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Except I’m not an airhead.
And I’m gonna be extra pissed if the billionaire who can basically buy an entire country can’t keep one whack job off his precious property.
For some unknown amount of time, I impatiently wait in the front seat, death gripping a high heel – these bitches are sharp – and promising myself I’ll stop at the corner store for pepper spray on my way into work tomorrow, assuming I make it there.
Assuming I’m not randomly dragged out of my vehicle by my hair, kicking and screaming and fighting to not become some Friday the 13th fanboys first victim.
Or tenth.
Or one hundredth.
I really don’t need to be his TV syndication mark.
Out of practically nowhere, lights appear in my driver’s side mirror, flooding me with hope and skepticism simultaneously. The SUV – perfect for kidnapping according to every mob movie I’ve ever seen – creeps to a crooked stop convincing me to grip the key to the ignition with my other hand.
Prepare to turn it.
When the vehicle finally ceases all movements, it’s done so in a way that allows the front passenger door to be parallel with mine as the window slowly cracks open to reveal a hooded figure in the driver’s seat.
One Grim Reaper inspired limb is extended in my direction prompting me to shout at the top of my lungs, “No, thank you! I’m not interested in meeting my maker tonight!”
The person executes a downward motion with their pointed index finger.
“Absolutely. Fucking. Not!” Agitated headshakes are attached to the manic waving of my high heel. “I’m not about to be real-life inspiration for some fucked up Leatherface franchise spinoff!”
“What?!” is accompanied by the arm flopping down to the side of their vehicle. “What the hell are you talking about, Bryn?”
“Wes?!” I quickly turn the key to have access to lowering the windows. “Is that you?!”
“Yes.”
His powerful, dominating, yet gruff voice instantly instills relief.
Comfort.
“You got lost coming back?”
“Yeah. It’s darker than a blackhole out here.”
“Follow me,” he warmly insists. “I’ll get you home.”
Again, rather than issue a correction about the term, I fight the instinct and carry out the actions I know are gonna get me to actual safety.
Wes guides me around the winding property in a way that almost feels like a tour as opposed to a straight shot. Our eventual arrival at the WX gates has the security guard in the box coming out to verify that it’s me and register my vehicle before I’m allowed to pass through. The estate owner politely waits to finish escorting me all the way to the front door – passing several side paths I assume lead to the guesthouses – to the same area I loaded up into his SUV several hours earlier.
While I park, grab my shit, and get out, he doesn’t.
He simply shuts off the engine.
Remains seated on the other side of the tinted glass.
“It’s quite late, Miss Winters,” Clark announces in an almost father figure like tone.
“Bryn.”
“Bryn.”
“Late shifts are kinda my thing,” I retort at the same time I drape my workbag over my shoulder. “Always have been.”
