Page 15 of Redamancy (Fated Fixation #2)

Chapter eleven

A s the scenery blurs through the tinted windows, I conclude that I may be in over my head here.

Way over my head.

This Adrian seems drastically different from the one I spoke to at the hospital—or even the party.

That Adrian made me think I was crazy.

That Adrian made me feel like I didn’t matter—a stark difference to this Adrian, who’s holding my hand. Telling me that I’ll be safe with him. Staring at me with the sort of concern I haven’t seen in…years.

Yeah, I do not have the bandwidth to deal with this right now.

“You really don’t need to drive me home,” I tell him. “You can just drop me off at the subway.” I pretend like the thought of riding in a subway car full of strangers doesn’t make my skin crawl right now.

And it’s a shame—any other time, I’d be thrilled to navigate cross-borough traffic from the back of a comfortable, armored BMW, but not with Adrian.

Not after the way our last conversation panned out.

My ego—stomped and trampled as it might be—is still alive and kicking.

“Seriously.” I clear my throat. “I don’t want to be any trouble.”

Translation: I don’t want to spend a single minute longer than I need to with you.

“It’s no trouble,” Adrian says, but his eyes are glued to his phone screen, tapping away. Embarrassingly, I do mourn the loss of his hand in mine.

“I live in lower Manhattan,” I try again. “I’m guessing that’s pretty out of the way for you.”

He still doesn’t look up from his phone. “Not at all."

Frustration rolls through me. It’s not an outright refusal, but the dismissal is clear, and that only irritates me more.

You know what?

I reach for the center console and press the same button Adrian did a few minutes ago.

The partition glides down a quarter of the way, and the driver’s same steely eyes peer through the rearview mirror.

“If you don’t mind taking a left up here, I think Broadway Junction is close by,” I tell him. “You can just let me off there.”

The driver’s eyes flicker to Adrian, who says nothing.

“Just right here,” I repeat, gesturing toward the approaching intersection.

He doesn’t turn left.

…well, alright.

Guess he’s not going to take orders from any passenger who isn’t paying his bills.

I swallow, unsure how to handle this, when Adrian closes the partition again—and finally looks up from his phone. “You know, most people would be thankful to be rescued from a potentially dangerous situation and offered a ride home,” he remarks lightly, brows raised.

Well, most people would let me take the subway if I asked, I almost retort but don’t.

“I am thankful,” I say. “Truly. Had you not shown up, that could’ve turned out a lot worse than potentially dangerous.” And then, another thought crosses my mind: "What were you doing in that neighborhood?"

I'm not able to completely keep the suspicion out of my voice, but Adrian only shrugs. "I had a meeting with a business associate in Queens, and Alex thought we'd skip some of the afternoon rush by cutting through more residential streets."

I stare at him.

That is…reasonable enough, I guess.

And I am grateful for his rescue—but sharing a confined space with him is stirring emotions I'd rather not feel.

I shift in my seat.

Holy shit, this car is comfortable.

I clear my throat. “I just have a bunch of errands to run,” I continue, which isn’t a total lie. Grocery shopping awaits. “And I’m sure you’ve got a very busy day ahead of you—plus, it’s past lunchtime, and traffic heading into Manhattan is going to suck, so…”

So, just tell your driver to pull over and let me out.

I glance out the window again.

We’re approaching the Manhattan Bridge now, which means my window for getting out of this vehicle before we’re stuck in seven lanes worth of bumper-to-bumper traffic for at least ten minutes is closing by the second.

As if he can sense my distress, the corners of his mouth curl with amusement. “How perfect,” he says. “I’m heading into Manhattan, and today is my off day, so I’m not busy—not in the slightest. I’d love to run errands with you.”

My eyes widen.

What the hell?

How did we get from a car ride home to running errands together?

I shake my head. “I think you’re misunderstanding here…when I say errands, I mean actual errands. Really dull errands. Like grocery shopping.”

Unfortunately, those two words don’t seem to inspire the same dread in Adrian that they usually do in me, because he presses the console button—again. “Alex, please re-route to the closest grocery store in Manhattan.”

“Yes, sir.”

Oh, so you’ll listen when he asks you to do things?

