by Cara McKenna
THANK YOU FOR RIDING
CARA MCKENNA :)
© 2 017 Cara McKenna, this edition. This story was previously published in 2013, under the name Meg Maguire .
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law .
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental .
Second Edition
Edited by Anne Scott
Cover design by Cara McKenna
Formatting by Vellum
ISBN: 978-0-9980911-4-3
F or those intrepid riders of the MBTA. Godspeed, ye daredevils .
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
About the Author
Also by Cara McKenna
1
C aitlin squeezed the stress ball in her fist .
Actually it was half a stress ball, one lobe of a foam heart. Squeeze, release. Squeeze, release. Blood snaked from the crook of her elbow through a tube, up to the benevolent, boxy robot standing beside her recliner, a red ribbon passing through a dozen whirring, rotating doohickeys .
Maria, Caitlin’s favorite tech from the donation center, pressed gently where the needle met her arm. “Feels okay ?”
“Yup. Fine.” Squeeze, release .
The machine bleeped, and Maria squinted at the monitor. “Your first return should be here any time .”
Caitlin waited for it—the funny chill of her blood coming back into her body, sans platelet cells. Zing. “Ooh, there it is .”
“Still feels good ?”
Caitlin nodded. “Like a refreshing ocean breeze .”
Maria laughed and taped the tube in place, covering the insertion point with a wad of gauze. “Let me know when you want a blanket .”
“Will do .”
Maria wandered off to check on the other donors, and Caitlin relaxed back in her seat .
The donation took just under two hours. Two hours when she couldn’t use her right hand for anything but stress-ball pumping. Couldn’t reach the phone she’d intentionally left in her coat pocket, couldn’t check email, couldn’t accomplish a damn thing. Bliss. People would ask if she was cold, thirsty, hungry, how she’d been since she’d last donated, ask how she’d like to be entertained and if they could fetch anything for her. Like being a toddler again .
She fumbled left-handed with her earbuds and queued up the audio book she’d downloaded. Other donors watched movies on ceiling-mounted televisions, screens angled around the crescent of recliners, but Caitlin’s eyes were tired from a near all-nighter at the office, the one that had earned her this rare afternoon off .
She hit PLAY , ready to be sucked into the drama of the latest bestselling espionage novel. She could use the escape after the last few seventy-hour weeks at work. Get her head out of the spreadsheets and charts and into some made-up person’s grand adventure. Her job had her feeling so compressed, so stuffed into the bottom of a dusty box and weighed down by deadlines, this break was like surfacing after a long dive, the idleness deep gulps of cool air. Of course, it would have been less physically exhausting to relax at home, but at home she could give in to the compulsions and check her work email, sit down and fill out just one report…which always turned into three or eight or a dozen. But here she had her hands tied—not quite literally, but close—and it was heaven, this forced laziness .
A few years ago, she’d never have let herself enjoy a moment’s laziness. Young people new to finance had to appear eager and industrious at all times, go-getters to the nth. But she was seven years out of school now, her identity no longer defined solely by her job title. She ought to have a life outside of her clients’ balances and returns, but it was a hard habit to break. Squeezing the stress ball, she wondered what other hobbies she could take up that would keep her this thoroughly occupied. Rock climbing, maybe. SCUBA diving. Plate spinning .
Just as the hero heard the baddies’ footfalls down the echoing marble corridor, a tech interrupted to switch on Caitlin’s heating pad and offer her the snack basket. She picked hastily, mind off in a bank vault in Eastern Europe. The tech opened her animal cracker package and left her be .
An hour into the book and two packets of cookies and one candy bar later, the author went off on a dull tangent about encryption methodology, and Caitlin woke from the storytelling trance. She glanced around the space as a tech across the semicircle of chairs got things set up for a new donor. Nice to see the place so busy this close to Christmas .
The donor emerged from the men’s room, and Caitlin noted with a dreamy, fluid-deprived curiosity that he was awfully cute. Though since things with Kevin had become so…meh , it seemed she’d been noticing cute guys all over Boston .
No, bad eyes .
After the holidays and the end-of-year work madness were over, she’d have time to see Kevin again. See him properly, make a real, girlfriendly effort once she had the hours and energy. She wouldn’t force the relationship to work, but she wouldn’t quit because things had temporarily flatlined. Kevin was her colleague, after all. A secret office romance had been risky, so surely there was something there worth gambling on. Right? It’d be a waste to not at least try. Plus, he was just as stressed as her. If he’d been short and snippy lately, she of all people could appreciate why .
But she stole another guilty glance at the guy across the linoleum, now busy having the crook of his arm swabbed with antiseptic .
He looked about Caitlin’s age, early thirties, but from perhaps a different side of the tracks, professionally. His jeans bore multicolored paint spatters, and he wore a gray thermal shirt, the sleeve of one arm folded up to accommodate the blood-pressure cuff. Dark, tousled hair, handsome eyebrows, pale skin, straight, dignified nose. He said something that made the tech laugh, and he smiled in return, a wide, uncensored grin that lit up his face .
