A Broken Us (London Lover Series Book 1) Read Online Free

the
rebellious act of driving without a license.
    Back then, our clothes were pretty standard:
jeans, flip-flops, and t-shirts. But standing before me now is a stylish,
artistic creator. Leslie’s thick, auburn hair is chopped short into a bob with
short pixie bangs. The Brits call it fringe. She’s wearing loud-print leggings
with multi-colored swirls all over and a deco-checkered sleeveless blouse with
a collar. It doesn’t match by any standard, but she’s rocking it with ferocity.
    I feel rather plain in comparison in my black
leggings with my loose, cream-colored, off-the-shoulder top.
    “ Oooo , God, that’s ceeeeuuute !” Leslie drawls as she gently touches the Native
American-style statement necklace around my neck.
    “Oh, thanks,” I reply, my hands touching the
same place, “I bought it at the airport in Kansas before I left. I knew I’d
need to dress this outfit up somehow with you coming to pick me up at the
airport. I feel like Humpty Dumpty next to you right now!” I tease, while
playfully smacking her ass.
    “Don’t be ridiculous, Fin!” she states, with a
huge wave of her hand. “You couldn’t be more fabulous if you were carrying eight suitcases. Speaking of which, what
the bloody hell are you thinking, bringing four ginormous suitcases for a one-week vacay ? I told you to pack light!”
    Her eyes bore into me with indignation. I know
she’s not really pissed, but I also know I need to explain my plan for staying
here longer. I decide to avoid the question; telling her at the airport is not
ideal.
    “What can I say? I have to have options to keep
up with you!” she laughs and reaches around me to drag two of the suitcases
behind me.
    “This is so unlike you, we’ll have to take a
cab now, you know. We can’t bring this kind of luggage on the tube. We’ll get
mugged, raped, and sold into international sex-trafficking,” Leslie says,
deadpan.
    My eyes bug out of my head as I take in what
she just said.
    “Kidding, Fin! Good Lord, you better brush up
on your British dry sense of humor or you’ll never have any fun here!” she
laughs as we make our way over to the next available cab driver waiting at the
curb.
    The driver stows away three suitcases in the
trunk and sets one in the passenger seat next to him. Before I know it, Leslie
and I are out on the streets of London in a proper, historical-looking, black,
English taxicab.

CHAPTER FOUR

 
 
    After I get over the initial odd feeling of the
driver being on the opposite side of the car, and driving on the wrong side of
the road, I take in the scenery. I’m even checking out the small pubs located
on every other block, daydreaming about what those people do for a living that
allows them to be in an old English pub at this time of day. It’s all
enthralling to me! Sure, there are bars in Kansas and Missouri, but they are
more extravagant here—more excitement, more hustle and
bustle—there’s an overall charm to everything.
    Leslie turns to me in the back of the cab, “So,
my neighborhood isn’t real posh or exciting, but it’s cool. It’s located in
Brixton, which I suppose you would say is like South Central London. It’s a
pretty diverse community. There are definitely some sketchy areas but the house
we live in is cool. It’s a large Victorian townhouse. It reminds me of the
brownstones you’d see in, like, Brooklyn or something—but older.”
    I have no idea what brownstones in Brooklyn
look like, but I can imagine. I’ve watched Sex
in the City for Christ’s sake! I’m not a complete loser. Or should I be
saying wanker now? Tosser ?
    “We could never afford it on our own,” Leslie continues,
“One of my flatmate’s parents own it, but they never
stay there anymore. They live in some villa in Italy almost year-round.
Occasionally, they come back to the city, but thankfully, they get a hotel so
there’s enough room for all of us!”
    I’m floored. Villas in Italy, Victorian
mansions in South London, I have