The black-and-white vintage Rolls Royce sped north on Third Avenue. Then it slammed on its brakes at 62nd Street. Then it sped up again. Then it slammed the brake again at 65th Street. It went on like that block after block after Upper East Side block. My mostly empty stomach gurgled queasily. My head throbbed from being thrown against the back of the stiff leather seat over and over and over and over. The only bright spots on this harrowing journey were the pesky lights once again flickering at the edges of my vision.
But hey, at least I didn’t have to deal with Finnian being disappointed by my disappointment because, apparently, we were just meeting at the venue. I glared at his empty seat as the driver and I idled all alone with each other at 87th Street. Call me old-fashioned, but if