His eyes rose and caught Caitlin’s for a second. His smile wavered, and she glanced away. Thankfully too much of her blood was centrifuging around in the robot’s belly to allow a blush. But she kept her gaze darting so he’d think she was just taking in the room…not taking him in, specifically .
The cute guy got distracted as the tech prepped his needle, clamping his eyes shut and turning his face away for the insertion. Aww. Caitlin always watched when they slid her needle in. She thought it was fascinating. Adorable that a grown man who looked like he worked a physical job couldn’t handle the sight. Though maybe this was his first time .
Soon enough, he was squeezing and releasing, and the tech helped him prop a hardcover book on the pillow in his lap. She could see the library stamp across the tops of the pages .
Wow. A cute, platelet-donating, library-card-carrying man. Her fist squeezed the foam heart, buh-bum, buh-bum .
The audio book’s narrator kept shoveling plot into Caitlin’s ears, but she only registered the odd detail—train derailment, suspicious man with a pipe, blizzard. Every other sentence, her attention flicked to the cute man, but his didn’t flick back. His book must have been more interesting than hers .
She watched as he caught Maria’s eye. He got her to go to where his coat was hung by the door and fetch something for him, then smiled and said thanks, unfolding a pair of reading glasses. Caitlin’s woman-area nearly succumbed to a core meltdown. She watched his hand as he turned the pa
ge. No ring .
Bad . Bad eyes .
She shut the troublemakers, wondering how on earth her story was suddenly in London. Was this a flashback? She hated flashbacks. She let the author’s voice drift to the edge of her consciousness and peeked again. What was he reading? He looked awfully absorbed .
Caitlin’s machine bleeped. Once, twice, then a third, more musical time, signaling that her blood wasn’t pumping as vigorously as it should be. A tech strolled over to tighten her cuff and check her needle, and the guy across the way caught her eye. He glanced to her machine, her face, and back again, then at his own machine. He shot her playful, smarmy look that said, Check me out, being better at platelet donation than you. He strained his face, pretending to squeeze his stress ball with epic strength .
Caitlin rolled her eyes and faked annoyance, noting by mistake the attractive swell of his arm muscle under his shirt. He squeezed a couple more times and wiped imaginary sweat from his brow .
She bit back a smile, shaking her head. What a weird place to flirt. She probably only found him so charming because she was missing half a pint of vital fluids .
She turned to the little screen on her robot, to the countdown clock. Forty minutes to go. Forty minutes and she’d bundle up and walk to Downtown Crossing and try to tackle some holiday shopping, avoid the siren song of work for another hour or two .
Mr. No-Ring Library Reading Glasses caught her eye again. He’d made his face exceedingly stern, and he glanced at his own monitor, then pretended to race her, squeezing his stress ball with spastic fervor .
She laughed noiselessly, and for the first time in a couple weeks, it felt, she relaxed .
Giving up the charade, the man looked down at his book, back at Caitlin for a split second, then back to the book. She saw him swallow, and she shut her eyes lest they invite any more trouble .
Caitlin’s own book finally recaptured her attention, and before long her stress ball and cuff were taken away and she was left flexing her hand, waiting for the last of her red cells to be returned. The procedure was tiring as always, but the clear bag hanging from her machine was heavy with platelet cells, thick and yellow as the fat from a can of condensed chicken noodle soup. She looked to the cute man’s bag, only half full. She waited until he glanced her way, then ignored the wriggle in her belly and shot him a snotty look, one that said, Behold my vastly superior wealth of golden platelets, peasant .
He glanced at his own bag and frowned, miming a bruised ego .
Caitlin was pulled from the exchange as the tech removed her needle and got her bandaged up. Probably a good thing. The footrest was lowered, and she tested her legs, waited for a head rush that didn’t arrive, and deemed herself ready to walk .
The cute guy caught her eye one last time and brushed his fingers over his chest demonstrably. Caitlin blinked, puzzled, then glanced down and found her sweater dusted with cookie crumbs. Classy. She wiped them away, zapping him a little glare to say, You win this round .
But the boldness—if it could be called that—left her as she gathered her purse and iPod and snagged a granola bar and a bottled water from the kitchenette. She walked right past Mr. Cute to fetch her coat, but she’d lost her nerve and kept her gaze locked on the exit. Had he looked at her? Had he smiled? She’d never know .
And just as well. Bad girlfriend .
The sun had set. It was supposed to drop into the low twenties that night. Harsh enough on its own, much worse with a pint of blood freshly filtered from her body. But as she stepped into the brisk winter air, her cheeks were warm. In several hours’ time, this post-pheresis tipsiness would leave her, and she’d feel a touch guilty for flirting, no matter how silly and innocent it had been. But for now, it felt awfully nice. A sensation she hadn’t enjoyed in ages .
She aimed herself downtown with a spring in her step, right where she’d expected the exhaustion to be. This morning, the Christmas lights had only highlighted a hundred looming pre-holidays to-dos, but now they dazzled in the freshly fallen darkness. The honk of cars and the rattle of buses sounded like the beating heart of the city, the frigid wind invigorating, not punishing. She remembered Mr. Cute’s smirk one final time and felt her lips curl. She pursed them and picked up her pace. Into the bustle of Christmas shoppers and harried commuters, banishing the memory of the flirtation .
