Falling for Colton (Falling #5) by Jasinda Wilder Read Free Book Online Page B

floors—”
    “Said we ain’t hiring, kid. Fuck off.” His stare is cold, flat.  
    “Do you know anybody who is?” I ask, aware that I’m pushing my luck.
    “No. Scram.” He moves as if to come around the desk, which tells me this won’t end well for me if I don’t leave right now .  
    I leave and end up retracing my path back south, this time walking along Columbus, where I see another auto repair shop on Fifty-fifth. This place has a different vibe. Behind the counter is a woman with limp dishwater blond hair, a rough-looking lady who’s obviously seen better days.  
    “Hi. I’m looking for work.” I start talking before she’s even acknowledged me or said hello.
    She doesn’t even bother to look up from the computer screen. She’s wearing glasses, so I can see in the reflection that she’s playing solitaire. “Piss off, kid.”  
    “I need a job, ma’am. I work hard, I know engines—”
    “We’re not hiring. Unless you got a car that needs fixing, go away.”
    I leave and keep walking, but I have no clue where I am or where I’m going. Lost. Tired. Sore feet. Hungry. Scared. And then I have an idea: I’ll find a phone book with Yellow Pages, and start looking up all the garages and repair shops in the area.  
    I duck into the next doorway I see—it’s a Chinese restaurant. I ask to use their phone book and the little old Asian guy tosses it to me without a word. I take it and sit down at an empty booth. I take a deep breath and summon all my attention, then I flip open the four-inch-thick book.  
    Fuck. Tiny-ass words. How the hell are you supposed to read this shit? Jesus. I turn to the Yellow Pages but it takes for-fucking-ever to find the auto repair section, and even longer to copy the addresses down on the scrap of paper I asked for. My handwriting looks like a five-year-old’s. Childish scribbles and scrawls.  
    All told, it takes me over half an hour to find and copy out five addresses and phone numbers.  
    I ignore my exhaustion and hunger, mainly because I don’t really have a choice. After leaving the restaurant, I stop at a little kiosk on the sidewalk that sells magazines and cigarettes and such and ask for a map. The young Hispanic guy behind the counter says he doesn’t sell maps but tells me to try a hotel, which sometimes have tourist maps. So I go in search of a hotel and finally find one. The map they give me is basically a cartoon, but it provides me with a basic understanding of the layout of the island of Manhattan, I realize; it’s probably better for my illiterate ass than a real map, to be honest. Maybe I should venture out of Manhattan and try to look for work in another area—maybe Brooklyn or the Bronx.  
    Tomorrow, I decide. That’s a long-ass walk, I’m guessing.
    In the meantime I manage to find the five auto repair shops on my list. They are scattered across the city, dozens of blocks apart. I spend hours and hours just walking, but not one person will even give me the time of day.  
    Not hiring, kid.
    Sorry, we got all the help we need.
    Piss off, kid.
    Come back in a couple years.
    Go away, kid.
    It’s late evening by the time I decide I have to sit down before I pass out. And that’s when I start to wonder where I’m going to sleep tonight.
    Central Park, maybe? It’s big, so there’s got to be somewhere I can catch a couple hours of sleep.
    Of course, when I finally decide to try it, I’m a half-hour walk away. By the time I get there I hurt all over, and then I have to hunt through the park for somewhere to crash. There are people everywhere, even at this time of the night, walking, running, biking, rollerblading, in couples and alone and with dogs. I see a cop on foot, friendly looking, thumbs hooked into his gear belt. Smiling at people, waving, just strolling through the park.  
    Okay, correction, Central Park is fucking mammoth. I’ve been walking these damn paths for what must be an hour, and I’m totally lost. There are a lot of