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When I step outside, I don’t have a clear view of the parking lot because a huge, glossy black limo is parked right in front of the restaurant. I try to look around it for a car, even though I have no idea what kind of car I’m supposed to be looking for or what any of this could mean. A driver in a ridiculously classic tuxedo and top hat steps out of the limo and moves toward me. I step back before he can yell at me for getting too close.
“Sorry,” I say. “I was just trying to look for someone in the parking lot.”
“Miss, we’re here for you,” he says. “Please,” he adds, opening the back passenger door and motioning for me to get in.
Feeling completely confused, I get in. I’m wearing a puffy purple dress that I’ve treasured since I managed to get my mom to buy it for homecoming two years ago, but now even my most prized article of clothing feels raggedy as I take in the limo and it’s luxurious interior.
The seats are plush leather so soft it could be silk, and the space between the seats and the floor is wood that’s so polished it’s practically reflective. Golden trim surrounds everything from the inside of the doors to the mini-bar set in the center of the seating area. I only notice the man sitting across from me after an embarrassingly long time spent gawking.
He tilts his head to me a fraction of an inch, not breaking eye contact.
“Evening, Miss Dowry,” says the man with a strange accent I can’t quite place. The vowels are emphasized a little more than usual, and there’s an eccentric, almost aristocratic lilt to his words. His clothing gives me the strangest pang of familiarity too, which is a surprise because I’m sure I’ve never seen anyone wearing clothes like his. The collar rises straight up from the open, zipperless and buttonless jacket. The shirt beneath is fastened with a series of drawstrings in the shape of little crosses, all the way to the base of his neck, but has no collar. It’s only when I see the small insignia pinned to the collar of his jacket that I realize why his clothes look familiar.
They are the same style of clothing I saw the two gorgeous men from the restaurant wearing, even though these seem to be a little less embellished and less expensive versions of those clothes.
“Okay. Hold on,” I say, raising my hands. “Somebody better tell me what prank show I’m on soon or you’re going to have to bleep out a lot of words.” My pulse pounds in my ears. Neglect I can handle. I’ve had eighteen years to develop thick skin for that. But someone going out of their way to embarrass me and make me feel stupid? That’s another level of low, and it’s one I’m not going to lie down and take. Not on my birthday.
“I’m here to explain,” says the man. “My name is Calian, and if it pleases you, you may think of me as your concierge. As the matter at hand is somewhat delicate, I think it would be best if I start small.”
“You can drop the accent and the whole fancy act, Calian,” I say, “If that’s really your name. There are hidden cameras somewhere, right? You’ll explain some crazy thing and the editors will cut this so it looks like I believed every word. That’s how this works, so let’s just open the door and let me out.”
He clears his throat and it doesn’t seem like he plans on acknowledging what I just said. “How much have your parents told you?” he asks.
I sigh with mounting frustration. “My parents didn’t tell me anything.” I tug on the door handle but it won’t open. “Okay, seriously. I want to go.”
“Well, this all may come as something of a shock to you then.” For the first time since I’ve entered the limo, he fidgets, pulling the slack out of his pants and looking away while he gathers his thoughts. “You are extremely important to my people,” he says slowly.
“Your people. Like… gay people?” I ask, frowning with genuine curiosity.
Calian’s jaw flexes and he closes his eyes for a few seconds, obviously trying to choose his words carefully. “No. When I say my people I’m referring to the Burkewoods.”
“So you’re like a butler for rich people?” I ask.
“The Burkewoods do have considerable wealth, but to diminish my role so far as to call me a butler,” he says, pausing after spitting the word out like a curse, “well, it’s fortunate you are so valuable to my employer, because I would normally not suffer such an insult.”
I roll my eyes, feeling the last shreds of my already worn patience giving way. “I’m giving you thirty seconds to explain what the hell is going on or I’m going to leave, even if I have to use my shoe to break a window out.”
