“Jordan! Jordan, no, I just can’t … Please, please, I can’t, I’d rather just go home, I can’t. I can’t.” “Won’t, you mean,” I snapped, but I slammed out of the roadster, my braids flying behind me. I used my irritation to propel me through the door into the restaurant, ignoring the stares that I got. I always got stared at when I went out in Louisville. I’d be common as dirt in Chicago, but we weren’t in Chicago. I stood as if someone had slid a steel shaft down my spine, and I glared at the little girl sitting at the register.
