MINE. STILL.
The car slid smoothly through the packed streets of New York, though everything looked calm from behind the matte-black, bulletproof windows. Of course it did. This was a Rodriguez car. If it could talk, it’d probably have a Spanish accent and a deep, cocky voice saying, “I cost more than your apartment, Dianna.”
I leaned back, head resting against buttery leather that was so soft, it made me think, huh, maybe I wouldn’t need therapy if all my problems came with headrests like this.
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