Page 93 of The 6:20 Man

“You probably didn’t want to be bored with all the cookie-cutter courses in return for a boatload of student debt. And you wanted to see the world, like you said. And look where it landed you.”

She fingered her beer. “Yeah, I get paid to hang on the arm of a wealthy man and look wonderful. I like to think of it as living by my wits, but it’s not really that.” She looked down at herself. “I need this. Brad is not interested in my brain, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“Use what you have. Guys do it, why not girls?”

She glanced at him. “Guys do it in a very different way. And I like you more when you’re less agreeable.” She stared off. “My mother wanted me to be a model. Pushed me from an early age. All the auditions, shooting local commercials when I was six, this pageant, that pageant, teeth fixed, lessons on how to walk a certain way and talk a certain way. I never got to have a normal childhood. She got mad when I tried to do my schoolwork. She told me my strength, unlike my older sister’s, was not my mind, but somewhat lower on my body. She was pissed off when I finally walked away from it all. Said I had betrayed her. Yeah, like it wasn’t my life, but her little vicarious fantasy.”

“My father rode me all the time, too. I was never good enough. Not like my brother and sister.”

She said suddenly, “How about giving me a foot rub?” She put her feet up in his lap. A little surprised by this, he put his beer down and started rubbing her feet.

“You have very strong hands. And I can feel the calluses.”

“What every guy wants to hear.”

“I am saving up,” she said abruptly. “Brad pays me and invests it for me. My portfolio is going gangbusters.”

“Good for you. I’ve got like ten bucks in my account.”

She took a sip of beer. “My goal is to retire when I’m thirty.”

He started grinding away at her heels, applying lots of pressure.

“Oh my God, this is like heaven. You should charge for that.”

“I just might, Miss Portfolio,” he said. “And then what would you do after you retire?”

“Maybe go back to college. Learn something that doesn’t require me to wear a bikini.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“It has to be. When my looks go, it’s over.”

“Come on, don’t sell yourself short. You seem damn astute to me, more than a lot of the so-called brainiacs I work with who can barely pack a lunch or cross the street safely.”

“You’re lying to make me feel better.”

“I don’t lie to make anyone feel better, including myself.”

She put a hand on his arm. “But you want to have sex with me, right? I am the fantasy train girl, right?”

The further they went in this direction, the less he liked it. Was Cowl paying her to do this, as some sort of chess move in the battle between them?

“I’m not on the train now. I’m rubbing your incredibly tense feet and enjoying the four-inch Hudson River view. And you’re flesh and blood, not a fantasy. And we’re having a nice conversation that is heading to pretty deep waters for some reason I’m not sure about.” He looked over at her. “And why would you want to have sex with me?”

She almost coughed up a mouthful of beer. “Okay, that’s a first. No guy’s ever asked me that before, especially when I’ve made the first move. I usually have to stop them from ripping my clothes off.” She eyed him appraisingly. “You’re a nice guy, or at least you seem to be. You’re certainly different. You don’t seem to care about what so many people care about in this city.”

“Meaning money? Prestige?”

“All of that. It’s a great town for culture and entertainment and I love the vibe, but it’s also hypercompetitive. Whatever folks have, it’s never enough. I hate that.”

“You mean like Brad Cowl?” he said.

She finished her beer and stared dully out at the gap to the water. He picked up his beer and asked, “If you went back to college, what would you get a degree in?”

“People,” she said slowly, drawing the two syllables out.

“So psychology, then?”