Driving Me Wild Read online

  Command me, I think fiercely.

  “I took two lollipops.”

  I laugh, feeling relief course through me. “I’ll still give you five stars. Excellence in…passenging.”

  Don’t say riding, don’t say riding.

  His face breaks into a grin.

  More things clench—not now, body.

  He puts his hand on the door. My phone chirps another alert, which isn’t surprising. And if I had to guess, I’d say it was probably the hassled-looking family of four currently rolling their herd of luggage across the crosswalk in my direction. I know I need to look back at my phone and accept the fare, but his eyes are holding me captive.

  “Thanks for the ride,” he says—as if he didn’t hire me for it, as if we’re friends, maybe acquaintances, and I’ve done him a favor. “Hope you have a good one.”

  “You, too,” I say, reaching for my phone, tapping the big green button to let the next fare know I’m ready. “Have a good flight.”

  He gives me a nod of thanks, and his eyes—really lovely eyes, to go with the lovely body and the lovely voice—hold mine for only a moment longer. The look isn’t a leer—his eyes are neither promissory nor sinful—but it makes me feel appraised. Seen.

  Again, my body reacts. Mouth a little dry, throat a little tight, skin a little bit more sensitive, in anticipation of a touch that will never come.

  Ugh. I’m spending my next check on the best vibrator Amazon can send me. This is getting ridiculous.

  On the sidewalk, the family reacts just the way I anticipated. Mom and Dad, two young kids still with their Mickey ears on, waiting to take Hot Suit Guy’s place in my back seat.

  He needs to go.

  The Disney Dad leans down and greets me through my open window. “Chloe, yeah?”

  “Yeah,” I say, and the spell is broken. I turn around and get out of my car so I can help the family with their luggage. The kids are hooting as they give chase around my car, and the mom is telling them to get out of traffic, and somewhere in the scuffle of it all, Hot Suit Guy is already down the sidewalk.

  Goodbye forever, I think to myself, shamelessly checking out his ass one last time.

  Watching him go, his long legs carrying him across the regular unloading area with ease and determined speed, I sigh, and heft one of the family’s bags into my trunk.

  After the dad gets in, taking my passenger seat with a grateful sigh, and the kids are all settled in the back beside their mom, I release the parking brake and get ready to head out on the road again. The last passenger’s eyes are still permanently seared into my brain, but it’ll pass.

  We’re only a few minutes down the road, though, when I hear something jingling behind me, something that sounds like keys. The kids had been arguing about which ride was the best and which one made them throw up and whether that’s the same thing, and the mom had been telling them to stop kicking their dad’s chair, and so when I hear the noise, I wonder if she’s given the younger of the two kids her own keys, just to distract them.

  “Where did you get those?” the mom says. “Kaiden, whose keys are those?”

  “Dunno,” the boy, presumably Kaiden, says. “Found ’em on the floor.”

  “Oh, they must’ve… I think one of your earlier rides dropped their keys.”

  The mom hands the keys up to the dad, who hands them to me. There’s a thick BMW car key, something that looks like a house key, a smaller copper mail key maybe, and a shiny, new-looking silver USB drive, all connected to one of those wire keyrings with a screw to open and close it.

  “Thanks,” I say, putting them down in my car’s center console. “Corporate has a process for returning lost items. I’ll put in a notice.”

  I keep driving. Their Disney discussion resumes—now it’s moved onto Big Thunder Mountain vs. Space Mountain, as if that’s even a contest—as I take the family home.

  My hours are technically over when I drop them off, so I turn my podcast back on, mark myself as off-duty on the app, and head for home. All of that promised rain has settled into a slurry of low-slung clouds overhead just waiting to burst. A thunderstorm tonight isn’t out of the question. I can almost feel the change in the air, like I’m a prophetic, arthritic knee.

  As I drive home, the podcast hosts discuss the historical implications and hidden significance of the scene in Casablanca where the bar’s patrons start singing “La Marseillaise,” and it makes me wish, yet again, that I could get out and see the world, literally any part of the world. Casablanca, or Paris, or London. Right about now, somewhere cold sounds great, but I’ll take whatever I can get, I’m so ready to go.

  To paraphrase my favorite, much-maligned Disney heroine, I want adventure in the great wide somewhere. It doesn’t even need to be a cranky prince in a castle with talking cutlery and a complex relationship with roses. Something, anything.

  Sadly, there are no hills to run out on and sing loudly about my problems. No quaint French villages to traipse through while subtly insulting all of the inhabitants. Nope. Not even a talking candlestick.

  Just my apartment.

  I pull up and park, lock my car, and walk up the six steps to my door, letting myself inside. Between my freelance gigs and some efficient, frugal living, I’ve secured myself a small one-bedroom apartment in a converted older building. It’s charmingly quirky, in all the good and bad ways that come with hundred-year-old buildings. At least it’s mine, with no roommates to annoy me into doing the dishes.

