a piece of paper or something, I could send it back when I’m done. ”

“What if…” His eyes flicker across mine. Searching. Flirting. “What if you write your number on a piece of paper or something. Then I’ll call you up and take you out to dinner sometime this week?”

“Can’t. I’ll only be in New York for a few more days, then I’m moving away.

” I tug my suitcase to its wheels and place my heavy purse on top.

Though I make damn sure not to release either handle.

“I’m sure you’re a nice guy and all that, but I’m already spoken for.

” By myself. Gag. “Thanks for stopping to help me, though.” I turn on my heels and jerk my stupid case away, and though I keep my head high and my spine straight, I pray no one notices the wee-woo-wee-woo of the broken wheel on the bottom.

This is my life now, even though New York is supposed to be my safe space.

I draw a long breath and fill my lungs with New York air—oddly, the air I considered life-giving five weeks ago tastes kinda gross now after spending so much time beside a beautiful lake.

I limp out of the airport and onto the sidewalk, and turning my attention toward the line of cabs that should be waiting, I sigh and watch the last one go.

“It’s fine.” I drag my case to the glass walls at my back and snap the handle down to make room to sit.

But I catch my thumb under the metal, hissing as fresh pain stings my digit and adds another ding to my already shitty mood.

Snagging my purse and hooking the straps over my arm, I plop onto the top of my case and slouch in on myself, breathing before I lose my shit.

Exhaling before I end up on a terrorist watch list for doing something monumentally stupid.

“Everything is fine. Everything is going to be just fine.”

Chief happiness what ?

“Hey!” A man’s deep voice draws me around. His wolf whistle echoes in my ears, and a bouquet of flowers clasped to his chest turns my eyes wide.

But they’re not for me.

“Hey, babe!” He catches a woman on the fly— his woman—and lays a juicy, noisy, over-the-top kiss on her lips.

Her legs wrap around his hips.

His hands cup her ass.

It’s loud and lovely and a beautiful declaration of love.

But it’s not for me.

My phone trills, music playing through my headphones, so I tap my ear and slump like I’m eighty-five years old and ready to play with my belly button lint. “This is Fox.”

“Oh, good!” Booker exclaims. “You’ve landed.”

“Mmhm. Are you back yet?”

“Yeah. I flew into LaGuardia about an hour ago. I tried to call when I landed, but I figured you must’ve still been in the air.”

“Yep.” Chief Unhappiness Orangutan. That’s me . “Glad you made it back safely. I only just walked out of JFK, so I’m gonna get a cab and head back to my apartment.”

“Actually, I was gonna ask if you wanted to get that dinner with me and Sherry tonight? Things are moving quickly now that you’ve accepted the position in Rome. The next few days are going to kick our butts, and I didn’t want to miss out on one of our last opportunities to?—”

“No, thanks.” I left New York in a skirt suit and heels.

Perfect hair. Confidence . But I’ve returned feeling like the hunchback who lives at Notre Dame.

“It’s already dinnertime, Booker. I’m starving and cranky and ridiculously tired.

I need a shower and someone to punch me in the face.

I’d like to feel literally anything except existential dread. ”

“Yikes.” He laughs. “Bad flight, huh?”

Bad life. Bad… everything. “I can’t wait another two hours to eat, and not in a million years am I coming to dinner with plane air on my skin and in my hair.

I’m heading home, soaking in the tub, and if I’m lucky, I might sl ip under the surface and addle my brains a little before someone pulls me out. ”

“Well…” His laughter falls away. “That doesn’t sound good. Anything you wanna talk about?”

“Can’t.” You’re a guy. And I have to make my choices for me. “I’m good.”

“We’re friends, right? You’ve always been my friend. So if something is wrong, you’d tell me?”

“Nothing’s wrong. I’m just really tired.

” I catch a flash of yellow from the corner of my eye, a cab—my prince charming—driving this way.

So I bound from my suitcase and snatch up the handle, and despite the ache in my ankle, the throbbing in my squished thumb, the incessant wee-woo-wee-woo of my suitcase, I charge toward the street with one hand in the air. “Taxi!”

“Taxi!” Another guy strides from the airport doors, his shout louder than mine. His eyes swing my way, then back to the cab. Then, like it’s a race and he’s ready, he drops his shoulder and runs. “Mine!”

