“Hi there,” I say in what I hope is a flirtatious voice.
“Hey yourself,” he says, stubbing out the cigarette and heading over to the driver’s side. “You ready to rock and roll? Let’s go!” he says, while lowering himself into the low-slung seat.
Okay, that was definitely disappointing. In addition to being a chimney, Tom was actually outside the car, and standing mere feet from the passenger side door. But nope, he didn’t hold it open for me. Instead, he waltzed to his own side, and slipped in, leaving me to my own devices.
Sighing, I teeter forwards in my high heels and gingerly open the door. Fortunately, even though it weighs a ton, the engineers at Maserati have designed a masterpiece, and the door opens with just a touch.
I slide into the bucket seat and buckle myself in. The car reeks of tobacco and tar, and I try hard to smile even though inside, I want to gag.
“All good?” Tom says casually, turning on the engine.
“Um, yeah,” I return, still trying not to inhale. Still, the interior of the Maserati is breathtaking. It’s streamlined, modern, and incredibly luxurious, with white leather seats and top of the line electronics.
“I like your car,” I mumble.
“Yeah.” Tom grins. “You’re driving a pretty badass machine yourself.” He tilts his head toward my driveway. “That Alfa Romeo isn’t cheap. Mind me asking what it is you do to make that kind of money?”
I freeze up. Shit. What am I supposed to say? Then, suddenly, I blurt out, “I sold my company to Lockhart Industries.” My fingers tighten around the leather seats. “That’s how I made the bulk of my money, but I still get some of the profits, even now. Plus, some other perks that are pretty nice.” I point to the car. “That’s one of them.”
Tom chortles.
“Ah. I see. I knew you didn’t pick that out yourself because an Alfa’s a guy’s car.” Before I can respond to his sexist comment, he reaches over and runs his hand along the top of my thigh. “Do you like to dance?” he insinuates, easing off the side of the road and toward the highway.
As he waits for me to answer, his fingertips glide across my skin, getting higher and higher. For some reason, his touch weirds me out. It’s not good, it’s not bad, it’s just weird. I want to push him away, but this is Tom Benning we’re talking about here.
“I’ve never been out dancing before,” I admit.
He gives me the side eye, his hand still in my lap.
“Really? Oh babe, we’ve got to get you out on the dance floor. How strange. I thought everyone went to clubs these days. At least the people I know.”
You know, this guy is turning out to be a complete jerk. It’s like I’m not cool enough, I’m not good enough, and I’m not anything enough for him. What does he want from me? My sassy side gets a hold of me, and I say, “You know, I’m only eighteen. Maybe that’s why I haven’t been to a billion and one clubs yet.”
Tom slams on the brakes, stopping a few feet away from a green light. Fortunately, the seat belt locks, preventing me from flying forward, but it chafes around my neck. Ouch.
“Jeez.”
“What the fuck did you just say?” he says under his breath.
I nod. “Yeah. I’m only eighteen. I know, I look older, and I’m independent, so a lot of people assume I’m twenty-five.”
He gulps, runs his fingers through his hair, and then continues to drive. “Okay, well, at least you’re legal. I’m not committing any crimes here.”
His words make me feel uneasy. From the start, this so-called date has been nothing but a disaster. This guy was my celebrity crush – the man I idolized for so long – and now that I’m actually with him, he’s turning out to be quite the creep. Clearly, his on screen persona is vastly different from the real Tom Benning.
“You can take me back home if you want to. I understand.” My heart skips with hope. Maybe we can end this now.
“No,” he insists. “We just won’t tell anyone how old you are. No one will ask you for an ID as long as you’re with me. Just keep your mouth shut and lean forwards so your cleavage shows. Yeah, give ‘em a look at those babies, and no one will guess you’re eighteen.”
Wow, what a winner. This guy practically has my skin crawling, but I manage a fake smile.
“Okay, sure. Will do.” I fidget with the hem of my dress, wishing I could leap out of the car. If I were with Bruce right now, he’d never make me feel this uncomfortable. But that’s just a fever dream because Bruce doesn’t want me anymore.
Eventually, we arrive at a prestigious nightclub called Club Echo. It’s a place I’ve only seen on TV: you know, the one where A-list celebrities are caught flashing the camera or getting so drunk they shave their heads or something outrageous like that.
