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I live in Little Italy, twenty minutes from the club in Lennox Hill. Begrudgingly I head towards the FDR as it cuts around ten minutes off the drive and I'm already running late but, I’ve always preferred driving straight through the city. Yes, there's more traffic and congestion but I love the feel of it. I like feeling in and amongst it. Now tell anyone I said this and I'll deny it but, driving through the city, in a car I've paid for, it feels like I've made it. Like I'm living the dream.
We grew up in a working-class family and before my mother remarried, times were really hard. So having money was something I wasn't used to and it was all I ever wanted back then. I know how that sounds, ‘girl in a shit situation turns to stripping’ but I didn’t do it solely for the money. I love the confidence it gives me, I love the lifestyle. It makes me happy and I learned early on that if something makes you happy, you grab hold with both hands and don’t ever let go.
The buildings rise up covering most of the navy sky whilst the Hudson paints the opposite side of the freeway. The oddly soothing cacophony of noise pollution and the odd horn filter in through my open window. Out of nowhere a blacked-out Mercedes in the lane beside me cuts me up. I'm on my horn immediately. “Fucking dickhead.” I hiss to myself, hitting the brakes so I'm not up his arse. Next thing I know, red brake lights illuminate the inside of my car and I'm just quick enough to stop myself from totally rear-ending him. I felt it though, I definitely made contact.
“Fuck my life.” I groan, flopping my head down onto the leather steering wheel. This really isn't what I need whilst I'm running late. The Merc puts its indicator on and pulls into the layby. Reluctantly I follow and park up behind, jumping out of the car with fresh rage.
I don't wait for the idiot to get out to start assessing the damage. My number plate is dented. The paintwork behind is probably damaged too. No visible damage to his car. Figures. I'm still bent down assessing the front of my car when I hear a door shut and a pair of Prada Oxfords come into my view of the tarmac.
Clean black Armani suit, Tag Heuer watch, eyes the colour of burned honey, golden brown skin, short dark hair. Fuck.
I get to my feet and he barely spares me a glance. Just looks over his stupidly clean bumper as cars flash past us making me move instinctively closer to the concrete barrier.
“Your car’s fine.” I snap when he continues to assess the state of his pristine car.
He turns his head a fraction, a slightly annoyed look on his face. “Lucky for you.” Heavy on that New York accent. Brooklyn, I think but I could be wrong. Been here the better part of a year and I'm still not used to the accents.
My head dips and my face screws up. “For me? This was all your fault, you came into my lane and now my paintwork is damaged.”
He rolls his eyes. “You're British.” A statement. A very arrogant statement.
“What the fuck is that meant to mean?”
“It means none of you know how to drive.”
“Sorry? You fucking brake checked me!” I motion a hand towards his car and he tilts his head, focus still on me with way too much intensity. It's then I realise just how tall he is. He makes me feel tiny and that never happens. My chest constricts and it's not from anger, but apprehension tinged with fear and I don't like it one bit.
“No.” He says in a condescending tone like I'm some petulant child. “You went into the back of me because you weren't paying attention.”
I swear to god my hackles rise. Fear forgotten. “You cut me up?” I say it loudly and clearly so it gets through his thick skull. My fingers turn into gun fingers as I point at my car and I have to snatch my hand back because I've been actively trying to stop doing that when I get mad. I assess his car. How high spec it is. “What is this? Some kind of insurance scam?”
His horn goes off, followed by a deep, “Hurry up.” from inside the car. He acts as if he hasn’t heard. His eyes run over my body, not in a leer but an assessment like he's sizing up an opponent. Not sure why but I want to know how I measure up.
He obviously deems me an inadequate opponent because his mouth curves into this horribly mocking smile, the kind constructed solely to get a rise out of you. It's working but I won't let him see that.
“Does it look like I need an insurance payout?” Oh yeah. Prick.
I square my shoulders, fold my arms over my chest. “Honestly? Who knows these days? Your car could be an accumulation of a few very nice payouts.” I let my eyes wander over his frame. White shirt tailored for him specifically by the way it hugs his strong chest. Jacket perfectly covering good-sized arms, not too big but not weedy by any stretch. “You can rent a suit now, nice ones too.”
He scoffs an exaggerated laugh. Briefly shakes his head at me like I'm an annoying mosquito that just won't leave him alone and pulls out a very thick money clip from his pocket. Oh, he's a fucking show off too. He slips two one hundred dollar bills from the overstuffed clip and holds them out to me between two fingers, that mocking smile still on his mouth.
I should take it.
I don’t.
I glance at the money, make a disgusted sound at the back of my throat. “Keep it.” I round my car and pull open the door only pausing to stick my head above the door. “It is the left side I’m meant to drive on, right?”
He gives me a serious case of side-eye and mutters. “Fucking Brits.” Under his breath before tucking the money back into his pocket, climbing into his car and speeding away.
Fucking arsehole.
I put the situation out of my head. We're going to have a good night tonight. A lucrative night. They happen when you get to work with a fresh head. No arrogant, bad driving, hot pricks keeping you riled up. Luckily my space is still reserved around the back of the club making my life a whole lot easier. I swing out of the car, grab my holdall and jog into the back entrance, past the security office where Big Al the bouncer is sitting. He's a sweetheart, looks hard as nails though.
I hand him my bag and he does the obligatory ‘check for anything I shouldn't have, although I'm not so sure he actually cares. He looks bored to tears. “Slow tonight?”
“Nah, it's steady.”
“Does Franco know I’m late?” I ask taking a look at the cameras behind Big Al’s large head. A good amount of customers.