Either Alex doesn’t see my glare through the mirror—or just doesn’t care—because the partition closes again, and my panic returns.

“You really don’t want to go grocery shopping with me,” I insist. “I’m a slow shopper.” When he doesn’t look convinced, I add: “And I coupon.”

He chuckles. “I think I’ll survive.”

“Don’t you want to do something more interesting on your day off?” I ask. “Like sightseeing or something?”

“We’ll sightsee after your errands,” he replies, and internally, I facepalm.

This is getting ridiculous.

So, we’re a ‘we’ now?

I watch, helpless, as the last exit before we enter the top deck of the bridge drifts by—and my irritation rises with our altitude.

So, what?

He gets to call me delusional, suggest I need therapy, and then just try to hang out like we’re…what? Old friends? Like nothing ever happened? Like I’m just a toy to toss back and forth as he pleases?

For a moment, I consider throwing open the car door and taking my chances with the chain-link fence and six lanes of fast-moving traffic.

That’d be one way to send a message about Adrian’s attempts to steamroll me.

But if this BMW has ballistic, military-grade glass and a bulletproof overhang, it probably has standard child locks.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Adrian interrupts my thought process, and I turn, eyebrows raised.

Oh, I doubt that.

“Our conversation at the hospital,” he starts, his amusement fading into a more serious expression. “I was harsh and dismissive of your concerns.”

My eyes narrow.

What?

“It’s not an excuse, but you caught me at the tail-end of a twenty-four-hour shift, just minutes out of surgery, and in the first thirty minute window I had to sit down and eat,” he continues, running a hand through his curls.

“My temper got the best of me, but I shouldn’t have demeaned our history together. ”

I eye him warily. “You shouldn’t have demeaned our history, because it was rude or because it wasn’t true?”

My nerves must be shot from earlier’s confrontation because I don’t feel the slightest bit of anxiety asking that question.

His dark eyes meet mine. “Both.”

Well, that’s vague.

“And all that stuff about me being delusional and paranoid ?” I cross my arms over my chest. “Do you really think that?”

Try as I might, I can’t keep the trace of hurt out of my voice, and Adrian’s expression softens.

“Those comments were in poor taste,” he admits.

“You had every right to be concerned about my intentions in New York, considering our track record, and I should’ve been more proactive after we ran into each other at the party.

Had I just pulled you aside that night and explained why I was here, I suspect things might’ve happened differently at the hospital—if at all.

” He pauses just long enough for the apology to settle before he adds, “And awful circumstances aside, our encounter today feels like it could be an opportunity. To start fresh. As friends.”

Start fresh? Friends?

I stare at him, logic and emotion clashing like cage fighters inside my head.

Emotionally, it’s a pretty damn good apology, and just about every part of me wants to believe he means it. That Adrian, after all this time, might still crave some sort of relationship with me—even just a friendship.

Logically, I know I can’t trust a word from Adrian’s silver tongue, no matter how genuine he might sound—and the fact that, already, I can feel my resolve weakening, the edges of my reinforced walls crumbling, is a red flag.

I also find it hard to believe that someone so carefully composed as him would say anything he didn’t mean, even sleep deprived.

This is the same man who’s kept up a charming, polite facade for years without so much as a rude slip of the tongue toward a co-worker or classmate.

There’s a very real chance all this emotional whiplash could be intentional and…

And I just can’t trust him, I decide. I can’t let my guard down. I can’t ‘start fresh’ or be ‘friends.’ It’s too risky.

Because Adrian Ellis is an all-consuming force.

He’s not the occasional cigarette you indulge in—he’s a shot of heroin straight to the vein. Addicting to the point of ruin.

I was lucky enough to walk away unscathed last time, but I haven’t forgotten the high, and I know, without any doubt, if I indulge—even as friends—Adrian will ruin me.

“Poppy?” He cocks his head to the side, all angles and shadows against the fractured cityscape, and—nope. There’s not a chance in hell I’d recover this time.

No fresh starts.

No friendships.

I take a deep breath, my chest tightening to the point of discomfort. “I appreciate the apology,” I finally say. “But I’m not sure it’s really needed.”

His brow raises.

“Don’t get me wrong,” I continue. “You were a total asshole at the hospital, but me showing up and bombarding you with a bunch of crazy, Machiavellian-esque accusations might’ve been…”

“Harassment?” He offers lightly.

