Sinful Rewards 1 Read Online Free

“Text your contact information and your location to this number, and I’ll personally ensure your message reaches Mr. Rainer. It could take a few hours for him to reply to you. He’s a busy man. But he will contact you about retrieving his phone.”
    â€œThank you.” I end the call. Nicolas will contact me. I grin, ecstatic. He’ll finally know who I am.

Chapter Two
    I TEXT MY name, phone number, and work address to Ellen. Nicolas’s phone hums seconds later, the incoming call originating from the mayor’s office. Should I answer his phone? I tap my lips with my right index finger. What would I say? I have Mr. Rainer’s phone. Can I take a message? They’ll send the police after me, thinking I stole it.
    The call goes to voice mail, and I slip the phone into my purse. The increased weight strains the strap even more. Lona may be right. My purse might not last the day.
    There’s nothing I can do about that. I stride to the bus stop. No one is waiting there because no one else living in this neighborhood takes public transportation.
    The number three bus arrives. It’s four minutes late, and there’s standing room only in the vehicle. Two confused tourists are trapped in the morning rush hour, their faces rosy as though they’ve spent too much time enjoying the sun.
    I squeeze onto the bus, pay the fare, and wish the driver a good morning. He scowls at me and hollers to the other passengers to move to the back. The two tourists move. The native Chicagoans ignore him, staring at their tablets and phones.
    I doubt anyone ignores Nicolas. Everyone listens to wealthy people. The average hardworking person like the bus driver or my mom is overlooked. I hold on to a metal pole, my body swaying as the bus moves.
    â€œYoung lady. Young lady.” An elderly woman seated to my left whacks me hard across the shins with her cane. Pain shoots up my legs, and I press my lips together, swallowing my shriek.
    â€œYour purse is torn.” The woman waves her makeshift weapon at the offending accessory.
    I pivot around the pole, attempting to move my body out of my gray-haired assailant’s reach. “I know about the strap. Thank you.” I don the same polite smile my mom wears while dealing with challenging customers at the diner.
    â€œIn my day, young ladies didn’t wear their purses across their bodies.” The deceivingly sweet-looking woman squints at me through thick lenses, the bridge of her eyeglasses covered with clear tape. “We held on to the handles. If the boys got fresh with us, we’d wallop them with our purses.” She laughs, clearly treasuring this violent memory. “Are you going to school, Miss I-know-about-the-strap?”
    â€œI’m not going to school,” I reply, wondering why she’s asking about my plans for my day. She can’t care about me. We’re strangers. “I’m twenty-three years old and I’m going to work.”
    The man sitting beside the elderly woman smiles.
    â€œWhat are you grinning at?” The woman turns her steely gaze to him. “In my day, men gave up their seats when women or children entered the bus.” The man’s smile dims. “Well?” She brandishes her cane and the man hastens out of his seat, pushing his way to the back of the bus. “Sit, child.” The elderly woman pats the red covering with one wizened hand.
    â€œI’m not a child,” I mumble but I sit because I don’t want another whack across the shins and because she truly is concerned about me.
    â€œYou think you’re not a child, but you are.” The lady smacks my knee hard, her warm, wrinkled fingers inflicting less damage than her cane. “You’re all in such a rush to grow up nowadays, wearing high heels and short skirts.” She clucks her tongue, and I glance down at my hemline. I suppose my skirt would be considered short half a century ago. “Being an