  The space isn’t particularly big, but there’s enough room for my twin bed in the corner, a bookshelf, and my desk, which is along the exposed brick wall in what’s probably supposed to be a dining area. I eat on the loveseat, underneath the wide, white-trimmed double windows. There’s a thrift-store coffee table in front of it, the heavy, stained oak top currently piled with mail I need to sort through, a few books from the library, and other assorted detritus.

  Up on the remaining mint-green walls, I’ve hung a couple of pieces of art. My eye is drawn—not for the first time—to the framed vintage world map I have hanging over a row of mismatched coat hooks near the entryway.

  Someday, I think to myself.

  With the stranger’s keys in my hand, I head over to the kitchen. It, like the rest of the space, is efficient, but the fridge keeps my LaCroix just as cold as it needs to be on a hot day like today. I bask in the inefficient coolness of my open fridge door for a few precious seconds, then select a can of apricot, cracking it and taking a satisfying drink.

  My eye catches on the map again.

  The thing about travel is this: you need money.

  And to get money, you need a job. While it’s partially true that I like freelance work, I’d like having a steady, more substantial income better. But that requires sending out more applications, which I know are just going to get ignored or rejected. What’s the point?

  I take another drink from the can and shiver a little as the water cools me down. I should work on one of my clients’ projects, but the heat has made me feel languid and lazy. And, looking down at the set of keys still resting in my palm, I remember that I have a much more pressing issue to deal with. I need to get these reported and in the Dryv system so the owner can recover them. This has happened before with someone’s laptop, so I know the policy is that I need to report, then hold the item for forty-eight hours.

  If I knew who the keys belonged to, I could send a message to that person directly, via the app. That would make things much easier on everyone.

  I take my can over to my desk, push aside my tablet, and shake the mouse to make it wake up—which it does, eventually, with all the enthusiasm of a very old but pleasant golden retriever with a bad hip. Except instead of tail-wagging, it’s an ominous grinding in a drive somewhere. Wonderful. This baby is my livelihood, and with the money I’ve sunk into software, my drawing tablet, the monitor’s color-calibration, I can’t afford for it to break.

  Sitting down in my office chair, I take another sip from th
e can and set it on the table, considering. Outside, a car passes by, blaring what sounds like a David Bowie song.

  The glint of the metal USB drive catches my eye. What if the owner needs them right away? It could take days to jump through all the hoops in Dryv’s system. What if I have to send them back to corporate and they get lost forever?

  I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to have a peek in there, so long as I don’t take anything or disturb someone’s files—which I won’t, because I’m not a monster. But it’s like a wallet, I rationalize. I’d look inside someone’s lost purse to find their ID, so how is this any different?

  Decision made, I take the drive and push it into the USB slot at the front of my computer. My computer whirrs to life like a reluctant zombie, lured by the promise of delicious brains, and a moment later, the drive icon appears on my cluttered desktop, the finder window popping up to the drive’s home folder.

  Something like guilt twists in my gut. Should I really be poking around in here? I don’t want to get in trouble.

  Like an answer to a question I haven’t spoken aloud, a browser window pops up on my computer.

  Okay—I didn’t do that.

  There’s an unfamiliar address, a website I don’t recognize already in the browser’s address bar. When it loads, it appears to be some kind of basic chat window with an empty screen and a box down below next to a button marked “send.” But I don’t understand why this site is loading. I didn’t do this. Is it something the USB drive is set to do automatically?

  A cursor blinks on the screen. And then words begin to appear.

  // Where did you get this drive?

  What the hell?

  My hands hover above my keyboard. I want to look around my apartment, check behind the books and under the toaster, see if there’s some kind of hidden camera to explain this away as a prank.

  Tentatively, I begin to type.

  : hello?

  // Who is this please.

  The answer appears on-screen. What is happening? I feel a little shiver of curiosity and trepidation, and type a slow and careful reply.

  : I think you left your keys in my car.

  There’s a long pause. Like the person on the other end of this weird chat website is thinking.

  // You’re the driver.

  : yes?

  : but I haven’t looked at anything

  : I just thought I could find out who these belonged to so I could give them back faster

  : otherwise I have to file a claim with Dryv so you can get them

  // Well, that’s good to know.

  // But I’m in the air, I won’t be able to pick them up

  : wait how are you doing this?

  : this chat thing right now?

  // That’s confidential. Like the flash drive currently plugged into your laptop.

  Despite the strangeness of what’s going on right now, I can hear the sarcasm in those words. Remembering the warmth of Hot Suit Guy’s voice—because I’m now reasonably certain that the keys must belong to him—I feel a little curl in my belly. Some sort of playfulness, an instinctive response to the memory of his voice and his smile.

  : so this wasn’t a good trade for two lollipops?

  // Ha. No.

  // They were good, though.

  : good to know

  : do you want me to file the claim?

  : or I could hold onto these for when you get back.

  : I’m not going to go through your files or anything, you can trust me

  // That sounds exactly like something someone engaged in corporate espionage would say.

  Despite the strangeness of this, I laugh.

  : okay, you got me

  : I’m a top-secret spy for sure

  // Here’s the thing: I actually need that USB drive.

  // Like, today.

  // And I am in the air right now.

  : well that does present a challenge

  : can I just email you everything that’s on here?

