Page 18 of Kingpin's Secret Baby

Other, more stable men might be irritated by the attitude. Me, I feel a smile twist at my lips. I’ll take it as a victory that she still has the energy to snarl at me and defend her own pride.

And because we’ve spent the last year as enemies instead of friends, instead of whatever we could have been, I don’t feel the slightest bit of guilt at biting back.

“Not used to all the running, I imagine,” I say airily. “Don’t worry. I’ve got some experience by now.”

I glance over just in time to see Fantasia wrinkling her pretty nose in disgust. She turns her glare on the window when she catches me looking.

“Besides,” I go on, “it’s kind of nice not having to be hunted alone this time.”

That earns me seething silence for the rest of the trip.

Chapter 10

Fantasia

Ispent less than a day in Raleigh, North Carolina, but I can’t say I’m remotely sad to see it go.

Thankfully, Piers lets me suffer in silence during our drive to the nearest city, Charlotte. I’d kill for a shot of whiskey, a bottle of wine, a swift punch to the face- anything to distract me from the pain in my side. Every time our car hits the slightest bump on the highway, it sends a new shock through me. I grit my teeth against it, close my eyes, and will myself away from everything that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours.

I must manage to dissociate enough to sleep, because when Piers announces that our exit is coming up, the sound of his voice makes me jump. He glances over as I try to stretch and then wince, but I don’t acknowledge it.

The feeling of his eyes on me is almost as white hot as the pain I’m in.

“Once we get into the city, we should ditch this car and find a motel to crash in,” he says after a moment. “That means we’ll have to walk for a bit. Are you up for that?”

I resist the urge to glare at him. “Why stop at all?”

“Well I don’t know if you remember this,” Piers says sardonically, “but I stole this car from a bunch of gangsters who might have stolen it from someone else. Also, I don’t have a license, and I’m not a US citizen, and I’marmed. If we get pulled over, I’m going to big boy prison.”

“It sounds like you should go back to England,” I tell him, matching his acidic tone. “The sooner, the better.”

It’s his turn to ignore me, which is just as well.

We reach our exit and the trees on either side of us begin to thin, revealing rows of pastel townhouses, grocers, and petrol stations. I realize just how hungry I am when my stomach howls at the sight of a fast food restaurant, a place I wouldneverdeign to eat back home. Out of the corner of my eye, Piers glances over at the sound.

“Let’s stop somewhere first,” he suggests, as if it were entirely his idea. “To get some food. The last thing I ate was a bag of peanuts on that plane yesterday, and it’s way past lunchtime now.”

“Fine.”

Piers finds a sprawling parking lot in front of a grocery store, packed with cars and carts and people, and parks in the very midst of it.

“No place like right in front of you,” he comments, which I can’t help but feel is pointed.

In the same parking lot (my god, is America made entirely of parking lots and highways?) is a diner with a cheery yellow sign boasting that it’s open twenty-four hours a day. Ludicrous. We slip inside and my eyes land on the stiff red barstools first, their brushed metal legs gleaming under the fluorescent lights. The thought of perching on one with a gash in my side makes my stomach turn. I glance around and spot a booth near the window instead, shuffling toward it and easing myself onto the vinyl seat with a wince. The place smells like burnt coffee and grease. Whatever appetite I had before, I don’t even want to entertain it now.

I’ve never longed so much for breakfast served in bed by my own cook as I do now.

We both dubiously order cups of black tea from a tired looking waitress- she doesn’t specify whatkindof black tea, just ‘black tea,’ the heathen- and browse the menu of sugary pancakes and fatty breakfast meats. I’m tempted to skip the food and try to subsist entirely off of whatever tea I’m about to be served, but I have a feeling Piers will make a scene if I do that. Eventually, I give up and decide to order a side of toast with jam, which I hope will taste at least a little like it does back home.

Will it be remotely filling? I’m a little too tired to care.

A large man approaches the booth, with a worn, straight face that does not invite small talk. A person after my own heart. Piers, of course, ignores his disagreeable look and flashes one of his friendliest smiles. If I didn’t know him so well, I’d think he was just being obtuse. But Piers is always the one working to improve the mood of the room, even if it makes him look like a fool.

“Hey friend!” Piers says cheerily- in a fairly impressive American accent. I’m so shocked by the sound of it, I almost fall backward off my stool. “Gorgeous day, isn’t it?”

“What’ll it be?” the man asks, ignoring Piers’s question entirely.

And I don’t care that I’m usually snapping at Piers in the very same manner. My hackles rise.

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