Tessa and Garrett are still on the dance floor, and Betsy and Peter are nuzzling each other. That didn’t take long.
Yeah, I really want to get out of here. An evening at home bingeing Netflix sounds great right about now. I’m a pretty good judge of character, and Marty seems okay. Plus, he’s an Uber driver. Why he wants to leave the club right now, I have no idea. But going with him means I don’t have to wait around for someone to pick me up.
I tap Betsy on her shoulder. She looks up and meets my gaze.
“May I borrow your phone to call an Uber?”
“You’re leaving?”
“Yeah, but my phone died at dinner. Marty here says he’s an Uber driver, but I want to make sure he’s on the up-and-up.”
Betsy pulls her phone out of her handbag. “Sure. Here you go.”
I hastily pull up the Uber app, log out of Betsy’s account and into mine. Sure enough, there’s Marty. I type in my request for a ride, while Marty watches his phone.
“Got it,” he says, showing me his phone.
Sure enough. BostonMarty352 in a black Honda Civic is only a minute away.
”Perfect,” I say. “I’m ready for my Uber. I’ll even add a generous tip, since I didn’t have to wait.”
“Good enough.” He smiles, and we leave the club. He’s parked about a block away in a city parking lot. Sure enough, the Uber sticker is on the back window of his car, a black Honda Civic. It’s clean as a whistle inside, which also lends credence to his Uber story. So many guys’ cars are pigsties inside.
He opens the door for me, and I climb into the passenger seat. Normally I sit in the back seat, but Marty seems cool.
He sets his phone on the little holder, and we get moving.
“Looks like I’ll have you home in about twenty,” he says, “unless you want to go somewhere else. Like…my place, maybe?”
Uh-oh. Time to plan my escape. Problem is, we’re already moving. “I want you to take me home,” I say adamantly.
“Okay, okay. Can’t blame a guy for trying.”
“Why don’t you just pull over, and I’ll order another Uber.”
“Don’t be like that,” he says. “I said I’d take you home, and I’ll take you home. I’m just teasing.”
Marty is driving the route to my apartment. Unless, of course, he lives near me, and that’s where we end up.
“Home, James,” I say. “Or rather, home, Marty.”
“You got it.”
I spy a charging cord hanging between our two seats. I pick it up. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all. Go for it.”
I pull my phone out of the bottom of my purse and hook it to Marty’s charger.
Chapter Seventeen
My mouth drops into an O.
No text from Braden.
Not. A. One.
Marty’s phone buzzes through his GPS app. “Sorry, I have to take this. Hey,” he says into his Bluetooth.
I’m seething with rage. Not that I expect Braden to spend every Friday night with me, but he should’ve texted me back. Why the hell didn’t he? If he’s that into control, he should be texting me all the time.
Ten minutes later, Marty pulls up in front of my apartment building.
“Hold on a minute, Dave.” Marty turns to me. “You want me to park and walk you up?”
“No, I’m fine. Thanks so much for the ride.”
“No problem. Now you know I’m cool. I’m in this area a lot, so look for me next time you need an Uber.”
“Will do. Thanks again.” I do my best to sound cheery as I disconnect my phone and get out of the car.
But I’m not cheery.
I’m livid.
I seethe as I walk inside my building. I seethe as I call for the elevator. I seethe as I ride up to my floor, and I seethe as I stand in front of my door, searching for my key in my purse. It’s buried, probably because it got tossed to the bottom when I had to dig out my damn phone. I sigh and lean against the doorway—
“Shit!” I scream out as the door opens against my weight and I tumble into my apartment, landing on my ass.
I left my door unlocked? No freaking way. I’ve never left my door unlocked in my life. But I must have, and apparently I also forgot to turn out the lights.
I stand, brush off my jeans, and—
“Hello, Skye.”
I nearly lose my footing again. Braden sits on my love seat, his legs crossed.
“How did you get in here?” I demand.
“Your lock is a piece of shit,” he says. “An amateur thief could get in here.”
“Does that mean you’re an amateur thief?”
“I’ve never stolen anything in my life. It means I grew up in South Boston and I know how to get inside a shitty lock.”
“You’re something,” I say. “Why are you here?”
“Why do you think I’m here?”
“I honestly have no idea, Braden. I texted you and told you I was having dinner with Tessa and asked if I’d see you later.”