Driven By Fate (16 page)

Neville eyed him a moment. Absently, Porter noticed the differences in the other man. He’d changed, grown more confident since being at the helm of their company. “We’ll wait until she leaves the room to collect your things,” his partner said, invading his thoughts. “She’ll never know we were here.” His expression changed. “You are coming with us, Evans. Aren’t you?”

There must have been shred of hope left inside him, some hope that he might see Francesca again—driving her cab past him on the street, or on the news when her company inevitably made headlines. That hope dissolved now like sugar under hot water. He had nowhere else to go now but back to the life he’d known before—without her, but still having the knowledge of her. The worst torture he could imagine, and there was no way out.

“Let’s go.”

Chapter Eighteen

Frankie stared down at the half-eaten apple on the break-room table. The half she’d managed to choke down sat in her stomach like a lead ball. After class three mornings ago—the Tuesday morning after she’d returned from Miami—she’d driven her cab all afternoon, straight into the night. With finals approaching, her professors had ended regularly scheduled lectures so students could study and prepare. Instead, she’d kept driving. She’d taken fares to Jersey, the airport, Staten Island. The further from Manhattan, the better.

Porter had sat in her seat one time.
One. Time.
Yet she still felt him there. Felt his eyes on her. His hands. Heard his sensual voice—that
accent
she’d made fun of so many times—and it kept her in the cab. She’d managed to fool herself the first day into thinking she was escaping memories, distracting herself from the pain. But mid-afternoon on day two, while driving down the Grand Concourse in the Bronx, she’d admitted to herself that his presence was strongest in the cab, maybe because he’d always disapproved of it, and she desperately wanted him to appear. Why wouldn’t he
appear
?

An envelope had materialized at the base of her work locker that morning with no return address. It had held a check for the balance of what Porter supposedly owed her for working, although it had been a high enough amount to make her wince. On her breakfast break, she’d cashed it at the bank and dropped the entire sum off at Serve for Jonah. She’d hoped paying down the debt would make her feel at least marginally better, but being at Serve only hurt. And her vow to never owe anyone anything only seemed childish and stubborn now.

Tomorrow she would give her presentation, which meant she needed to go home, eat something substantial, sleep. Shower, for chrissake. Without the road to focus on, though, she would have to think. About his hand on the base of her spine. His rare,
amazing
laugh. Words spoken urgently against her ear in the dark.
You and me, Francesca. Please. Just you and me.

Without a direct command from her brain, her hand curled around the apple she’d been attempting to choke down, and threw it against the wall.

It dropped at her uncle’s feet. She hadn’t noticed him there. Why would he be when he wasn’t driving anymore? The concern on his face answered her question. He’d come there to see her, but she didn’t care, didn’t want to talk or think or listen.
Nothing.

Her uncle dropped onto the bench across from her. “Hiya, Frankie.”

She stared down at her hands. Why didn’t they look like her hands anymore?

“You haven’t been home in a few days.” He scratched the back of his neck. She recognized the poker tell right away, the one that signaled he’d been dealt shitty cards. “I thought you might be with the British guy or something, but I checked your log on the way in.” A long pause. “You think maybe you need to pack it in?”

“Yeah.” She cleared her dry throat, but her voice still sounded rusty. “Right after this shift.”

More neck scratching. He was going to give himself a rash. “You know I don’t like to tell you what to do. We’ve got a system, you and me, right? But this…you look bad, kid. Let’s go back to the neighborhood and split a six pack, huh?”

Avoidance was all she had. At least, that’s why she started to change the subject, but everything else poured out instead. She’d left her filter in Miami at the bottom of the bathtub. “Frankie’s Fleet.”

“What’s that?”

