Chapter 8
"This," Grace announced, gesturing grandly to a rusted food truck on the corner, "is the best dining experience in New York."
Alaric looked at the paper boat in his hand. The tacos were overflowing with meat and salsa. Grease was already soaking through the cardboard.
"Three dollars," Grace said, taking a massive bite. "Eat."
Alaric took a tentative bite. The flavor exploded in his mouth-spicy, savory, fresh. It was, annoyingly, better than the wagyu beef he'd had at the gala last week.
They sat on a wooden bench nearby. The street was loud, alive with music and chatter.
"My mom used to bring me here," Grace said, her voice softening. "Before the gallery went under. I want to buy it back one day. The gallery, I mean."
Alaric watched her. The neon sign reflected in her eyes. "You will," he said quietly.
A low, aggressive rumble cut through the air. A bright red Ferrari screeched to a halt at the curb, double-parking illegally.
The door opened. Tyler Brock stepped out, wearing sunglasses at night. A flashy blonde slid out the passenger side.
Grace froze, her taco halfway to her mouth.
"Well, well," the blonde's shrill voice cut through the noise. "Look who it is. Eating trash on the street."
Tyler sauntered over, sneering. He looked at Alaric, taking in the perfectly tailored but deliberately understated suit. "So this is him? The new money?"
Alaric didn't stand up. He wiped his mouth with a napkin, his movements slow and deliberate. "Can I help you?"
The blonde looked Alaric up and down. Even in a simple suit, his face was symmetrical, his jawline sharp. She licked her lips. "You're kinda cute for a guy slumming it. Shame you picked a loser. Her dad is finished, you know."
Grace stood up, stepping between them. "Leave us alone, Tyler."
Tyler laughed. "Grace, come on. Look at this guy. Does he even make in a year what I paid for the rims on that car?"
Alaric glanced at the Ferrari. It was the entry-level model. He had three in his garage that he let the interns drive.
He stood up then. He towered over Tyler.
"That's a 488, right?" Alaric asked.
Tyler puffed out his chest. "Yeah. Jealous?"
"Not really," Alaric said calmly. "The transmission on that model is notorious for slipping in second gear. And those rims? They're aftermarket. Cheap alloy. You're going to crack one on a pothole."
Tyler blinked. "What do you know? You push paper."
"I read prospectuses," Alaric lied effortlessly. "And I know that your front left tire is underinflated. It's a blowout waiting to happen."
Tyler scoffed. "Let's go, babe. I can't stand the smell of poverty."
"You'll be hearing from my lawyer about the harassment," Grace called out.
"Yeah, yeah," Tyler waved her off. "Enjoy your tacos."
The Ferrari roared to life and peeled away, leaving a cloud of exhaust.
Grace was shaking. Alaric reached out, his hand warm and heavy on her shoulder.
"Ignore them," he said. "He's an idiot. And that tire really is going to blow."
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