One. Fucking. Month.
“My car’s right here.” I can feel him stepping up beside me. His energy—sleazy, entitled, predatory—rolling over mine like oil slick on water.
I turn to the street.
This asshole is double-parked.
His red Maserati GranTurismo sits in the middle of the street with hazards on like parking laws are suggestions for poor people.
“Right.” I close my eyes. Take a deep breath. I have to get in that car. In an enclosed space. With this man.
What would Alex do?
Probably play the vixen. Get as much information out of him as possible. Use that superpower she has where men just... tell her things.
Can I do that? Can I copy moves I’ve watched her do a hundred times and make them mine?
I don’t know. But I have to try.
I paste on a smile. Blink up at Marcus with what I hope looks like admiration and not the screaming happening inside my brain.
In the sickly-sweet voice I’ve heard Alex use a hundred times, “Get the door for me.”
He trips over his feet. Damn near trips over that stupid fucking fur coat all the way to his car.
I watch him fumble with his keys. Watch him nearly drop them. He’s preening. Showing off.
“It’s a Maserati GranTurismo,” he says, like I asked. Like I care. “I got it for my birthday.”
So he’s a nepo baby. Honestly, that explains so much.
The wealth. The entitlement. The complete lack of awareness that normal people don’t get $150,000 sports cars as birthday presents.
He gets the door—at least he manages that—and I slide onto cool leather seats. The car is still running. Engine purring. Heated seats already warm.
At least someone didn’t steal it while it sat here double-parked for twenty minutes.
It must show on my face because he leans down into my space. Too close. Invading the car before he’s even in it.
“No one would ever dare to steal from me, Dylan.”
The way he says it. The certainty. The threat underneath.
Then he shuts the door.
Fuck.
I slow my breathing. Do everything I can to ground myself before he gets in. Box breathing. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four.
The door opens. Crisp air rushes in—one last moment of freedom—before he slams it shut.
He doesn’t put on his seatbelt.
Just pulls away from the curb without looking. Cuts off a taxi.
The taxi blares its horn. Marcus flips him off.
We’re on Market Street heading west, past Dilworth Park where the Christmas village was just taken down, past the Masonic Temple that looks like it was transported from a different century. Every landmark I know, every street I’ve walked, now contaminated by being in this car with him.
