"Then why are you going this way?"

"This way is faster."

As unfamiliar scenery passes by, I try to figure that out. Though I still don't know the city well, going the opposite direction makes no sense. "It can't be faster."

He keeps driving and with each street we pass, my frustration grows. We enter an area of the city I'd never been to before. From the large colored awnings, sidewalk vendors, and Chinese lettering on the overabundance of brightly painted signs above, I guess we are in Chinatown. I've always wanted to check out this part of the city-my father refuses to come here-but not like this.

Staring at a bright open neon sign in a restaurant window, I say, "Turn around."

"You should relax and enjoy the ride. Let me worry about driving."

Ugh. Who does this guy think he is? And why does it seem like he wants to calm me with his monotone voice? I pull my book bag into my lap and tug on my gloves and hat. "Turn around or let me out."

"Sorry, Miss Nash, your mother gave me explicit orders."

"Stepmother," I say, grinding my teeth together. Enough's enough. I can't stand being in the car with Monotone Smith for one more second. At the next stoplight, I flip open the lock, yank the door open, and take off in less than three seconds.

"Hey!" he shouts at last breaking the monotone.

I don't look back. Just stroll by racks of purses, watches, and sunglasses. While trying to ignore the smell of garbage wafting in the cold air, I wonder how to get a taxi. I've never taken one before. Too bad, I don't have my phone to look it up or something, but with Mali always calling or texting me orders, I've gotten into the habit of leaving it at home.

A purse is suddenly in my face. "You want designer items? Purse? Glasses? I can take you to special room." I shake my head at the woman with the eager face. "No, no thanks," I say, walking around her and her dirty look.

When I stop to dig out money from my book bag, I see Smith out of the corner of my eye. He's coming my way. Beyond his black shoulder, the Rolls Royce sits at the stop light with its hazards on. I stumble past the racks in confusion. I expected him to leave me. One more spoiled brat having a temper tantrum. Not his problem. I can't believe he's coming after me. I really can't believe he left the car in the middle of traffic. That more than anything has my feet moving. I glance back. He's closer now and his emotionless expression has turned angry, almost menacing.

Confusion turns to alarm.

My walk escalates into a jog. Bumping into pedestrians and dashing past their startled faces, survival kicks in. I have to escape. I'm not sure why, but the urge to flee pumps through my body. Over my shoulder, I can see him getting closer. My jog turns into a run. My mind is blank, no plan just get away from him. Move, slide, push past people. Winter parka's in my face. Cars honking as I cross streets. Voices yelling when my book bag bangs into people. Foggy breath streaming. Spicy smells mixing with the taint of garbage in my nose. Move, keep moving.

Yet, he's still behind me.

After several blocks, my lungs burn from the cold. The wind stings my cheeks. I keep jogging, but I can't run forever. Hiding isn't an option. He's too close. Going into a store would be a dead end. Perhaps the people inside would help me. What if they don't? An alleyway would be even worse. If he catches me, I don't want to be alone. I scan the area while racing through a maze of people and junk for sale.

Bam! I crash into a body and almost fall.

"Hey, watch where you're going!"

I ignore the angry woman and raise my book bag back to my shoulder. I spot Smith's dark glasses and gray hair above the heads of people between us. He seems closer. I take off faster than before.

A subway station looms ahead. I race toward the small glass building at full speed. Taking the subway isn't such a good idea. I'll end up lost. However, if I can get Smith to think I took it then sayonara sucker. As I dash down the stairs, the perfect opportunity appears. A huge group of people off the train is rushing up.

Halfway down, I jump over the rail and shove my way to the far side. People grunt and snap at me while I push past them. I ignore their anger. Glued to the wall behind the mob, I hurry back up hidden amongst the upwards flow with an air of triumph. Behind me, there's no sign of Monotone Smith. He might figure out what I did, but it will take him a couple of minutes at least. Never have a couple of minutes seemed so important.

I make a turn at the first corner. My side aches. I ignore the pinch and rush to the next corner. I want to put more than distance between us. I want to separate us with direction. I lean over to gasp for breath in the middle of the next block. After several deep gulps, I stand.

Time to get a cab.

I've wandered to a less congested street. Besides there being hardly any cabs, hailing them is impossible. They all drive on by. I feel like screaming in frustration. I'm in one of those bad dreams were no matter what I try, I'm stuck. By the third block, without the adrenaline of fear and the movement of running, the sliver of skin open to the air between my skirt and knee high socks is frozen. Stupid school uniform, I think looking for somewhere to get warm. The bright sign of a teashop ahead catches my eye.

