Bree.
Callahan takes the front passenger seat. Indira gets behind the wheel.
“Park Slope first,” I tell her. “Then Astoria.”
“Who arethey?” Sora asks.
“Indira, my driver,” I reply. “And Callahan, my head of security.”
Indira raises the privacy screen without being asked, because she’s a professional and also probably finds this entire situation hilarious, judging from the barely suppressed grin.
When the screen is up, Sora immediately launches into questions. She leans past Bree and says, “So what do you do, Nico?”
And there it is. The question I’ve been dreading since I offered them a ride. Because there’s no good answer here. If I’m vague, I look like I’m hiding something. If I’m specific, I become “the billionaire” and suddenly everything changes.
Then again, it’s probably already obvious I have money, given the car. My security. My driver.
“Biotech.” I keep my tone flat. Uninviting. Maybe she’ll take the hint and move on.
She doesn’t.
“Like drug dealer, or something?” She’s half joking, half serious, and I can’t tell which part is winning.
Bree makes a strangled noise beside me that might be horror or suppressed laughter.
“Like medical devices,” I say. Technically true.
“Oh cool!” Sora says. “My cousin works in medical device sales. Maybe you know a Brad Henderson?”
Of course I don’t know Brad Henderson. I employ three hundred people and contract with dozens of hospitals and clinics. Thechances of me personally knowing some random sales guy in the broader industry are roughly equivalent to zero.
But I can’t say that without sounding like an asshole.
So I just say “No” and pray she drops it.
“But you’re rich, obviously,” Sora replies, still cheerfully destroying any hope of a normal conversation. “Like, rich enough to afford bodyguards and a driver!” She giggles at that like it’s the funniest thing in the world.
I force a smile and agree, “Rich enough.”
Bree makes a small noise that might be agreement or might be a strangled cry for help.
Finally we drop Sora off in Park Slope outside a brownstone that’s probably been subdivided. She gives Bree a long, meaningful look before getting out.
“Text me when you get home,” she says. Then, quieter but not quiet enough, “He’s either a serial killer or a billionaire! Not sure which is worse.”
The door closes.
We’re alone.
The silence stretches. Bree’s staring out the window at the Brooklyn streets.
“Your friend seems nice,” I say.
“She has no filter.” Bree glances at me. “Serial killer seems harsh though.”
“To be fair,” I reply. “I’m the one who let a complete stranger into my car. So which one of us has worse survival instincts now?”
“Touché,” she replies. “But seriously, you’re the one with a bodyguard, remember?”
