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I’m frozen in awe of her. She claims I’m dramatic, but this is Oscar-worthy.
“You’re not married?” he asks, genuinely concerned.
She shakes her head. “No. I’m carrying his babies and he won’t put a ring on my finger.”
“Oh my god,” he says as his lip curls in disgust when he looks over at me.
Then, as if there’s a dial to increase the size of doe eyes, she peers at him from beneath her lashes and pouts. “Do you think you could cut me a break, Brian? I could use one.”
“I… I think we can make something work. Dave?” he asks his manager next to him.
“Whatever she wants,” he nods, and I’m floored to see tears welling up and a frown he can’t seem to remove.
“Thank you,” Angie beams. “Can I go eat the rest of my pizza now and Raf can settle up with you guys?”
“Oh, sure! Yes, please go ahead and eat. We’ll take care of everything,” Brian says.
Holy. Shit. She just swooped in and out-negotiated me in less than five minutes. I didn’t even know this side of her existed. Where did she learn to buy cars and act? Did she study at the school of Glengarry Glenn Ross? How many times has she watched The Wolf of Wall Street? Based on the chub I’m tucking away, maybe I should consider financial domination after all. What’s the equivalent for getting off on good negotiation?
“You guys are the best,” she says and then makes her way back to me with the same smile. “Alright, close it up.”
“That was fucking hot,” I whisper. Seriously my cock is becoming a problem. She may have appeared to be a damsel in distress, but I knew the truth: she used his sexist mindset against him. I know she doesn’t think we have to get married just because she’s pregnant—but he doesn’t know that.
“I think I have a lady boner,” she whispers and shimmies her shoulders, giving me a smirk as she saunters past and sits back down. She takes another bite of pizza and arches an eyebrow. But my eyes land on her unadorned left hand.
It would look better with a huge fucking ring on it.
“Mr. Jimenez?” Brian says, derailing my train of thought and I turn in his direction. “We’ll take the two thousand off.”
“Why are we here?” Angie asks, stepping out of her running car in a park outside the city. It’s been an hour since we’ve signed all the paperwork, and she followed me in her own new car where I know traffic wouldn’t be an issue.
“Don’t you remember our new car tradition?” I ask, shutting my door and locking it. Her expression tells me she doesn’t. “We gotta 1ghost ride the whip, Ang,” I say with a shit-eating grin.
She buckles over in a low laugh, “No.”
“Yes,” I reply, opening the passenger side door and sitting down. Connecting my phone to her dash, I then peer up at her standing on the other side. “Get in, Angel. We’ve done this for every car purchase since we were sixteen and we’re not stopping now.”
She climbs back in and stares at me. “I think our circumstances have changed,” she says with wide eyes and a nod to her belly.
“We’ll do a modified version,’ I say, pressing play on the touch screen. “Put it in drive and head back to the road.”
“You’re insane,” she giggles, but quickly slams the door and makes her way to the vacant street. She stops and checks the mirrors. “How are we supposed to do this? I can’t stand on the roof of the car while it’s moving.”
I open my door. “Just put it in drive, let it idle, and walk on the street with the door open like this,” I say, before boosting the volume to a terrifying level and jumping out onto the pavement.
Angie’s giggle tells me everything I need to know. She’s bursting with excitement as the lyrics hit us like a memory and the beat guides our steps. There isn’t another car in sight as we belt the tune and swagger our way through the street next to the car, dancing like idiots.
“This is entirely the wrong kind of car to ghost ride,” Angie hollers at me. “It’s a mom car!”
“Yeah, but it’s a cool mom car!”
“No, it’s not. It's a Birkenstock-wearing, dog-owning, cross country skiing, farmers market-loving, mom car!”
“You love all of those things,” I laugh. “This car was made for you.”
“Ghost ride it!” We both shout when the chorus hits, unable to refrain.
It’s then that another car comes into view, and we quickly hop back in with a fit of laughter as it drives past us. The look on her face is the one I think of when I think of Angie Johanssen.
