Taking Jana (Paradise South #2) (3 page)

Relax, Jana.
You’ll get
there.

She’d be with her dad within an hour, two tops. By his side like she always had been, and always would be. Despite herself, she always would be. Her hand met her chilled cheek, tears streaming down and picking up the
bum-rushing
AC. First the little girl, then this. She tucked her chin, hiding her emotion from the rearview. God, she hated anyone seeing her cry.

CHAPTER 2

S
he had to
grab a few things and go. That one little piece of luggage at the very back of her closet would do. She parted her hanging clothes with shaky hands. There staring at her, held back by her right hand, was her black
skirt-suit
in plastic.
No, no.
She wouldn’t prepare for that. She wouldn’t need
that.

Move it, Jana, let’s go!
She tossed the
carry-on
onto her bed and tore through the rest of her closet. Two pairs of shoes, four days of clothes, bras, panties, and then she moved to her bathroom counter for toiletries. She stuffed then zipped, and then looked around before stepping out the door. Sunglasses on the sideboard next to her keys. She threw them on to cover her red puffy eyes, even if it was midnight.
Anything else?
Her mind whirled. God willing she’d be back soon anyway. A week, tops. Her dad would be fine, and she’d be home again.

She locked up and left her SoHo rental piece of heaven to get to the uptown C train.

She hiked her purse strap high on her shoulder as her feet hit the pavement, and gave a corrective tug to her already disobedient
piece-of
-crap roller bag. At the corner where she needed to cross, she saw the electronic red hand signaling her to stop, but no cars were coming, the crosswalk beckoned, and time was wasting. She stepped out, her luggage thumped off the curb behind her, followed by the loud screech of tires.

*

Thankful to be only minutes from Jocelyn’s place now, he drove through the Manhattan maze of dark city streets. Alleys and small parking lots hiccupped between the blocks of
closed-down
shops, hotels, and apartment condos. No people, no cars, no movement whatsoever except for the turning of the traffic lights through their cycles. He watched the street signs pass one after another, his eyes squinting and anxious for the final turn to deliver Jocelyn Carlson home.

Ah, Sullivan Street
. He was almost giddy making the slow right onto her street when a blur of something caught his eye in his peripheral.

His foot slammed on the brake.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Jocelyn Carlson screamed after thumping the back of his seat with what must have been her head. At least, this time, he knew the thump was unintentional.

His pulse racing, he threw it in park. The heartbeat in his ears didn’t help drown out the continued backseat rant, so he looked over his shoulder and snapped, “Be. Quiet.” He huffed. “I will be back in a second.” And, miracle from above, his passenger shut her mouth.

Antonio jumped out and got to the front of his car where his
almost-victim
stood panting, no, fuming, palms down on his hood.

He adjusted his chauffeur’s cap, swallowed hard, and cleared his throat. “Ma’am, are you okay? God, I am so, so sorry.” He had been so eager to unload his passenger that he’d taken careless liberties on the
less-traveled
side streets. This was his consequence. And even though he’d had the right of way, he knew City pedestrians well enough. Thank God he didn’t really hit her, but from her lack of response, he could safely say he’d scared the living shit out of her.

The petite woman stayed hovered over his hood, chest heaving, like she was catching her
life-breath
. Her stance looked as if she’d stopped the car herself, superhero style. And the fact that she wore sunglasses at midnight made the scene almost comical, but deadly serious at the same time.
Only in
Manhattan.

“Please, miss, tell me are you’re o—”

“I’m fine,” she huffed. “Just, for God’s sake, be more careful!” She lifted her chin to catch a glimpse of his face, then flicked down at his plates as she backed away from the limo. “Jersey drivers,” she said, adjusting her purse and little roller bag. Then she shook her head, glanced both ways, and ran across the street.

“Can I drive you anywhere?” he yelled after her, but she didn’t look back.

“Can we get the hell out of here already!” His backseat fare shouted, bringing him back to reality.

*

After nearly being run over by a stretch limo, then practically groped on the subway, the lone lumpy bus seat was heaven. She inhaled deeply, counted to ten, then let it out, long and slow.

Okay.
It would all be okay.

