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No wonder that woman is going nuts over him.
“Do youwant todrive?” he asks, dangling the keys in the air.
I roll my hair around my hand so I can tie it back in a bun. “You can drive if you want. I don't know where we're going.”
Tilting his head, he gives me this look.
“What?” I tug open the passenger door.
“You're not cutting your hair, are you?”
I instinctively touch my bun. “I'll get a trim, but I won't have it all cut off.”
He nods, beginning for the driver's door. “Just keep it long.”
I pull a puzzled face at him, wondering why on earth he cares about whether my hair is long or not.
I jump into the car and pull on my seatbelt, breathing in that strong smell of lemon polish. It reminds me so much of when my car has been cleaned.
My car...
Home...
It all seems so far away now, like my old life could never have happened.
Charlie takes to the driver's seat, fires up the engine, and we drive into a local town, chatting about his stay in London. He says he didn't do anything but eat, work, and sleep. I don't buy that, not for a second. That woman said he was at a gangster's party.
“I thought you said you wanted to go out dancing... or whatever?”
He side-glances me. “Yeah, with you.”
I blink at him all cross eyed. Why the fuck would he want to go dancing with me? The only knowledge I have of dancing is dancing someone around a boxing ring.
We're quiet when his phone pings with a text message, so I flick on the radio and take in the view of Tunbridge Wells—that's where Charlie's house is, just on the outskirts. It's very old English and lush with greenery, the streets lined with trees; the people seeming middle-class in their suits.
“Blaire,” Charlie says my name, rounding a corner, “why don't you wear underwear?”
“What?” I burst out laughing to the point where my stomach aches. “Where'd that come from?”
We glance at each other, but then he looks ahead and pulls into a small car park. He stops in a double space and switches off the purring engine, facing me.
I try to avoid his question but he raises his eyebrows at me.
“I do wear underwear,” I say between laughing, “just not the ones you want me to wear.”
“What underwear do you wear then?” he says coolly, like this topic of conversation is okay and not awkward.
“I wear sports bras and comfortable pants. Not scraps of lace.” I roll my eyes, not getting these weird questions he's asking today. First he's interested in my hair, and now my underwear? “I need some money, Charlie, so I can buy an appointment because I haven't-”
Grabbing my hand, he puts a few hundred in my palm. “The salon is over there.” He nods forward. “I'll wait here for you—unless you want me to come in?” He's dying for me to say 'yes'. I can see the hilarity glowing in his eyes.
“Eh, no,” I say with sarcasm, “I think I'm okay.” I climb out of the car and wander across the car park, into the salon. It reeks of toxic peroxide, I notice as soon as I push open the heavy glass front door. I've always hated this smell.
“Good afternoon,” a blonde greets me, giving me a curt look.
I drop all the cash on the white reception desk and tell her that I need a full body wax, a haircut, and my nails filed down.
“You must be Blaire?” she says, and that curt look is gone.
