Page 2 of Mad Rivals (The Bradley Legacy #1)

There’s a Solution

I never should have closed my eyes.

A twenty-seven-year-old woman in downtown Chicago should be smarter than that, and I am.

I’m just so damn tired.

I took public transportation—the bus—this morning. It’s a longer ride, but I can work or relax versus the stress of driving. And on my way home from work, I can read.

Or I could, anyway, until someone lifted my Kindle.

It was on the seat next to me when I closed my eyes, and now it’s not.

I rummage through my purse just in case I stuck it in there without remembering, and…

Wait a second.

I rummage some more.

Dammit.

Great. Just freaking great.

My wallet is gone, too.

There was a twenty-dollar bill in there—the one my best friend Clem gave me yesterday to pay for tonight’s dinner, which I only now remember I was supposed to pick up on the way home.

Apart from that, all I can think of that might have been in there is the membership card for the gym I’ve been trying to cancel for months and my license.

I use my phone to pay by credit card, so I took those out ages ago.

Oh, and that old photo of Clem and me from our freshman year in college.

Replacing my license will be a pain in the ass since I don’t exactly have all the free time in the world to report this crime to the police and spend half a day waiting around at the DMV.

What an inconvenient way to make a bad day a little worse.

I glance around at the other passengers on the bus, and they’re all wrapped up in their own little worlds. The thief probably lifted my shit and got off at the next stop with nobody here the wiser. I wouldn’t be any wiser to it happening right beside me, either—especially not with my eyes closed.

This isn’t the life I envisioned for myself when I took a stand against working for the family business.

I wanted to earn my own way. I wanted to experience the journey of making myself out of nothing. I stubbornly didn’t want to rest on the silver spoon I’ve been fed with since the day I was born.

But this? Getting robbed because my meager paychecks can only afford half the rent in a shitty part of town that’s a full hour-long bus ride away from work?

This isn’t exactly the stand I was trying to make.

This is dangerous. I was robbed on public transportation today.

Clem and I don’t go out for walks after dark.

We know it’s dangerous, but we take the proper precautions. Or, we usually do. Closing my eyes on the bus isn’t exactly a precaution, I guess.

Shit.

I blow out a breath as we approach my stop, and I stand and start moving toward the front of the bus. I usually get on and off without a word to the driver, but not today.

“My wallet and Kindle were stolen,” I say .

The look he gives me makes it clear that there’s nothing he could care less about.

“On this bus. Sometime between when I got on and now,” I amend.

“Report it to the transit authority and the police.” His voice is gruff. He isn’t going to do anything about it, not that there’s anything to do, but it would be nice to feel like he cared that someone stole something from another passenger on his bus.

He doesn’t. He just wants me off the bus so he can continue on his route and get through his day.

It’s all any of us are doing anymore. Survival. And you know what? I’m getting real fucking tired of it.

There’s a solution . The little voice in the back of my mind is whispering to me.

I know there is , I snap.

Then take it .

I heave out a breath as I walk down the steps, and I trip as I make the transition from the bottom step of the bus to the curb.

My purse flies off my shoulder, and the contents go flying all over the sidewalk as my knee skids across the jagged, rough pavement. It rips a hole in my leggings, and blood is already starting to drip from the spot.

It hurts like fuck, and my cheeks burn with embarrassment that I fell like an idiot.

Nobody bends down to help me pick up my shit despite the fact that there are multiple people who got off at this stop and others waiting to get on. They step around the idiot on the ground instead.

They’re surviving, too. They’re just trying to get through the day.

I gather everything up and scurry along the four blocks back to the apartment as best I can with a wounded knee. It’s not broken, but it’s definitely in pain.

Kind of like my spirit .

This isn’t the life I want, and as I walk through the front door and drop my purse with a dramatic thud by the door, Clem springs up from her spot on the couch. I’m blocked by a little half-wall, so she hasn’t seen the wound yet.

“Oh, good! You’re home,” she calls. “Ready to get cooking?”

I burst into tears, and she rushes over to me. She spots the hole in my leggings, and her eyes grow wide.

“Oh my God, Kenny! What happened? Are you okay?”

“Someone robbed me on the bus and my wallet and Kindle are gone and I didn’t have any money to get our stuff for dinner and then I fell and I hate my life,” I wail at her, and she grabs me into a hug as she soothingly rubs my back.

“Shh, shh, it’ll be okay,” she says gently.

This isn’t the first time she’s taken care of me—or vice versa. We were assigned as roommates at Loyola our freshman year, and the quirky and fun Clementine Carter became my instant best friend.

We shared the same major—visual communications—and took most of our classes together throughout our four years.

We’ve lived together since we graduated—going on five years now—both of us determined to live in the city we love so much as we make our own path separate from our parents.

I did that by snagging a graphic design position right out of college. I hate it.

She did it by finding a job working retail. She hates it even more than me.

We’ve struggled for five entire years to make ends meet, but the events of today just made me realize one very important lesson.

I don’t want to just make ends meet.

I’m sick of this life.

I need to change it, and I want Clem to come with me.

I never wanted to be handed the job my parents have reserved for me my entire life, but I think right now…it may be my only choice.