Corrupt

“Oh, it’s no problem,” she cut me off. “Thanks for driving. I don’t usually drink so much.”

Her eyes fell, looking absently at the books as she gripped the strap of her bag. Just like me, she must’ve just finished with classes.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Just the usual. I’m hot for someone, and he won’t touch me because I sleep with other guys for a living.” She rolled her eyes. “What a baby.”

I smiled with her, but it was kind of sad, actually.

“So he knows what you do then?”

“Yeah,” she replied. “He was at the party, which was why I was drinking. He won’t even look at me.”

“Well, you must know people,” I guessed. “You must’ve made connections in your line of work? Friends? Maybe someone can get you a different job.”

“There’s nothing wrong with what I do,” she retorted, her voice turning cold.

I stopped and turned to her, guilt creeping into my chest. That wasn’t what I’d meant, but it probably sounded like it. I was just trying to see a solution in the situation.

She cocked her head, thinning her eyes with a challenge. “Someday I’m going to own a building like Delcour and drive a hot car like you,” she told me, “and I will have gotten it all on my own. And I’ll do it while flipping the middle finger at everyone—including him—that looked down on me.”

Her voice was hard and strong, and even though I might not understand how she did what she did, I also knew I would never have to. I didn’t know what it was like to make hard choices.

Her lips curled as she continued, “I’m going to fuck my way through school and anyone that doesn’t like it can go to hell.”

I pursed my lips, letting out a small grin. “Okay,” I accepted and took the hint to shut up about it. “But before the hot car throws you, my life hasn’t exactly been a party, either.”

Her eyes softened, and she leaned forward, reaching out her hand and running a finger down the scar on my neck.

“I thought as much,” she allowed.

And I stared at her, feeling like she knew without me having to say anything. It was weird. When I first saw her with Michael, I’d judged her. I’d written her off. She was a bimbo—brainless, chasing fame and money.

But I was the asshole. We weren’t so different.

It’s odd to see how no one is really human to us until we talk to them and realize there’s barely any separation between who we are and who they are. She may have wanted what I had, and I may have wanted less, but we were still both struggling no matter the shoes we walked in.

“Well.” She let out a breath and smiled. “I’ve got to run. Have a good weekend if I don’t see you, okay?”

I nodded. “Yeah, you, too.”

She turned around and walked down the aisle, disappearing around the corner.

I think I’d made my first friend in Meridian City, and for the first time in five minutes, I hadn’t thought about Michael.

Win.

I dug my phone out of my bag and checked the time. The Thunder Bay fire chief had been evading my calls all week, as well, about the cause of the fire in the house. I needed to get home and try to get through again.

Taking the three books in my hand that I’d already picked out, I walked for the front of the store, heading straight for the register.

The sales clerk rang up the items and put them in a bag. “Okay, that’s thirty-seven fifty-eight, please?”

I swiped my card and handed it to her with my ID to verify.

But she didn’t take it.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” She looked at her screen, narrowing her eyes on confusion. “Your card’s not working. Do you have another one?”

I shot my eyes down, seeing Card Declined on my screen as well.

My heart started to beat faster and my entire face warmed, embarrassed. That’d never happened to me before.

“Oh, um…” I stammered, digging in my school bag for my wallet and taking out another card. “Here. Maybe you should try.” I smiled. “I’m probably doing something wrong.”

Which was a ridiculous notion. I was a skilled shopper and a proud graduate of the Christiane Fane and Delia Crist University of How To Spend Money. I knew how to use a damn card.

She swiped it and waited a moment before handing it back to me and shaking her head. “Sorry, hon.”

My heart dropped in my stomach. “What? Are you sure your machine’s working?”

She hooded her eyes, looking at me like she’d heard that one before.

“I’m sorry,” I blurted out, completely baffled. “This is just so weird.”

“It happens.” She shrugged. “Struggling college student and all. We have an ATM over there if you’d like me to hold the books.”

She pointed to the windows behind me, and I saw the machine sitting in the bookshop’s café area.

“Thank you,” I said, leaving the bag with her and walking briskly over to the ATM.

How could my cards not be working? I’d had one since I was sixteen and started driving. When I left for college, my mother let me get one in my own name to build credit. I also had my debit card, but our accountant preferred I use that for food and gas only to track my expenses a little better.

I’d never had a problem with any of them. Ever.

I swallowed the dryness in my mouth and slipped my card into the machine, punching in my PIN. I went to hit Withdraw, but I stopped, thinking better of it. I hit Account Balance instead, and my heart immediately thundered in my chest.