Page 14 of Bad Influence
“And if I say no?”
The driver rolls down the window and leans across the passenger seat. “Are you Caroline?”
Caroline and I both ignore him as I lean in towards her. She pulls back slightly, her breath stuttering.
“Then it really depends on how loud you scream because you can either come on your own or I carry you back.”
Her mouth parts in shock, eyes widening slightly and I think I want to paint her just like this, when she’s surprised by something I said. I also want to paint her when she’s angry, when she’s happy, when she’s frustrated. The Many Moods of Caroline Sinclaire.
“You can’t be serious,” she breathes.
“Try me.”
I can’t let her leave. If I do, my grandmother will never forgive me, and that’s the excuse I’m sticking with.
“If you’re not leaving, can you cancel the ride?”
Caroline’s phone is still in her hand and I take it from her, pressing the button to cancel the ride. As soon as the driver receives the notification, he drives off.
“You just cancelled my ride without my permission!” Caroline exclaims.
“If you call another one, I’ll do it again,” I tell her.
Dropping her phone into the side pocket of her bag, I grab the handle of her suitcase and drag it behind me to the front door of the building. Caroline has no option other than to follow behind me.
“Do you have some kind of chemical imbalance? Tell me now before I go up because I don’t want to risk my life.”
“I’m not going to kill you,” I say.
“You say that now but you also told me to leave. Very rudely, I might add.”
I call the elevator and turn to look at her. She’s got her heavy tote bag slung over her shoulder and without thinking, I reach for it, easing her burden.
Caroline looks surprised for a second, her body stiffening as my fingers brush against her shoulder. Slowly, I lift the strap of the bag and ease it down her arm, so she’s left only carrying her purse.
We step into the elevator and she presses herself against the corner, her suitcase between us. Her eyes remain trained on the display, watching the numbers as the elevator rises.
“I did apologize,” I say.
She watches me throw narrowed eyes. “How magnanimous of you to apologize for being an utter ass.”
The apartment somehow looks different than it did just thirty minutes ago. Maybe because I’m not in defensive mode, trying to protect my peace.
“Well, what do you want to say?” Caroline demands. I leave her things by the entrance, giving her the option to leave if she still wants.
“Are you hungry?” I open the top drawer of the kitchen counter, which is stuffed with takeout menus from my favorite places. While I prefer to cook, sometimes I forget to buy groceries or even eat when I am locked in my studio, so I keep these menus on hand for midnight hunger pangs.
“Killian,” she says my name like an admonishment.
“Why can’t we talk and eat?” I push the menus across the island to her. Sighing, Caroline picks the top menu for a Mexican restaurant and hands it to me.
“You can order whatever, I’m not picky,” she says.
It’s not the first time I’ve heard her say it and I still wonder if it’s true or if she’s been taught that her choices don’t matter. I pick food I think she’ll enjoy and place an order.
“How long are you planning on staying in New York?” I ask.
“I haven’t decided yet,” she replies. She takes a seat at one of the bar stools, her back straight, arms crossed. She’s forcing herself not to relax.
