The Runner's Last Ride

By T.R Whittier

       Paige Turner (or 'Pah-hee-na, as she would rather be called) isn't your typical Poor Little Rich Girl. She couldn't care less about clothing. Parties make her sick – literally. And if an eligible bachelor so much as slips an arm across her shoulders, she can't help screaming bloody blue murder before running a mile.

       Because that's what she is, see... A Runner.

       When the going gets rough, she goes and gets overwhelmed; her mind shuts down and she can't think straight. Or at all, really. And that's when the dreaded feeling comes over her – the tingling in her spine, the blood pounding in her ears, the hammering of her heart as it crashes against the wall of her chest. And it's like she'll die if she doesn't just get the hell away from it all.

       But when her hearty-partying sister is found dead on the sidewalk outside The Gramercy Rose Hotel, Pah-hee-na takes 'getting away' to a whole new level. Instead of just shying away from her resulting stress and sadness, she runs away. Far, far away. Pah-hee-na Runs...using a pretty sweet set of wheels, that is.

       But Running is more likely to land her in Hell (no, no...not that one) than help her catch a murderer...isn't it?

       With the help of a sexy, mysterious stranger, a jumbo-sized jack-of-all-trades, and an apparition (or possibly two), Pah-hee-na Turner is about to find out. And she's in for the ride of her life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WhittierSideBooks
• Release date: Dec 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201304638

Book preview

ALSO BY T.R WHITTIER

The Buck Pass

Fat Ballet

Reflections

For those who Run,

those who have thought about it,

and those who have finally reached their destination.

The Runner’s Last Ride

ONE

I’m not one to sugarcoat things, so when I say I looked like a cake, You can bet your ass I looked like a goddamn cake. Yards of what resembled fluffy white frosting, embellished with hundreds of crunchy seed pearls and accented with several roses that could easily have been made of whipped cream, hung drably from my all-too-angular frame, giving me the appearance of a very tasty, if not particularly well-endowed, piece of confectionery on its way to the cutting board.

I mean, seriously, I looked ridiculous. Even my reflection, staring back at me from the full-length mirror in my parents’ living room, seemed as though she were struggling to stifle a laugh.

"Oh, darling, you look absolutely divine! squealed my mother, exhaling a huge cloud of cigarette smoke as she circled me, inspecting the sugary garment from every angle. All we have to do is stuff the bust a bit, take in the waist, pad the hips, and get you one of those fantastic fake behinds that are all the rage right now, she added, taking another hit of nicotine. Then, you’ll be perfect. Hunter won’t even be able to lift the veil without needing a new pair of pants."

My sister Ainsley, who lay sprawled out on the pale pink silk chaise lounge, snorted. "Well, that would certainly make for an interesting ceremony. I can just see the caption. She held up her outstretched hands, highlighting the imaginary headline. ‘Here Comes The Bride... And Here CUMS The Groom!’ Ha! Catching my eye in the mirror, she grinned. What do you say, Paige, can I cover the story? I haven’t had a good human interest piece in ages. Not since we got that exclusive about The Fat Ballet Company... I still can’t believe I had to co-anchor the biggest breakthrough of my career with that little dipshit, Gary! God, I wish they’d transfer him to another network. Preferably one in Siberia...."

Ainsley, an incredibly ambitious reporter for New York First, the city’s only twenty-four hour news network, always had plenty to say. But, as usual, only one of her words managed to snag my attention.

Don’t call me that, I told her bluntly, interrupting a diatribe about how difficult it was to rise to the top, despite the fact that she was the only glob of cream in the entire company.

What?

"Don’t. Call me. That."

Ainsley raised one overly plucked eyebrow. "Don’t call you what?"

‘Paige,’ I elucidated, for what had to have been the millionth time. Don’t call me ‘Paige.’ I told you, my name’s –

"Oh lord, she moaned, cutting me off. Don’t start with the Spanish! Mo-om, Ainsley whined, as though she were four years old rather than rapidly approaching forty, she’s doing it again!"

Paige Turner, said my mother sternly, in her best schoolmarm voice. I could almost picture her, wearing a brown calico dress with a starched apron over it, her hair pinned up in two long braids that wound around her head. The effect, however, was completely ruined by the two huge puffs of smoke that came shooting out of her nostrils. "Now, you just listen! You come from a fine old American family. Why, Daddy and I can both trace our lineages right back to the Mayflower! She beamed at me triumphantly, as though I was supposed to be impressed by the fact that my ancestors were a bunch of religious fanatics who stepped off a boat and stole a country from its native peoples. You should be proud of your heritage, she went on passionately. And your name. Why you want to go around pretending to be the exotic Señorita Pay-geena is beyond me."

"It’s Pah-hee-na, I corrected her, enunciating the syllables slowly and clearly. Página. It means ‘page.’ "

So, it’s the same thing! she cried, throwing her hands up in annoyance.