“Frankie’s Fleet. That’s what I’m presenting tomorrow for my final.” Funny, she’d kept the idea to herself for so long, so afraid of disapproval, being told to stick to what she knew, not mess with an institution almost as old as New York City. But now? She
knew
it was a winner. And if the people in her life didn’t think so, she would just prove them wrong. Underneath the impenetrable layer of misery, there was confidence that hadn’t been there before. It kept her voice from wavering as she told her uncle about Frankie’s Fleet, her cab company for women, by women. She could discern exactly zero from his expression, but that didn’t slow her, didn’t make her second-guess herself. At the end of her speech, she sat and waited, unfamiliar hands folded on the break table.

Joe studied his thumbnail. “Damn. I wish your mom could see you.”

Frankie stopped breathing. They hadn’t talked about her mother in years and even on those rare occasions it was stilted and over too soon, followed by her uncle’s quick departure. But he wasn’t moving. He was still there.

“She never even let me babysit you. I can’t even imagine how she would have felt, knowing I’d be the one raising you.” He looked away on a laugh. “She’d probably do that thing where she swiped a hand across her throat and shook her head.
Shut it down
, she’d say. You two could be twins.”

“Yeah?” Frankie managed, already dying to make that gesture in the mirror.

“Yeah. But I could tell her I didn’t do so bad, huh? Or maybe you did it all on your own.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “This idea of yours…its good, Frankie. I don’t know what to say, except I hope you’ll let me help. Whatever it takes. I know I can’t drive right now, but I can do something else to take the pressure off. We’ll find a way to make it happen.”

She nodded, not quite ready to speak.

“Since we’re already acting like a couple of chicks, here…” Joe reached across the table and ruffled her hair. Their version of a hug. “It would have been a sad, empty house without you around the last fourteen years. I mean that.”

Hearing that changed something inside her. A hill that had already been corroding over the last few days finally settled in a cloud of dust. For so long she’d felt indebted to her uncle for taking her in, supporting her financially while making good on her mother’s leftover medical bills. To everyone who ever handed her so much as a dime or bought her a meal, she’d felt beholden. The whole reason she’d gone to Serve that first night was to arrange repayment to the Prestons. On the surface, it was why she’d gone to work for Porter. What if she could pay back the debts by succeeding? By being…herself. Maybe all along, it had been enough just to be Frankie De Luca.

And maybe—just maybe—she didn’t have to pay back the scholarship.

She’d earned the chance it afforded her.

Porter’s face materialized. For the last three days, she’d only been able to play that final afternoon in her mind on a painful loop. Her scope expanded now, all the way back to the beginning. Porter’s encouragement when she’d told him her vision. The first time she’d ever said it out loud. His immediate denial when she’d admitted she may have to put off starting the business. He’d thought of the name. Thought of her.

Was he thinking of her now?

Desperate once again for a distraction, she reached beneath the table for her backpack, taking out the folder containing her presentation and laying it flat on the table. It hurt to speak, but she forced the words out, anyway. “We’re going to need a lot of frickin’ cars.”

…

There was a crack on Porter’s ceiling.

It might have been there before he left for New York, or it might have formed while he’d been gone. Either way, it comforted him, that crack. As much as he could be comforted when his entire body throbbed like a giant fucking injury. A grave, life-threatening injury that he never wanted to heal. Healing meant Francesca had never been there to inflict the pain, and he’d never wish a second with her away, even if he’d given up his chance at any more.

Throb throb throb throbthrobthrob.

Deep breath. Focus on the crack. From his position on the floor, he only needed to sit up halfway in order to flip the Billy Joel album over. Uptown Girl was playing. Too upbeat, but he wouldn’t let himself skip it. He never did, no matter how times it had come on.

The four sterile, gray walls he’d returned to in London had been repellant, far worse than before because he knew what color looked like now, knew what it felt like to see through eyes that would see her later, when everything would brighten and take on new meaning.

He’d spent the last two days being briefed on his new role as a popular, rising politician’s head of security. There had been hand shaking, strategizing, review of the layouts of the man’s home and workplace, then going over them again. Travel schedules. Organizing his new team. All of it should have distracted him, but had instead provided the barest of white noise. Francesca ruled every corner of his mind. Her face was everywhere. Her forgiveness sat on his shoulders, heavier than an anvil, but nothing compared to the absence of the weight of her hand in his. That lack of weight was pulverizing.