At the door, I scan the street for Smith. No black clad assholes in sight. I stroll past battered tables and an old woman behind the counter to the back. A smoky, sharp scent fills the air. Shelves filled with bins and bins of raw tea greet me. Not much to browse. I decide to order a drink. Even if I don't drink the brew, it will be an excuse to stay in the warmth of the shop.

With my steaming mug of dark swill, I go to the window, hide behind a curtain, and watch for a man dressed in black. My hands tremble as I lift the cup. The scalding liquid tastes like bitter water, but it warms my insides instantly.

I sit back with my eyes glued to the sidewalk. The last half hour seems rather surreal. I can't believe he chased me. The fact he followed me through several blocks of Chinatown is more unbelievable. Why would a chauffeur chase me down?

I take another sip. A single pedestrian walks by and hot tea sprays out of my mouth and sticks in my throat at the same time. Coughing and wheezing, I slam the cup on the table and head out the door. I don't think of my actions, I suppose I only want help. If a classmate had passed by, I would have chased after them too. Anyone I remotely knew was good enough, anyone except Monotone Smith-or maybe Mali.

Chapter 8*Snow.

"Hey!" I say, yanking the coat of the hot delivery guy.

His dark eyes look confused before recognition blazes and they round with horror. In one fluid movement, he seizes my arms and spins me into the alley. Slammed against the brick wall, my backpack falls and my teeth bang together. I'm too stunned to even move.

He grips my arms. "What are you doing here?"

At the sound of his menacing voice, adrenaline mixed with fear rushes back into my body. His look of anger and dislike on the elevator flash through my mind. Chasing him down doesn't seem like such a good idea now. "I...ah...let me go!"

He shakes me. "Why are you here?"

"I got lost," I gasp.

The shaking stops. "Lost?"

This guy is as whacked as Smith. "Let me go or... I'll scream."

"Listen," he says and bends so close I can see the separation of pupil and iris, black on black. "I'm not going to hurt you, but I need to know why you're here." Although his grip on my arms loosens, his face remains tense. The concern in his eyes lessens my fear. Just a little.

"I told you. I got lost."

"How?" he demands.

Anger is starting to replace my fear. "Why?"

"Just. Tell. Me." He enunciates each word.

"My driver brought me," I say through clenched teeth. "We were supposed to be going up town so I ditched him."

His eyes narrow. "Where is he now?"

"What does it matter? Now-let-me-go," I say, repeating his speech pattern on purpose. I glance over his shoulder. People, close enough to hear my scream, continue walking by on the sidewalk.

"Where is he?" he repeats, refusing to let me go.

"I lost him in the subway station." I'm thinking about grabbing my bag and running from him until he releases my arms and steps back.

"Don't trust that driver."

I straighten my coat. I should have stayed in the teashop. "Obviously I don't, but why are you worried about it?"

"Because," he says, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Because ...well Chinatown's not the worst part of the city, but it's not safe either. There's lots of illegal activity hidden among the tourism."

My mouth falls open. "And what does that have to do with me? Or with my driver? Or with dragging me into an alley like all hell is breaking loose?"

He glances at the garbage lining the length of the wall as if buying time to collect his thoughts. "Nothing, I suppose. You surprised me."

"Surprised you?" I step forward. "Surprise makes you slam people into walls and shout in their face?"

He shrugs again. "Guess I'm easily surprised."

"I'd hate to see what you do when something really surprising happens." He's not making sense but at this point, I don't care. "Look, I wanted some help getting home." Art class has to be almost over, no use going to the studio. "I can't seem to hail a cab."

"You want to go home?"

"Instead of staying in dangerous Chinatown?" My voice drips with sarcasm. "Yeah, I want to go home. Where else am I supposed to go?"

A frown stretches the skin over his cheekbones as he studies me. "Fine, I'll help you get a cab."

"Thanks," I say but when he reaches for my bag I yell, "Hey!"

He raises his hands and steps away. "I was going to carry it for you."

I tug the strap over my shoulder. "I ran through half of Chinatown with it. I can carry it."

Following him to the curb, I check for Monotone Smith. No black clad asshole in sight. I'm not sure I trust this guy either, but he's walking ahead of me, not chasing me, and raising his hand for a passing taxi.

