This has to be the most run-down cab in the entire city. A fine layer of grime seems to cover every available surface of the vehicle and it reeks of stale cigarettes. Country music blares from the front of the cab.
No problem, I reassure myself in my most upbeat mental voice. It’s only going to be half an hour.
I slide along the torn and patched back seat and wrestle my suitcase in beside me—there’s no way I’m going to deal with the trunk—and then I lean awkwardly over it to haul the door closed. It’s only when I look forward again that I notice the taxi driver leering at me in the rearview mirror.
Gritting my teeth, I give him a smile, my lips pressed together tightly.
“Where to, sweetheart?” he rasps, not turning to face me.
I had memorized the address of my new place—well, my friend Carolyn’s place—and I rattle it off to him, doing my best to sound as if it’s not my first time in New York City.
“Great,” says the driver in his raspy voice, as he steers the taxi away from the curb. “That’ll give us plenty of time to get to know one another.”
The sound of his voice makes my skin crawl, but I’ve been traveling all day. I’m only half an hour away from my new apartment. I’d give this creep a piece of my mind, but I just don’t have it in me right now. Instead, I pull out my phone to scan through my social media accounts.
That doesn’t last long. It was terrible enough to find out that my fiancé, Derek, had been cheating on me for a year with my best friend. Former best friend. On top of that, now every time I open one of my social media apps, there’s another message from a well-meaning friend or rabid gossip hawk wanting to know what happened?!?!? You two always seemed so happy together.
I swallow the lump in my throat and open up the Maps app, watching the small blue dot representing the cab hurtle down the expressway at fifteen miles per hour over the posted speed limit.
The driver swerves the taxi into the opposite lane. The jolt throws me into the door next to me, and seconds later the red Ford Explorer he cut off speeds up alongside us, the driver red in the face and shaking his fist at us. My heart pounds. What the fuck is wrong with this guy?
Now that we’re on I-495, there’s nowhere for me to get out.
The cabbie raises his middle finger at the driver of the Explorer and bursts forth a croaky guttural laugh. Then he glances back into the mirror to look at me.
“Enjoying the ride?”
“No,” I say flatly. I don’t necessarily want to antagonize this asshole, but with this kind of ride, I certainly will not be tipping him. “Please slow down.”
The driver taps the brakes abruptly, then lets out another cackle. “Sure thing, sweetie. I’ll slow down, and we can talk.”
“I’m not in the mood to talk,” I say, reaching over to my suitcase and tightening my grip on the handle. The second—and I mean the very instant—we’re in Manhattan, I’m bailing.
Now cars screech their brakes around us and drivers are honking their horns furiously at our cab, which is crawling along at something like twenty miles per hour.
I’m about to open my mouth and demand that he drive like a normal person, when he abruptly speeds up again, now cruising along at the speed limit.
Yep. I’m in a cab driven by an insane person. Seriously, he must be fucking crazy. I could die just trying to get to my new apartment. Wouldn’t that be rich?
It’s like New York City doesn’t want me here.
“Where you from, doll?” he comments like nothing has happened, and my stomach turns over.
Just then, my cell phone rings. My realtor’s name flashes on the screen, and I’m seized by a wild hope. Maybe she found a buyer for my house already.
“Hello?” I answer, shouting over the loud country music still blaring from the cab’s radio.
“Ms. Campbell?” my realtor says. She’s a woman who always looks a little frazzled and right now she sounds that way, too. “Can you hear me?”
“I can hear you,” I answer, hunching down in the seat and cupping my hand over my mouth. “What’s going on?”
“Well—” she says, and I can practically hear her psyching up to give me bad news. “There’s been a problem with your plumbing.”
“The plumbing?” This is a new one. When I left my house, it was in perfect condition, ready to be sold. As quickly as possible.
“Yes. Unfortunately, some pipes have burst in the basement level, and there’s just no way we can proceed with showings unless…”
I tip my head back against the filthy seat and close my eyes, letting her voice fade into the background. New York City doesn’t want me, and Colorado won’t pull its claws out of my flesh.