In his state of desolation, he’d been reduced to reading the notes she’d made in his database while working, the purchase orders she’d keyed in, adding her own voice to them. He’d read them until his eyes were ready to leak blood. He wished they would. At least he’d have something to show on the outside to symbolize the devastation inside.

The record started to skip, forcing him to sit up. On autopilot, he started to flip it over, but the laptop sitting open on his desk drew his attention. Francesca’s purchase orders still filled the screen from the last time he’d read them. Telling himself it would be the final time today, Porter got to his feet, crossed the room, and sat in front of the screen, squinting into the harsh glow. He hit a wrong key, his lack of sleep making him uncoordinated. It brought him to the computer desktop, the bright, blue background making him feel queasy. He started to go back to the purchase orders, but an icon caught his eye. It wasn’t lined up like the rest, but protruded slightly to the right.

It was labeled “Official.”

For the first time in days, his heart roused in his chest. His instincts were humming, tripping over each other. In his haste to open the file, he almost sent the laptop sailing off his desk.

He clicked.

It was…his book. The first page, anyway. Words that had only existed in his handwriting until now. He skimmed the familiar text, looking for some hidden meaning, but nothing. There was nothing. Until he reached the bottom and saw the note, one space down from the final line.

It’s official. You have to finish it now. Knock ‘em dead, monocle man. F

The humming inside him came to an abrupt stop. Immediately on its heels came a sharp twist in his middle, so intense he had to grip the desk’s edge for balance. After everything, after what he’d said, she’d stayed in the hotel room long enough to type the first page. So beautifully selfless and far more than he deserved. He could see her doing it, brows drawn in concentration. Gorgeous. His gorgeous girl.

Jesus Christ. What was he doing here? He was in London while Francesca was in New York. It made no fucking sense. His gaze fell to his watch. Three o’clock in New York. She would have been sitting at her desk, working, while they counted the hours until five. Everything. That time together had been everything. Having her had been
everything.

Very slowly, Porter sat back in his chair. He’d had Francesca. Even if their relationship had been short, he’d
had
her. She’d held his hand, introduced him to her family. Forgiven him three goddamn times. Given him more chances. Trusted him with her body. Cried for him in their hotel bed.
He’d had her
.

He stared at her typed message, read it again and again until nature forced him to blink. Would she have done those things for him had she not found him…worthy in some way?

It all came down to that. He’d felt unworthy for so long that he’d become comfortable there. His unworthiness was dented battle armor, keeping anything and anyone potentially harmful away, daring anyone to try to get close. But if a dozen spears breached that armor and ran him through, would it hurt half this bad? No.
God
, no. That armor had done him a horrible disservice. He hadn’t lowered it in time. At that moment, it hung by a ragged piece of chain mail. What prevented it from falling?

Fear of failure. Once he exposed himself, he couldn’t cover back up. But if it meant having Francesca, would it be worth it?

Yes. A million times over
.

Porter released a long exhale, thought of Francesca, and allowed the weight to ease off his shoulders. And he survived. Miraculously, he didn’t even hate the man he saw beneath the metal. He’d been driving himself so long, atoning for past failures, that he hadn’t allowed himself to realize that he, himself, was stronger than the goddamn armor.

Why weren’t he and Francesca together?
Why?
Because he didn’t know how to have a family? Didn’t know how to be the man she needed? All things he could control.
All of them.

There were things he would have to learn. Would revel in learning, if only she’d teach him. Again, he saw Francesca leading him down the stairs, inviting him for dinner. Running after him in the rain. Throwing herself at him, kissing his face for naming her cab company.

Jesus
, she’d been teaching him the whole time.

He
was the only thing stopping himself from having her again.

In his mad rush to leave the apartment, he almost left the Billy Joel record behind, but lunged through the entryway to grab it before the door clicked shut.