The car doesn't stop.

The air has gotten colder. The tangled mess of signs above us has become bright with lighted Chinese lettering. Fewer cars pass. Even the pedestrian traffic on the sidewalk has thinned. The cold bites my knees again while I think of my father's warm penthouse and my waiting dog.

The delivery guy waves down another taxi. It doesn't stop.

"What's the deal?" I ask in exasperation.

"He probably already has a customer. Come on," he says, walking along the curb. Another taxi comes up the street and this time he runs out to it.

"Damn," he mouths when it doesn't stop.

Okay, I'm not going to force this guy to help me. When he gets back to the curb, I say, "If you've got somewhere to go-"

"No, no that's not it."

"Then what?" I demand.

"We can't be seen-well, I mean," the defined lines of his face tighten, "if my...ah...girlfriend sees us together, she'll get mad."

"Oh." He has a girlfriend. Of course, he has a girlfriend. Look at him. He's gorgeous even with a nose red from the cold. "Well, maybe you shouldn't help me then."

He shakes his head. "No, no you've got to get home. The next cab, definitely the one after will stop. Law of averages," he adds with a smile.

His smile, slightly crooked, warms my cold knees. I remind myself he has a girlfriend, not that I have a chance, or even want one, but man his smile is hot.

The next cab doesn't stop, nor the one after that. So much for the law of averages.

He drops his arm. "Have you ever ridden on a motorcycle?" I blink before shaking my head no. "Would you be scared to?"

Yes. No. Probably. "Are you offering me a ride?"

"If you're up to it, I think you'll get home faster than waiting for a taxi."

I resist the urge to bite my lip. The motorcycle thing is one thing, riding with him is totally another. I think of Chilly who probably hasn't been out since Rosa's lunchtime walk with him. I nod. "Okay, that sounds good."

He brushes past me. "I'm parked back this way."

We head toward the teashop past boxes of fish and seafood on ice. Around the corner, his bike comes into view. Dark blue and silver, the motorcycle looks sleek parked between two cars. He unlocks the chain and helmet before dropping the chain into the open seat while I stare at the bike.

He steps onto the curb and asks, "You sure about this?" I'm not, but I nod again. "Here." He holds out the helmet. "I want you to wear this."

Somehow, I take it with a steady hand. "What about you?"

"As a rider, you need it more."

I don't like the sound of that. I pull on the helmet anyway. When I struggle with the strap, he comes over and adjusts it. His knuckles brush the skin of my cheek and butterflies flutter through my stomach. The sensation irritates me so much that relief fills me when the strap is tight and he steps away.

He pulls on huge gloves and throws a leg over the bike. "Strap your backpack on both arms." He stares at my legs for a moment. "I'll go slow so you won't get too cold, but you may want to tuck your skirt under...ah...yourself."

Near the bike, I take a deep breath and throw a leg over the seat. After he shows me where to put my legs, which are right under his, my skirt takes a few moments to adjust. I not only tuck it under me, but into the tops of my socks.

"You need to hang on to me," he says over his shoulder and revs up the engine.

As soon as I put my arms around him, he takes off. True to his word, we move slow. The wind bites at my face. Cold rushes up the wrap job I did on my stupid skirt and goose bumps cover my thighs. The cars seem too close. The cement too close. The exhaust and noise is irritating. Yet, the slow the ride is exhilarating.

The excitement might have to do with the gorgeous male I'm wrapped around.

Through his coat and my gloves, I can feel the muscles of his stomach flex and roll as he drives. At each turn, his legs press into mine. I can even smell that clean woodsy scent I remember from before. I let go of the irritation his hotness provokes and let the butterflies soar through my stomach as we drive through the city. I haven't felt so carefree and like a teenager in a long, long time. Memories creep in. Times of laughter and excitement. I push them away and just live in the moment. I'm wrapped around a hot guy, the wind is in my face, and muscles are under my hands. I'm actually sad to see the entrance to my father's building. I have to force myself to unwrap my body from around him and stand.

He nods at my backpack. "You got paper and a pen in there?"

I almost trip over the curb. "Why?"

"I want to make sure you're okay."

I stare at him. Is he for real? Or is this a ploy to give me his number? Actually, excited by the prospect, I dig in my bag. On the surface of the gas tank, he scrawls something on the paper.