  // Yes, theoretically. But there are some things that I just can’t trust to email over a non-secure connection. And the file size might be prohibitive.

  Smirking, I resist the urge to make a joke about how most guys are prone to exaggerating about size and instead type:

  : you said you worked in tech, right?

  // Yes.

  : so don’t you have a backup somewhere?

  His reply is a long time coming. I take another drink of my water, wondering if his in-flight connection has dropped off or something.

  // I do, but it’s at my house. And not even my assistant can access it, it requires biometric authentication.

  // a fingerprint

  : yes I know what that means, I’ve watched the matrix

  // Ha.

  An assistant? This guy doesn’t just work in tech, he has an assistant. That nice suit wasn’t just for show.

  // I need those files. I don’t suppose you want to fly to Finland and bring them to me?

  The question is so ludicrous, so insane, I have to believe he’s messing with me.

  : sorry I currently am not able to levitate

  : and my personal helicopter is in the shop

  : you want me to parachute in and sit on the wing or what

  // No, there’s another flight leaving PDX tonight.

  : I don’t have that kind of money

  // I’ll cover it.

  His replies, this time, are quick.

  // Tickets, hotel, whatever you need.

  // I really need them, and I’m a man of my word, Chloe.

  // You said you’re a freelancer, and if you have to take time off from work, I can compensate you.

  This is starting to sound way too good to be true. My hands flex above the keyboard, uncertain. Is he for real?

  // Whatever you want, if there’s any way I can convince you, tell me.

  : I need a new computer, actually

  I can’t believe I just typed that.

  : mine’s a piece of garbage. you should hear what it sounds like right now. like a death-metal band threw up on one of those industrial metal shredders

  // Consider it done.

  What?

  : really?

  // Really.

  I don’t know what to reply to this. All of that initial thrill has now shifted, and my natural-born skepticism has started to color my thoughts. Things that feel too good to be true usually have strings attached.

  “Who the hell are you, Mr. Hot Suit Guy?” I say to my empty apartment.

  I pick up my phone and tap on the Dryv app. In the record of my past customers, I find him there, the mysterious L.W. My fingers once again find the keyboard.

  : I don’t even know your name

  // Logan Weiss

  // Hold on, let me send you something. I can prove who I am.

  Send me something? How is he going to send me something? I wiggle my mouse and nothing happens on-screen.

  // There.

  A second later, my cell phone buzzes.

  “What the…?”

  As I lift up my phone and slide to check the incoming text, that feeling of instinct, of anticipation, sparks again in my belly. Because it’s a selfie, sent from an unknown number. The face in the picture…it’s him, the handsome guy, no question.

  Logan, apparently.

  And, all right, it’s maybe a little disconcerting having his intense, dark eyes staring straight at me—at the camera, of course. Not at me. There’s a hint of a smile on his lips, a knowing, almost bemused look. He looks tired, though—there’s a smudge of shadowed sleeplessness under his warm brown eyes.

  But that’s not what grabs my attention.

  What grabs my attention is the fact that I finally know who he is. Where I’ve seen him before.

  Softly, I exclaim, “No fucking way.”

  I switch away from the text, bring up the browser on my phone. One quick search later, and I’ve found him—I have his name, I’m sure of it.

  My hands f
ly back to my keyboard.

  : you’re Logan Weiss?

  // Nice to meet you.

  : THE Logan Weiss?

  // That seems to be the general consensus.

  : holy shit you’re the tech guy

  // Loser of keys and founder of companies, yes.

  // Among other things.

  This is crazy. I let out a breath that turns into a laugh. My friends are not going to believe this. Even I’m not sure I believe it. I seriously want to travel back in time and tell my face-blind past self to slap herself in the forehead. All I wanted to do was be helpful, return some lost property as quickly as possible, and keep my five-star driver rating. Instead, I’m chatting with the guy who—Google’s just informed me—has been voted the “Most Eligible Bachelor in Tech.” Because that’s apparently a voting category that exists.

  He’s worth millions. Poised to be worth billions. A twenty-eight-year-old programmer prodigy who founded and sold at least four companies while he was still in college. No wonder he knows how to do the whammy on my computer from who knows how many miles away. I’m chatting with Logan Weiss.

  And he’s hot. Like, stupid hot. (I mean, I did notice that when he was physically in front of me, but it’s still true. Especially since he’s got dozens of proper photo shoots where he’s clearly been on the receiving end of professional styling, dressing, and grooming.)

  I glance up from my phone and look at my computer screen, seeing that he’s still typing.

  // I’m heading to Helsinki for a conference. There’s another flight leaving tonight at ten. I’ll compensate you for the inconvenience, pay for your ticket. I really need those files.

  Okay, universe. I know I was just asking for adventure, but this? This is not the kind of adventure I wanted. Nobody in their right mind would do this. Right?

  : how can I trust you?

  : I mean I know you’re famous and all

  : but what if you’re a psycho who’s going to sell my kidneys on the black market

  // I’ve made more money in the time we’ve been chatting than what your kidneys are worth. That’s a very inefficient plan. I’ll send the tickets to your email address now.