But I’m not stupid, and I know this world is full of crazy ass people. What if this is some homophobic sociopath? Is this all a ruse to kill me? I’ve watchedplentyof horror movies and Lifetime movies—that’s the problem. That’s the main reason my brain can’t stop writing scenes I don’t want to star in. Shit, I could probably write a best selling thriller about my delusions of what’s going to take place tonight.
I check the app again. Travis is two minutes away.
One minute.
A black Camry rounds the corner, slowing as it approaches and pulls up to the curb. I push off the wall, running a quick hand through my hair before opening the door and sliding into the back seat.
“Bradley?” the driver asks, confirming who I am.
“And you’re Travis. My very own chariot to Prince Charming,” I joke. Travis doesn’t even blink.
I pull the door shut with a soft click as the interior is set in silence. The driver isn’t even playing music. Hell, he could at least have a dull as shit news channel on. But nothing. Seeing how he responded to my joke, I choose not to try and engage him in any more conversation, either.
Instead, I open the app on my phone and send my date a message.
Me: I’m in the chariot and headed your way. ETA says 3o min.
He doesn't respond, but I’m not expecting it. Since he’s paying for this ride, I’m sure he already knows. So I sit back, letting my head rest on the seat and close my eyes, getting mentally prepared for the night to come.
I stand outside my date's apartment building, taking it in for a moment. Glancing up, I have to shield my eyes to keep the sun out; it’s fucking tall as shit, maybe thirteen floors. It’s a dream with smooth marble columns, glass so clear it seems like nothing separates the inside from the street. Modern. Expensive. It’s the kind of place that people don't justwalk into unless they belong.
And I don’t belong in this fancy world. But I do. At least tonight, I’m supposed to. Hell, I am living out my very own Cinderella story. Foxy is my fairy godmother, the Lyft was my pumpkin and the driver my mouse. This apartment building is my castle. But what’s my glass slipper? Is it my cock? Fuck me, I hope I don’t lose it tonight and have to prove it’s mine. How would I do that?
The longer I stand there, the more my mind goes straight down the drain with my whole Cinderella conspiracy.
Shaking it off, I walk through the massive glass doors like I’ve done it a million times before, confident in every stride I take even though my palms are itching like crazy with nerves. The lobby is quiet, polished to the point that my reflection stares back at me from the white marble floors. There’s a small podium with a well-dressed doorman standing at it beside the elevators like a guard dog in his designer suit.
I nod at him as I pass, and he returns it, as if he’s waiting for me to say something.
“Hello,” slips softly from my mouth.
He tips his head to me, but never questions who I am when it’s obvious I don’t fit in here. Just silent acknowledgment for me to proceed to my destination.
I stop at the elevator, the one to the left of the plant as the message instructs, and press the button markedPH— penthouse. I slip my hands in my pockets and rock back and forth on my heels, and wait, while still nervously glancing over at the doorman, who’s long forgotten about me.
The elevator dings softly, just before the doors slide open without a sound. I step inside, and the air is immediately different—cooler, scented faintly with cedar and vanilla. The panel on the wall lights up, but there’s no buttons for floors. Just a number pad waiting for a six-digit code.
I smirk. Fancy-ass rich guy hiring someone for company? You’d think a man with a place like this would have suitors falling at his feet, lapping up his attention like thirsty little dogs.
The elevator doors ping again, pulling me from my rambling thoughts. The security code. I laugh as I key it in.
Day. Month. Year.
The dude made it my birthday and I wonder if he does that for everyone. What if me and some psycho stalker have the same birthdate? He’s setting himself up for his own death.
I punch it in slowly, the soft beep of each number echoing in the enclosed space.
0 - 8 - 1 - 1 - 0 - 1.
The elevator doors shut as it hums to life, a quiet but powerful motion, and I’m rising—fast. There’s no stopping at other floors. Sweet. A man could get used to this.
When the elevator finally slows, I check myself one last time in the mirrored walls and get ready to step out into a hallway.
But that’s not what happens.
The elevator doors slide open directly into the apartment.
No hallway.