Very bad, to have her face flushed from the attention of some stranger she’d shared a clinical room and basket of snacks with for an hour. That was Kevin’s job .
Very, very bad .
Yet very, very cute .
2
“H ighs today made it to the low forties,” the clock radio on Caitlin’s dresser announced. “Lows dropping tonight into the midtwenties for Boston, colder north and west of the city .”
She glanced down at her bare legs and shivered .
Still, the dress was worth it. Worth scampering three blocks to the train with a stiff breeze assaulting her womanhood, worth looking like an idiot clattering around in these heels, because when else was she going to get an excuse to dress up? The fanciest she got at work was a tweed skirt and flats, and that effort was only for when she had to meet with a client. If she was stuck feeling like she lived in her office twelve hours a day the final six weeks of the year, she’d be comfortable, goddammit—slacks and sweaters, padding around in socks, shoes abandoned under her desk. Everyone else was a spreadsheet-blind zombie, anyhow. No one noticed. They all just staggered in bleary paths to and from the printer, the bathrooms, the coffeemaker, ants following their chemical trails toward caffeine and toner .
And sure, it was an office party. She’d still be in the office .
But that made it all the better. Let all her coworkers see her looking fantastic, like a post-makeover scene from a dumb romantic comedy. Let Kevin know he wasn’t the only one witnessing her secret hotness, and feel a little of whatever hormone made men toss their girlfriends across tabletops and ravish them soundly .
If anyone could use a sound ravishing, it was Caitlin. Her lady-business hadn’t been manhandled in ages, not even by herself. Usually she liked a good manhandling as a matter of maintenance, but nothing sounded so seductive lately as a nice, long sleep .
Pathetic.
So no more comfortable tonight. In fact, she’d be pretty un comfortable, drafty up her dress and rickety in these ambitiously tall shoes. Drafty and rickety…hmmm. She wasn’t really going for the dilapidated-building look. But no, she looked good . She’d gotten a weeks-overdue trim that afternoon, and the woman at the salon had smoothed her hair with some magic potion, banishing all her flyaways and frizz, leaving it so shiny it looked like she’d had highlights done. She modeled the spangly garnet cocktail dress in the mirror, flashed her heels under the bedroom lights so the beaded details glimmered. Kevin was going to blink and stutter and maybe even get an inappropriate workplace hard-on when he saw her. Saw her as a woman for the first time in ages, not just a coworker and neglectful, neglected girlfriend .
At six thirty, she buttoned her coat and unlocked the front door. Then turned back and spent fifteen minutes changing and unchanging her mind about what purse to take before finally settling on a silver clutch. Why bring a practical bag? Why wreck how perfectly impractical the rest of the outfit was ?
She turned to the cat. “Night, Sarge. Don’t wait up.” She grabbed the wrapped box that held Kevin’s Christmas present, a monogrammed chrome cocktail shaker. She hoped it wasn’t too much. They’d only been going out for three months, but it was their first holiday as a couple. She’d give him his gift early and set the tone for the entire break, tell him, Yes, we’re an item and I like you and here’s some shiny, monogrammed, nonrefundable proof of what a great catch I am. Now sully me, you fool !
Before she even had the building’s front door open, winter had her in its bony grip .
Clop clop, clop-clop clop went her shoes on the sidewalk, but by the time she made it to the subway she’d found her rhythm and equilibrium on the three-in
ch spikes. Clop clop into the subway, clop clop onto the escalator, clop clop through the turnstile and down to the platform. The journey took perhaps ten minutes, but she was sure she gave the backs of her thighs a good fifty covert feels to make sure that yes, the dress really was there, hadn’t ridden up under her long wool coat .
The temperature had dropped several degrees by the time she emerged in Harvard Square, but her office was barely fifty clop-clops from the station. She took the elevator to the twelfth floor, shedding her coat on the ride up and smoothing her dress over her butt one last time, ready for her entrance .
The first person to spot her was Gina, the receptionist. The girl’s heavily lined eyes widened in the direction of Caitlin’s legs .
Good shock, she prayed .
“Wow, Caitlin. Like, wow .”
“Good wow ?”
“Oh my God, yeah. You look…wow .”
Bless you, hip twenty-two-year-old receptionist !
Caitlin strode past the front desk to find a glass of something to soothe her prickling nerves. One drink , she promised herself. Best not to test her balance on these shoes .
She tossed her coat on a radiator in the front room, avoiding everyone’s eyes at first, afraid her own would give away her nerves .
“Caitlin!” It was her manager’s voice .
She turned and smiled at Tom. “Merry…nondenominational holidays!” she corrected, and he laughed. He was only a couple years older than she was, and they found the corporate policies equally tedious .
He wandered closer. “Merry holidays. Well, you win .”
“Win what ?”
“Best dressed. You look fantastic.” He leaned in and gave her a chaste pair of kisses, one on each cheek. He’d never done that before. The dress was making him all suave. Excellent. Test run: successful .
