Crash - Part Four Read Online Free Page A

the back corner of the restaurant. The walls were almost entirely made of glass and I had a great view of the city, although at night it was mainly lights. But still, the frenzied movement of thousands of cars through the streets, like ants bringing food to and from the nest, was kind of fascinating when you sat back and looked at it.
    “Will your friend be here soon, ma’am?” the waiter asked, appearing beside me.
    I glanced at the time on my phone; Carter was fifteen minutes late, which was not like him at all. I didn’t mind too much—my phone and the decent Wi-Fi connection were more than enough to keep me amused—but it wasn’t like him to be late.
    “I just got a message from him saying he was running late,” I lied. “He’ll be here any minute, though.”
    “Would you like to drink while you wait?”
    “Oh, God, yes,” I said. “Just bring me a dry white wine. A large one.”
    “Certainly, ma’am.”
    Once the waiter was out of sight, I sent Carter a message asking him where he was and then went back to answering emails. If I was going to be stuck here by myself, I might as well make the most of the time to be productive.
    “Your friend has still not arrived, ma’am,” the waiter said as he placed my glass of wine on the table. It wasn’t so much a question as an accusation.
    “Traffic must be bad, I guess. You know how it gets in San Francisco.”
    “Quite.”
    The waiter made no effort to hide his displeasure and I made a mental note to tell Carter not to tip as generously as he usually did—assuming he ever actually arrived. He was now thirty minutes late. I sent another message and this time made it clear that I wanted a reply, at the very least. I didn’t mind if we had to cancel or postpone dinner, but I did want him to at least tell me.
    As I sat there alone at the table, I noticed why the waiter was concerned about Carter’s late arrival. The restaurant might have been expensive, but it was popular, and I could already see some disgruntled guests looking less than pleased that I was taking up the best table in the restaurant by myself and not eating. The restaurant was small and I felt like all sets of eyes were on me. Finally a message came through on my phone.
    Sorry, I can’t make it tonight. C.
    That was it. No explanation or excuse at all. The waiter was already on his way over having no doubt noticed the expression on my face.
    “Ma’am, I am very sorry, but it doesn’t look like your friend will be coming this evening.”
    “How much do I owe you for the wine?”
    “I will go bring the check.”
    “Just tell me how much the damn glass of wine cost,” I said, raising my voice just loud enough for the entire restaurant to hear.
    The waiter pulled out his notepad and pen and wrote the price down, as if speaking it aloud would somehow spoil the illusion. I had just enough cash left to pay for my one measly glass of wine, although probably not enough for the tax and tip. I threw all my cash down on the table, picked up the glass, necked back the remaining wine, and then stormed out of the restaurant.
    California was suffering from a drought, so the chances of it raining were slim. But as I said, I was having a really bad day. I ran out of the restaurant and straight into the rain, which was hammering down hard enough that anyone without a strong umbrella was ducking under shelter or running into nearby shops.
    I had no credit card, and after paying for the wine, I had no cash. There was no way I could get all the way back to my place in one piece, but Carter’s was not that far. Besides, I owed him a piece of my mind. I stayed under cover of the restaurant for a few minutes until I finally decided to make a run for it. Well, “run” might not be quite the right word—I had on high heels and only one real leg, after all—but I moved as fast as I could.
    After only a few seconds, I had got as wet as I was going to get, so I slowed down a little bit to avoid slipping and