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“I’m from a little town called Barichara,” I tell him, it’s not a lie. I’ve lived there for years now with Marcela, but it’s not where I’m ‘from’—still, it’s best if I don’t spill all of my dark secrets on this guy right away.
“Never heard of it,” Carlos says, fiddling with his cutlery and eying the floor for a waiter.
“Most people haven’t,” I reply. It’s why I was brought there in the first place. It’s a good hideaway for a girl that needed to be hidden. I’m not hiding any longer, though. Now is my time to climb back up to where I belong.
Carlos foregoes any more questions when he spots a waitress pop out of the kitchen. He waves her down like a drowning man at sea and then promptly orders two meals—I assume one for both of us, until he tells the waitress that I’ll just be having a salad. “Small,” he commands.
Oof. Not a great start.
The rest of our evening follows a similar pattern. Awkward pauses, dismissive orders, general rudeness.
Whether or not Carlos is a bad apple or just a regular rich kid is hard to put a finger on. Since Luis hatched this plan to get me hitched, I’ve been told over and over again to act a certain way around these people, it’s not out of the realm of possibility that Carlos has been told the same things, just from the other side of the table.
By the time we’ve cleared our plates and had our dessert, though, it’s more than clear to me that we’re not compatible, but I don’t harbour resentment towards the man—at least, not until I see the tip he leaves.
Zero.
That’s right. This spoiled brat leaves our waitress a $0 tip. He even specifically writes in a big fat $0 under the line.
Now, I can stand for a lot of foolishness from people, especially from those I’m trying to use for my own personal gain, but Marcela and I have worked as bartenders and waitresses for years trying to make ends meet in our small adoptive home town, and if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s someone who can afford to leave a big tip but doesn’t.
The act seals my tubby date’s fate right then and there. Still, there’s no point in burning bridges. I hold my fire back and follow him into the basement garage where his driver supposedly waits for us... I need a ride home, after all.
“How did you enjoy your dinner?” I ask, trying to make small talk as we search for the limo that we came here in. Apparently, Carlos’s chauffer isn’t answering his phone.
“I’ve had better,” Carlos snorts. “Where the hell is that bastard?”
The parking lot is half empty, and as far as I can tell there’s no sign of a limo anywhere. “Do you ever drive yourself?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“No. Driving is a peasant sport. I do sponsor a race car driver, though.”
“Is he any good?”
“He better be, I’m paying a lot of money to have our firm’s name on the hood of his car.”
“You don’t watch him when he races?”
“I don’t have time for that.” Somehow, I think he does. Carlos just doesn’t seem like the kind of person who slaves away all day behind a desk. He clearly doesn’t have the longest attention span...
“Are you sure your driver isn’t outside?” I ask, getting a little sick of his presence. This ‘date’ can’t be over fast enough. Oh, how far we’ve fallen since his well-practiced My lady, earlier in the night. I should have known better than to expect anything good to come out of someone who says such things unironically.
“We never meet outside. Too many people,” he huffs.
“Well, there definitely isn’t anyone down here,” I point out. “It’s very... private.”
For some reason, that seems to turn Carlos’s mood around. His frustration melts as he catches onto a non-existent hint—one that I definitely wasn’t throwing out there.
“... Kind of romantic,” he smirks. For such a big man, he really has a small mouth—or maybe his cheeks are just that puffy.
“Not really,” I nervously giggle, not liking where this is going. I should have kept my mouth shut. The slimy glint in my date’s eyes is all too familiar to me. I’ve seen it far too many times in far too many drunk patrons. Sure, Carlos barely had any alcohol at dinner... but that doesn’t mean he can’t be drunk off of something else.
“So, I heard you were a virgin...” he suddenly says, licking his sausage lips. A chill skates down my spine. I’m immediately aware of just how alone we really are. I’m not a big woman, and my sass alone isn’t enough to fight off a man twice my size. “... How many dates until you put out?”
Despite all of my disadvantages, my first thought is that Carlos deserves a cold hard dose of reality, delivered through an open palm slap to his pudgy red cheek. But before I can stamp that delivery, an ear-rattling, but oddly familiar, roar splits through my ears.
Carlos and I both whip our heated gazes from one another, just in time to see a single headlight speeding down the underground garage’s only ramp in or out.
“Oh shit, it’s Montoya!” Carlos blubbers. I can barely hear him over the roar, but I know it’s true. That’s the same sound I heard at the gala, only now it’s louder and coming right for me.