“That’s my taxi!” Wee-woo-wee-woo ! “Jerkoff! You know I saw it first!”

“Sorry, lady.” He’s faster than me by a long shot, swinging the door wide and diving in with an undignified fwump . Then they’re moving again, and I’m just… I’m me. All alone. With my dumb broken suitcase.

“Er…” Booker clears his throat. “I feel like I probably shouldn’t ask. That sounded rough.”

“Don’t ask! Don’t tell. Don’t speak at all.” I lower my hands and ignore the dumb trembling in my jaw. Hundreds, maybe even thousands, of people loiter outside of the airport. But no one sees me. No one gives a single shit about me or my tears. “That was my cab.”

“It’s like you’ve forgotten how to New York,” he teases. “It’s not the first to see the cab, Fox. It’s the first to have their butt inside.”

“Shut up.”

“I’ll send a car. Michael can be there in about thirty minutes, so why don’t you head back inside and get a cup of coffee or something?”

“No.” I walk all the way to the curb and park my suitcase on the very edge, then crossing my ankles, I lower to my butt and harrumph . “I’ve got the next cab, no matter what. I’m ready to fight for it.”

“And… dinner tonight?”

“Absolutely not! I’m gonna go try the drowning thing.

I’ll see you at the office at nine o’clock sharp.

Until then, forget I exist. Gah!” Overstimulated and frustrated, I whip loose strands of hair off my face and twist the ends together.

But I have no hairclip and I’m not sure I have a hair tie stuffed away in my bag. “I’m hanging up. Leave me alone.”

“Fine.” He grunts. “Sorry I bothered you on personal time.”

“Good.” I catch a flash of yellow from the corner of my eye, so I bound to my feet and thrust my arm in the air, and when some other jackass rushes to the curb twenty feet to my left, I stare at the side of his head and snarl when his eyes come to mine.

Wisely, he retreats, dropping his hands and taking a long step back. Then two. Three.

Smart.

As soon as the cab stops in front of me and the trunk pops open, I wheel my case around— wee-woo-wee-woo —and lift its stupid weight into the back long before the driver has a chance to get out and do it for me.

Slinging my purse onto my arm and slamming the lid down, I stalk to the back door and slide in.

Sweat makes my skin sticky. It makes my shirt cling to my shoulders and my hair grip to my neck. Because despite the fact it’s dark out already, and although it’s not yet summer, the humidity is thick, and my whole fucking life wants to irritate me.

I meet the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror, and rumbling out my address, I sit back with a heavy, noisy exhale.

“So… you’re in a cab now?”

“Jesus, Booker!” I startle at the voice in my ear, scaring the driver, so he jumps and wrenches the wheel dangerously to the left. “I thought we were done?”

“You didn’t end the call, and I’m kind of afraid that if I do, I might see you on the news in a little while. Something about an enraged ape climbing the Empire State Building.”

I slump back in my seat and close my eyes.

“Goodbye, Booker.” I tap my headphone and kill our call, and though my phone beeps with incoming texts—one from Alana, asking me to text her when I get to the apartment, and one from Raya, asking if I landed safely—I ignore the robotic phone voice.

Because neither is from Chris, and his declaration of undying love is the only thing I want to hear right now.

Is this how he feels when I steal his fork?

The itchy skin. The tight control on a temper that wants to blow.

When he’s sleeping in sheets that annoy him, is it like how my shirt sticks to my skin and feels like a straitjacket?

Or when he wears socks with imperfect stitching, does he feel the same frustration I feel when my hair sticks to my neck ?

And if this is his life, how doesn’t he rage against anyone who looks at him? How does he live like this without wanting to kill someone?

“Most of the folks I collect from JFK are tourists with big smiles,” my driver murmurs. “They’re usually pretty bubbly and energetic and excited to be here.”

Exhaling a long, chest-emptying sigh, I peel my eyes open and meet the dark stare of a man easily inching toward sixty. Maybe even sixty-five.

“I know I’m a stranger,” he explains. “But seeing as how we have twenty minutes, and you probably won’t ever see me again… you wanna talk about it?”

Yes. No.