"It’s not," I insisted stubbornly. Honestly, you’d think a logophile such as myself would have been smart enough to be born into a family who appreciated the subtle nuances of spelling. Or who was, at least, aware of them. " ‘Página’ means, like, a page in a book. A book page is a beautiful, fascinating thing, I clarified, just in case she didn’t make the connection. ‘Paige’ on the other hand... I paused, glowering at my mother before driving home the point. ‘Paige’ just means ‘servant.’ A lowly creature, forced to kowtow to her superiors."

"Oh, don’t be ridiculous, she snapped. And for god’s sake, don’t start playing with that thing again...can’t you put it down for a minute?"

Needless to say, I ignored her.

Ainsley shook her head, chuckling cattily. "Only you would think a book page was a ‘beautiful, fascinating thing’!"

Right, I retorted curtly. My capacity for tolerating annoying relatives had just about reached its limit. Seriously, there should be a law against having to spend a perfectly good Saturday afternoon dressing up like Bridal Barbie and listening to caustic comments from family members.

Turning my back on the mirror, I unzipped my way to freedom. The monstrous dessert dress fell to the floor, pooling around my ankles in a pitiful pile.

dress_fin1

Ready for the next one, darling? my mother asked brightly, all too eager for a change of subject.

Instead of answering, I strode across the room in my underwear – a black, lacy ensemble that left little to the imagination – and retrieved the heap of tangled clothing that had been tossed onto the light pink, leather couch.

What are you doing? Her eyes narrowed as she watched me pull on the pair of skin-tight, leopard print pants; her jaw clenched as I tugged the low-cut, leather tank top over my head of unruly, mouse-brown hair. You’ve got three more gowns to try on.

Oh no, I don’t, I replied firmly. I’m done for today.

"Well! huffed my mother, before heaving one of her trademark dramatic sighs. That’s gratitude for you! And after all the hard work I put into convincing designers to send dresses to the house, just because you can’t be bothered to set foot in a store..."

"Oh yeah, because waving a handful of hundred-dollar bills in front of their faces is such hard work," I muttered, fastening a pair of stiletto-heeled sandals onto my feet and grabbing hold of my black leather handbag.

"I don’t know why you have to be so difficult, she exclaimed in exasperation, taking several short, successive puffs from her cigarette. And I don’t know why you insist on wearing those horrible, cheap-looking clothes."

"Because they’re hers," I snarled.

SILENCE.

Seriously, that pause was so pregnant you’d have thought it was about to give birth right there on the wall-to-wall white carpet.

My mother patted the back of her head subconsciously – a nervous habit of hers, born from the need to be sure that there wasn’t a single strand of expensively highlighted hair out of place; Ainsley coughed and turned her attention to the window, becoming very interested in the view of Central Park all of a sudden.

Darling... my mother murmured finally, pulling another cigarette out of her purse. With trembling hands, she lit it with the end of the one that was already in her mouth, secured both of them between her lips, and began sucking with all her might. I know you miss her... We all do...

"Oh, do you? I retorted, my voice rising in anger. You sure have a strange way of showing it! I mean, you...neither of you, I added, glaring at Ainsley, who still sat staring out the window, have even said her name since – "

Since ‘The Incident,’ my mother interrupted me sharply. It was a tragedy, Paige –

"Pah-hee-na."

" – and I know you’ve felt it very deeply. We all have. But it’s no good dwelling on it. Not the way you have been. It’s not necessary."

" ‘Not necessary’?" I repeated, incensed.

No, chimed in Ainsley, tearing her eyes away from the treetops, not necessary and not healthy.

" ‘Not necessary,’ I parroted through gritted teeth. ‘Not healthy.’  "

No, Darling, reiterated my mother with a smile. Clearly, she thought our little mental health chat was helping. "Just...try and put her out of your mind. You should be concentrating on you right now, and on your future with Hunter. After all, you’re the one who’s alive."

"And Cherie’s dead, I said loudly, my words ricocheting off the walls. She’s dead, and I’m the only one who gives a shit!"

BAH-BAH-BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BAH-BAH-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP! HEY!!!

My cell phone, of course, chose that exact moment to blare obnoxiously, cutting off all other lines of communication.

That must be Hunter! squealed my mother excitedly.

Quick, Paige, answer it!

"It’s Pah-hee-na!" I hissed, letting the phone ring and ring.

"You shouldn’t keep a man waiting too long, my mother went on worriedly, ladling out a spoonful of advice from the last century that had long since gone sour. They don’t like it."

Oh, don’t worry about Hunter. I dismissed her concern with a wave of my hand. "He practically lives for the chase."

