"Get in. Now," she commanded, the engine of her luxury sedan humming with a low, expensive vibration that seemed to rattle the very air of the neighborhood.
I didn't need to be told twice. I lunged for the passenger door, pulling it open and sinking into the plush leather seat that felt like a different world compared to the hard plastic of my tricycle.
"Take a left at the next intersection," I directed, adjusting my position. "It’s right near that bar where you were drinking the other night."
From the corner of my eye, I couldn't help but notice the way Kristinav Johnson looked behind the wheel. She was a woman who clearly understood the power of her own silhouette. She was wearing a short, form-fitting skirt that rode up her thighs as she manipulated the pedals, the sheer fabric of he
