Ruth Lee
The name "Frank Xia" didn't mean a thing to me. Sound like he's some investment banker or, like one of those self-help gurus with a podcast, anything but some guy who just shot his way out of a house raid.
"Are you some sort of financial genius or something?" I snapped, well-laden with sarcasm. Not that it mattered. It was better than sitting in silence while this stranger drove us deeper into the night.
Frank didn't even glance at me. His eyes stayed locked on the road ahead, his grip sure on the wheel. "No."
"Then what are you? Because I know for a fact we didn't grow up as childhood friends."
"I don't blame you for not remembering me," he said, his voice as flat as the highway unfolding before us for miles.
I snorted. "Oh, good. I thought you were about to hit me with some sob story about us being best friends back in the day."