Still, said Ainsley, grabbing hold of my handbag and plunging her claws into it, you don’t want to run the risk of making a wrong turn somewhere and losing him. Fishing my cell phone out of its hiding place, she pressed it eagerly into my hand. "Go on. Answer it."

"Okay, Okay," I mumbled, jabbing the call button with my thumb.

"Hey-hey, look who I finally got hold of! Hunter’s confident, charismatic voice boomed through the tiny speakers. How ya doin’, Babe?"

I’ve been better, I told him miserably, ignoring the hairy eyeballs that my mother and Ainsley were giving me.

"That’s fabulous! exclaimed Hunter, who, as usual, hadn’t heard a word I’d said. Listen, Babe, we need to sit down someplace swanky and put our heads together about these wedding plans, he went on. I’m thinking we meet at Café L’Artiste, that little place on Seventh Ave... You know, the one across the street from Carnegie Hall that’s got all those weird statues of butts and noses in the corners."

Can’t we talk tomorrow? I protested wearily, causing my mother and Ainsley to groan in unison. I think I’m all wedding’d out for one day.

Great! So, I’ll meet you there in, like, an hour. Gotta go now, Babe, phone conference with a super-important client! See-you-soon-love-ya-bye! And he hung up.

Crap, I muttered, shoving the phone back into my bag.

"Well?"

What’d he say?

My mother and Ainsley looked as though they were about to burst out of their skins. Honestly, it’s disgusting the way they carry on about Hunter, just because he’s one of the richest men under the age of thirty in Manhattan.

He just wants to talk about wedding stuff, I informed them anticlimactically. We’re gonna grab a bite at some place on Seventh in about an hour.

"An hour? Oh, darling, you’ll have to hurry!" cried my mother in anguish. Placing a hand firmly on the small of my back, she frog-marched me towards the front door. Ainsley, grabbing hold of my arm, followed her lead.

"What the...? Are you nuts? I demanded, shaking myself free from the dual death grips. Oh, wait, I already know the answer to that one..."

Paige, dear –

"PAH-hee-na!"

" – you really must run! An hour isn’t nearly enough time."

I’m only going down the block!

"Oh no, you’re not, she informed me menacingly, taking another drag from her double cigarette. Not before you go back to the hotel and change out of those awful clothes. Put on something chic and stylish, something Hunter likes."

"Hunter loves these clothes on me! I gave her a dark smile. He loved them on Cherie, too, remember?"

The past has passed, said my mother quickly, waving her diamond-laden fingers as though to help it get a move on. Best not to drudge all that up again, Darling. It’s not –

"I know, I know, I muttered mutinously. It’s not necessary."

"What a pain, having to go all the way back down there, moaned Ainsley, as she twisted open the five dead bolt locks that secured the front door against potential invaders. You should really think about getting out, moving Uptown like the rest of us. It’s positively macabre to keep on living there after..."

‘The Incident,’ supplied my mother. "Yes, darling, I agree! You need to get out of that flea-ridden flophouse. Why your father insisted on us living there all those years, I’ll never know. It’s not as if it’s the only piece of property he owns, the cheap bastard! He probably just got a kick out of making us suffer, while he was off living the high life with one of his hussies!"

My mother, as You might have suspected, has some strange ideas about what constitutes suffering. I mean, back when all of us lived at the hotel, each member of the family had an entire floor to themselves. And let me tell You, those suites, with their spacious rooms, walk-in closets, and enormous Jacuzzi bathtubs, were stylish. Mine, of course, still is. Okay, so the rest of the place might be a little worse for wear, and some of the patrons are a bit...well...let’s just say eccentric, but when it came right down to it –

The Gramercy Rose is my home.

My mother blew out a cigarette smoke-accentuated sigh. "Yes, of course it is, Darling. For now. But, come on, there’s no time to argue, she said hurriedly, as I opened my mouth to do just that. Ainsley, darling, grab those other dresses, will you? She can take them with her and try them on in private. Her large, kohl-rimmed eyes stared at me pointedly. That should help you come to a decision soon. Won’t it, dear?"

Here ya go! Ainsley announced cheerfully, shoving three huge boxes into my arms. Each one felt as though it were filled with lead.

Oof! I grunted. You’ve gotta be kidding! I can’t carry these on the train!

My mother looked horrified at the thought. "Well, of course you won’t carry them on the subway, Darling! You’ll take a cab."

I hate cabs and she knows it. Seriously, every time I get in one, I feel like I’m about to be kidnapped. I mean, you’re trusting some random person to take you where you need to go, but what’s preventing him (and it’s almost always a ‘him’) from driving you out to the East River and dumping you in it?

No cab, I protested, shaking my head vehemently. I do all my own driving.

"Well, that’s for sure, sniggered Ainsley. Remember that time Hunter found you in that pathetic little one-stoplight town? What was it called? Tacky, Ohio?"

