Kendall's story. Description to come.
Tropes: strangers to friends to lovers, new adult, good girl/bad boy, ballerina, street racer, Formula One, diabetes awareness, she saves him
It's a beautiful spring afternoon. A wonderful day to rob someone blind, not that I'll be receiving a large fraction of the money. I pull out of traffic on Ninth Avenue, parking in a reserved spot along the curb. I imagine most Manhattanites are peering from their cubicles right now, counting down the seconds until five o'clock. Those would be the professionals that didn't decide to play hooky after seeing the weather report.
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Clear skies and mild temperatures mean nothing to me. I much prefer experiencing the world at a distance—with tinted windows, horsepower beneath my feet, and a leather steering wheel within reach. Given my father's accident, it's ironic I feel safest inside a vehicle. I don't outright own the Cadillac Escalade I'm currently driving, but it makes no difference. As long as I'm behind the wheel, this is my car.
"What are we doing here?"
"Waiting," I answer, fiddling with my lip ring.
I asked Raphael to join me for this job. He's the newest member of our crew, and the stunt he pulled at my birthday party had me interested in the quality of his character. Raphael Jourdain is a solid racer, but a few people have mentioned he has an issue with gambling. I have a lot of valuable items under my care, and I don't want any of them to go missing. Having him with me today will solidify his loyalty. If he tries to pin anything on me, I'll take him along for the ride.
I'm thankful there's one thing the Frenchman understands—when to appreciate silence. Taxis blare their horns on the avenue, and people yell into their cell phones while crossing the street, but we remain quiet inside the vehicle. I keep my hand on my phone, waiting for the vibration that will signal my next move. Thirty whole minutes pass before something catches my eye.
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A young woman exits a coffee shop to the left of the bank, tossing a Givenchy bag over her shoulder. She's wearing large sunglasses, and her hair is pulled into a bun atop her head, but I recognize her. Last week, she had her legs splayed across an armchair in my office while Dara feasted on her pussy.
I notch my chin in her direction. "Isn't that your girl?"
Raphael follows my indication, widening his eyes when he spots her. "Merde."
