Page 2 of Beautiful Distraction

“I’ll try to steer her off of you, but no guarantees. Canyou be back in half?” Carol asks.

“What? Half an hour?” Yeah, if I learn how to fly. “Sure,” Isay chirpily.

My gaze brushes over the busy street and the long line ofpeople trying to get into Club 69 as I push the key into the ignition and startthe engine. I throw the car into reverse and try to wriggle my way out of thecongested parking lot. I scoot my car forward a scant three feet in line, myeyes focused on the busy street. As I’m about to exit the parking lot, a carapproaches mine.

I don’t know my way around cars, but I’m pretty sure it’s ared Lamborghini.

Shiny, and brand new, and expensive as shit.

And it honks impatiently.

Probably some rich guy who’ll wave his wallet into thebouncer’s face to get into the club.

Another entitled jerk who thinks he owns the world.

The guy honks again.

“Asshole,” I half-shout.

“Excuse me?” Carol says.

“Not you. I’m talking to the guy behind me.” I groan andglance in the rear-view mirror. “If TB arrives before me, tell her I’ll be backas soon as I can. And I have every intention of working through the night.”

Which I usually do anyway. Coffee’s my best friend. Sleep’sthe enemy. If I could live off one and get rid of the other, TB would probablyhug me.

“Try to get here ASAP.”

“I’m on my way.” I hang up and throw my phone onto thepassenger seat, my glance shooting back to the red car. As I try to moveforward, my engine dies.

Another impatient honk—drawn out and annoying theliving hell out of me.

Seriously?

Arrogant bastard. Can’t he wait for two frigging seconds?

What is it with people and Club 69? Just the merepossibility of seeing the it-band Mile High greeting the crowd has everyone,including my best friend Mandy, out of their minds.

Right then he holds his hand out of the window and waves atme, motioning for me to move ahead.

“Thanks, jerk!” I gesture at him through the open window andthen press hard on the gas at the same moment the red Lamborghini movesforward, whipping around me.

The crash is inevitable, the sound of scratching metalmaking my heart drop into my lap.

Fucking hell!

Why would he give me aheads up to move and then do the same?

And who the fuck drives like a maniac, heedless of the usualtraffic around Club 69, or the fact that it’s Friday night and the streets arebound to be busy?

My blood’s boiling in my veins, the thick liquid thrummingin my ears.

I kill the engine and jump out of the car, leaving the doorajar.

“What the hell did you think you were doing?” My voice is achoked mixture of rage and exasperation.

Maybe the owner of this quarter-million-dollar chick magnethas the fluffy bank account to have their car repaired, but I sure as hell willhave to live with the dents forever. I’ll probably have to skimp on food for amonth to save the money for new headlights.

“I could ask you the same thing.” The low grumble of a malevoice reaches me through the open window before the door’s thrown open and outjumps a male in his late twenties.

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