“I was going to say impulsive,” I retort. “Regardless, it wasn’t a great look for either of us, and I’m not holding a grudge if you aren’t. But honestly…” The words clog my throat as if my body means to physically keep them from coming out.

Ruinous, I remind myself. You’re saving yourself from ruin.

“I don’t want to start fresh,” I manage.

Surprise flickers over his face, but I continue.

“You said it yourself the other day. You’ve moved on, I’ve moved on…

and I think we should leave the past where it belongs.

” I clear my throat. “I wish you the best, and obviously, I’m super grateful you were there to save my ass earlier, but I don’t want to be friends.

I don’t want to run errands or sightsee or do anything else with you.

And honestly, there’s nothing you can say that’ll change my mind, so I’d appreciate it if you’d just drop me off at my apartment. ”

Even I’m shocked by the certainty in my voice—though the slight satisfaction of sounding like a mature adult doesn’t come close to the increasingly uncomfortable ache in my chest.

Adrian considers me for a long, drawn-out moment, and I anxiously await his reaction.

Maybe I should’ve waited till we were no longer 135 feet above river level to reject his friendship.

But when he finally responds, there’s no outrage or anger—just a composed nod of acceptance. “I understand.”

I’m not able to keep the surprise out of my voice. “Really?”

Another calm nod. “Of course. We have a very…colorful history, so to speak. Revisiting that in any capacity is an emotional risk, and there’s nothing I can say that’s going to mitigate that risk.”

Either he’s the one in therapy, or he’s gained more emotional maturity with every little bit of baby fat he’s lost.

“Well...” I have no explanation for the jolt of disappointment that cuts through me. I should be happy Adrian is capable of viewing the situation through the same logical, level-headed lens that I am. “I’m glad we’re on the same page.”

This is for the best.

“We are,” he agrees, and then reaches into the pocket of his wool coat to retrieve his phone. “Which is why I have a different proposition. Spend the day with me, and I’ll give you a thousand dollars.”

My jaw drops.

What?

“…what?”

“You said it yourself,” he explains, completely serious. “Words won’t change your mind, but money is tangible. You’re taking a risk, and I’m offering something in exchange.”

I blink.

Then blink again—but Adrian is still sitting across from me, still staring at me patiently, phone in hand. “So, just to get this straight,” I say, baffled. “You want to pay me so you can tag along for my grocery shopping?”

He nods.

“A thousand dollars,” I repeat, like it’ll make the offer any less unbelievable. “To run errands.”

Another nod.

“Just…today?”

“Just today,” he affirms. “And, at the end, if you decide you hate me and never want to see me again, that’s your prerogative.”

I offer him a skeptical look. “And there’s no fine print, right? If I say yes, I’m not secretly signing the rest of my life away as your housemaid or something, am I?”

His eyes sparkle with mirth. “Not as my maid, no.”

I fidget with the zipper on my jacket.

This is crazy.

I was prepared for emotional manipulation when I rejected his friendship—but financial? That was not a trick I was expecting him to pull, but…

I could really use the money.

I mean, I could always use another grand, but especially now that I’ve got moving costs, new apartment costs, and art costs looming over my head, it wouldn’t hurt to give my credit card a break.

I stand to lose only my emotional stability.

And my dignity.

I did make that big speech about not wanting to be friends or start fresh…

I square my shoulders. “It’s still too risky—even for a thousand dollars,” I tell him.

His eyes narrow. “I see.”

“But a thousand dollars per hour,” I counter, stomach fluttering with nerves. “And I’ll take the risk.”

This is fucking crazy.

I’m fucking crazy.

He’s not going to—

“Give me your phone,” he orders.

I scramble for the cracked device in my pocket, unlock the screen, and relinquish it with zero hesitation.

Is this seriously happening?

I don’t catch what he types in, but he hands it back a moment later, seemingly unchanged.

Maybe he’s just fucking with me.

Maybe he’s—

A new notification pops up on the screen, and I’m pretty sure I stop breathing altogether.

Adrian sent you $1,000

“Our time starts now,” he says, and by the slow, satisfying smile that spreads over his face, you’d think he was the true winner here.