‘Tackton,’ I muttered. "And it wasn’t pathetic. The lake there was really beautiful. Full of minnows."

"Yes. Well, said my mother briskly, we won’t have any more of those little...excursions...now, will we?"

Not now that you took away Good Ol’ Galahad, no.

My mother smiled. It’s for your own safety, darling. Godorric said so.

"And god forbid Godorric could ever be wrong..."

‘He’s never wrong, declared Ainsley loyally. The man’s a genius."

A Saint.

A –

God? I supplied, rolling my eyes. "Goddamn Godorric! He’s a pain in the ass, is what he is. Just another pretentious quack who likes to stick his nose in other people’s business. And sentence them to a lifetime of public transportation."

"Oh, darling, do stop being so dramatic! cried my mother dramatically. Nobody’s suggesting you go anywhere near the subway. Tony will call you a cab, and that’s that. I’ll phone down and tell him. Now go on, dear, she insisted, pulling the front door open and practically shoving me through it. Go on!"

"Okay, Okay. Geez!" With the tower of bridal gown boxes wobbling ominously in my arms, I stepped into the marble tiled corridor and jabbed the elevator call button.

Ping! P-P-Ping! PING! The ancient apparatus stuttered and squeaked its way into action, the number ‘15’ flashing to life on the overhead indicator. But the gilded elevator doors refused to open.

It’s been a bit...finicky...lately, said my mother, by way of explanation.

It’s been ‘a bit finicky’ since the day you moved in! I replied irritably. "I mean, seriously, when you said you were looking for a new building to live in, I thought you actually meant a new building."

‘Park House’ is one of the trendiest little undiscovered gems in Manhattan, protested Ainsley, sounding as though she were quoting straight from the real estate agent’s brochure. "It’s got absolutely oodles of class and character."

Yeah, well, so does my ass.

"Don’t be snarky, darling! It’s so unattractive. Anyway, I’m sure the elevator will start working in a minute."

"I thought I didn’t have a minute, I told my mother innocently. Aren’t I supposed to be in a hurry?"

Of course, she replied, mistaking my sarcasm for concern. Perhaps you’d better take the stairs then, Paige dear.

"IT’S PAH-HEE-NA!!!" I screeched in frustration, before spinning around on my heel – as quickly as I could beneath the weight of my bridal burden – and stomping towards the stairwell.

TWO

A fternoon, Miss Turner . Here, let me take those boxes for ya.

Hi, Tony. Thanks, I muttered miserably, upon making my entrance in the lobby.

I hear ya need a taxi. Don’t care for ‘em much myself, but they do get ya from point A to point B pretty quick.

A small smile cracked the frozen surface of my face. I couldn’t help liking Tony, the grey-haired old geezer who defended the doors of Park House. There was just something about the wrinkles and crinkles around his eyelids that made you pretty damn sure his heart was in the right place.

Yeah, I can’t stand cabs, I confided in him, as we made our way out onto the sidewalk. "But I can’t carry three wedding dresses on the train. They weigh, like, fifty pounds each."

Tony chuckled as he repositioned the boxes in his arms. "Not exactly the lightest things in the world, no. But I bet they’re gorgeous." He grinned, causing the wrinkles and crinkles to stand out even more, and then – somehow – managed to stick one of his arms assertively in the air.

TAXI! he bellowed, like the old pro that he was.

A half-second later, one of Manhattan’s characteristic bright yellow monstrosities pulled up to the pavement; I greeted it with my usual scowl of suspicion.

Okay, Miss Turner, here ya go! Tony, continuing to defy one of the fundamental laws of physics, balanced all three boxes on the palm of one hand while pulling open the door of the cab with the other. And, somehow, he was still smiling.

Um...thanks. There was no way out of it. And so, reluctantly, I slid onto it. The back seat, that is.

Where to, Miss? asked the driver, as Tony positioned the packages beside me, shut the door, and began heading back to his post.

The Gramercy Rose Hotel, please... I glanced at his name badge, which was plastered to the back of his seat. ...Wezner.

And where might that be?

I tried not to laugh. Really, I did. "Would you believe...the Gramercy?"

"Oh, yeah. That neighborhood. The one with the little park, right? With the gate around it? I hear you gotta be a resident to even rest your butt on one of the benches in there. They give you a key and everything, it’s that exclusive. Catching my eye in the rearview mirror, he gave me an incriminating stare. You got one?"

Have I mentioned how much I hate cabs?

"I’m going to the ho-tel," I reiterated, drawing the word out emphatically. With any luck, he’d just assume I was a guest. Or...something.

Oh yeah, I forgot. A hotel. Wait a minute... the cabbie said suddenly, a glimmer of recognition flashing in his eyes. "Did you say The Gramercy Rose Hotel?" Turning all the way around in his seat, he gave me an appraising sort of smirk.