At least she got the front seat. Thank God for small favors. To avoid her inevitable motion sickness, looking straight out at the road ahead or sleeping were the only ways she could keep her queasiness in check. Meds didn’t even work. But music helped. She rummaged through her purse for her earbuds and music player, but, damn it, she’d forgotten them at her place in her mad rush to get out of the City.

So she pulled out her phone for distraction instead. Reading her text messages was a bad idea, especially as her queasiness waxed with the bus driver’s jerking response to the
stop-and
-go traffic, but she did it anyway. The
ever-so
-rare text from her brother. She took off her sunglasses to see her screen better. Ah yes, there were the words from Almighty Dane. And they made her stomach well with nausea. She shut the screen off the next second, then dug her thumbnail into her index finger as a quick anchoring remedy, a trick she’d taught her patients. For adults and kids alike, a small bit of
self-inflicted
pain to counteract a
blood-drawing
needle always did the trick. And beyond distraction, the
self-infliction
gave a slight sense of control, and right now, she’d take what she could get.

For the moment, she could put off calling her brother, but calling her mother, that chronic pain couldn’t wait. She stopped pinching her finger and hit her mother’s speed dial, trading one
needle-like
sensation for another.

*

Her mother’s report was vague. Her father was now in the ICU
post-op
, and no one would say anything more. And Jin Park wouldn’t ask anything more because Jin Park didn’t like being out of her own comfort zone. Ever. Instead, she’d wait for Jana. Of course.

Jana got off with her mother quickly, having had enough before she’d even dialed her and then thought of Luly, a real mom and friend. She’d told Luly she’d call her, but couldn’t bring herself to do it. Lu would force her into tears; her friend’s sheer tenderness would turn on the spigot.

Instead, Jana did her best to zone out, even without her trusty music player. She entered into a virtual fog of emotional detachment, until the bus got to the dark and claustrophobic Lincoln Tunnel, crossing into Jersey.

She looked down again at her cell phone for a bit of light, a frame of reference. And again, the taunting urgent text from her long lost piece of shit brother—
Dad in hospital, can’t be there. Go. 911.

The longer she looked at the message, the more enraged, embittered, and sick to her stomach she got. A growl formed in her throat, but she held it back. She was surrounded by real life, other passengers with other problems, and the real outside world ahead of her too, reminding her how little and insignificant she was.

She glanced to her left. The woman across from her was nursing a tiny baby; it soothed her, the angelic infant’s suckling, no wrongs in the world. She didn’t want to poison the atmosphere for that little piece of bliss with her radiating hate toward
far-off
Dane.

But damn him. Her big brother, her protective older brother, who had taken her parents to the cleaners by gambling away their
hard-earned
money when he was supposed to be
earning
a college degree. Not only had he
not
graduated and not fulfilled the
Asian-American
male’s dream their parents had held for their one son, but less important to her dad, Dane had stolen Jana’s teen years, her college years, her innocence, her education, and her dream. Because when she’d applied junior year of high school to MMU and got in, her parents had had no funds for their daughter to go. They’d
over-leveraged
their home and their business. For Dane. Even if she’d gotten a scholarship, college was out. Her parents needed her.

And of course, she’d sacrifice her education to help at the family restaurant. Of course she would. There was no question.

So by day, at the sweet and innocent age of eighteen, it was high school AP classes for no reason at all at that point, then straight home to man the restaurant.

With a strong head for numbers, it took only weeks for Jana to realize that she’d have to work there for twenty years to dig her parents out of the hole her brother had dug. Forget earning enough for school, forget her future, and forget her girlhood dream of becoming a nurse, of helping people—other than her parents, that is. Forget about a life of her own. She was doomed to live in the hamster wheel.

A far off siren brought her back to her bus ride. She shifted her gaze from her phone to the view of the Hudson River out her side window, which mellowed her nerves for a moment until the rushing scene riled up her stomach. Eyes straight ahead again, her head swarmed with memories. The hundreds of bus rides along the Hudson she and Amber had taken, sharing earbuds, listening to chick bands telling them they were strong, fearless, invincible. Then they’d get to the club where they’d fearlessly strip off their clothes and their pride for wads of dirty, wrinkled dollar bills.

