LB Gregg Romano and Albright 2 Trust Me If You Dare

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uninitiated. It wasn t great for the unemployed either because a grown man in a grimy lipstick costume,
sandwiched between two tired blondes in pink Max Factor T-shirts, careened along the platform. He
swayed on toothpick legs encased in hot pink tights, shaking hands flaccidly with a few cringing
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LB Gregg
commuters. Mr. Lipstick knocked into a suited businessman, and the typical jostling and foul language
ensued. Watch where you re going, dipstick.
I moved farther along the platform. Frayed tempers were par for the course, even this early in the
season, and it was best to keep one s distance. Besides, I didn t want to come face-to-face with that poor
bastard. He could be any one of us down on our luck. He d taken a job so low on the totem pole, who could
dare look him in the eye? If not for Poppy, that could have been me.
I was happy to lose sight of the lipstick as the screech of the subway filled the tunnel. The crowd
swelled and we surged forward.
Something smacked the small of my back, and I stumbled toward the edge of the platform. Unable to
turn in the clog of commuters, I leaned backward as smudged windows flickered past my nose. My ride
home came to a noisy halt an inch from my chest.
My heart slammed against my sore ribs. God. I d nearly fallen over the edge of the platform right
onto the tracks. I d have gone right under the damn train. Crushed and electrocuted by the F train. I could
have headlined tomorrow s paper.
I caught my breath and the doors opened. Testy New Yorkers exited and entered the subway en
masse. Protocol dictated that those alighting had the right of way, but that was weak, so seconds after my
brush with death, I crammed myself halfway through the door. This time I took a hit directly in the center
of my purpling bruise. A bag or a fist or some small child s head whatever it was, it sent a bolt of
excruciating pain across my solar plexus. White light danced behind my eyes and nausea tightened my gut.
Please don t let me puke.
I stumbled, catching myself on the open doorway. My knee connected with the platform and I clung
to the metal frame of the subway door by my fingertips. I d be trampled if I hit the ground. Of course, I d
die a worse death if my bare skin came in contact with the bacteria-coated surface of the subway platform.
People spat on that ground. Hell, they pissed on it.
I tried to find my attacker, but I was knee level to the crowd. People literally climbed over me, the
heartless bastards. My side burned. My stomach rolled.
You okay? a man thought to ask. He gave me a hand, which I took gratefully.
I licked my upper lip and the subway chimed its warning. Before the doors shut on me, I groped past
the pain and let the kind man yank me into the car.
That was close.
Thank you.
Yeah, be careful. You could get crushed.
I slung my bag to the front in a lame, belated effort to protect my injury and squirmed through the
sardine-packed car, finding purchase as another bell rang and the door slammed shut.
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Trust Me If You Dare
The train was full of bored commuters. Most faces were buried in newspapers or books. Nobody
stood out. Everyone looked irritated and ready to get home. Overheated. Overworked. They appeared as
they always did.
And that s precisely when I knew someone was following me. Dan had warned me that it s never the
obvious person, the one in the dark glasses and the false mustache you had to watch for. It s the one you
can t make, even when you know he s right there.
I dug in my bag for my iPod and lost myself to Muse thinking about Dan Albright and the phone
conversation we would have later this evening.
Outside my window, the pointy peaked head of the lipstick man bobbled above the thinning crowd.
We lurched and the car entered the blackened tunnel.
Half hour later, I was safely in my father s restaurant, squinting in the scarlet glare. My father equated
class with the sort of depth of color one usually associated with crass. Brothels, any pick of Chinese
restaurants in the city or the color of Kendal Schmidt s apartment. Velvet-and-Mylar-flocked wallpaper,
florid carpeting, crimson chandeliers and glossy vinyl booths dining at Rocco s lent one a rather sanguine
complexion. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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