Amber had been her ticket out of the family’s
hole-in
-
the-wall
Korean restaurant and into the club scene. She remembered the night Amber had come in to eat at Korean Soul—per her folks, the best authentic Korean food in northern Jersey.
Right.
Anyway, Amber, her high school’s token “whore,” the girl who
stripped
, paid her bill with large, crisp bills. As if possessed, Jana had to ask how could she make that kind of money? Sincere money. Exponential money.

Amber answered. And the very next night, Amber took Jana to meet the manager at The Wet Spot, an hour and a half south by bus. The rest was history—wadded, green, maddening history.

Glancing back down at her phone with disgust, she daydreamed of acquiring superpowers, powers of remote electrocution that she could send through the ether to her brother. Dane Park was three thousand miles away in California, “unable to get there.”

Fuck him
.

As she tapped her brother’s number on her phone screen, she sent a mental apology to the peaceful nursing baby across the aisle.

*

He pulled up to her luxury apartment building, put the limo in park, got out, and went around the back to open her car door.

He pulled the door open and stood back to give her room to slip out. He was just glad to be ending his night and hoped he’d never have to see this woman again. Ten times the fare or not, he was officially done with her.

But no high heel hit the travertine drive. No movement at all, in fact. Only the sound of low, raspy humming…in waves.

“Ms. Carlson, we’re here.”

A crescendo of moaning was her reply.

Unbelievable. The level of drama with this woman. So being a billionaire was a pass to do whatever the hell she wanted? Goddamn her kind. It was not worth it. And it almost never had been.

Moving to peer into his back seat, he was somewhat prepared for what he’d find. After all, this crazy lady would have to top months of disgusting indiscretions in his limo, no doubt. He just wasn’t prepared for what he’d do about it. His response would have to be well thought out, fast. He had a business to protect, and he couldn’t afford a retribution lawsuit from a disgruntled, rejected, and bitter psycho like Jocelyn Carlson.
Bruja Rena!
She could bury him and all he’d worked for with a simple wave of her goddamn cursed
high-flying
broomstick.

His eyes met hers and he did well to ignore her hardened cherry nipples topping her creamy round breasts jostling up and down with her body’s rhythmic rise and fall as she rode her own fingers. He wasn’t blind.

But he was sick to his stomach. Kneeling there, facing him, she seemed ready to explode by the escalation of her moans. He glared at her, a continued streamline of control shooting from his eyes, meant to tell her all she needed to know, what he was, and who he was.

And also, who he wasn’t.

He wasn’t a male whore for sale, goddamn her. Not in her wildest fucking dreams.

“Please get your clothes on and leave my limo,” he ordered, his tone low, unwavering. Then he took two steps back, the door still open.

But she only heaved harder, arching her back, her moans morphing into loud sporadic grunts as she seemed to be reaching her
self-imposed
climax.

The doorman of the residential skyscraper opened the lobby doors to allow an older couple their exit, and hearing the sounds coming from the back seat of the limo, rushed out toward Antonio, the man’s eyes worried and questioning. The older couple only looked at one another and, seemingly offended beyond belief, scurried off down the sidewalk.

Glad for the witnesses, for his own liability and to help demonstrate the woman’s insanity, Antonio acknowledged the doorman with a
straight-lipped
nod, a stoic surrendered expression for the record. The doorman stopped in his tracks between his
golden-handled
bank of doors and Antonio’s limo as if he now understood who and what the source of the noise was inside the vehicle and assuredly wanted nothing to do with it.

Jocelyn Carlson’s onslaught continued, and Antonio realized that he might very well have been the only man on Earth who gave this woman not even an iota of his attention, other than the standard professional service he provided to all his clients. And that apparently drove her mad.

As her hips thrust in his direction, faster and faster, she closed her eyes, maybe imagining him approaching her, reciprocating, fulfilling her delusional fantasy, but her frantic pumping received no reaction from Antonio. His eyes just kept her eyes locked in his sights, waiting for the melodramatic display to end and for her to remove herself from his limousine.