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“This is some truck,” I said, looking around the cab, which was a hundred times nicer than my Honda Civic.
“I’m from Texas,” he said, flexing his eyebrows at me. “We love big trucks.”
“Obviously,” I said with a smile. “Was that Madge Sinclair you were talking with?”
“Yeah, do you know Madge?”
I lied, just a little. “I know of her. Did you tell her you were having lunch with me?”
He frowned and shook his head.
“No, Madge doesn’t like me talking to reporters,” he said, rolling his eyes. “If I told her I was having lunch with you she would have wanted to tag along. And I wanted to have you all to myself.”
“Well, that’s… nice,” I said.
I was having a hard time focusing on the topic at hand because our pseudo-sex from the night before kept running through my mind. I decided to address the 800-pound gorilla to get it out the way.
I said, “Listen, about last night…”
“I’m really sorry about that,” he said with an embarrassed sigh. “I was drunk and I got carried away. I hope you can forgive me. I’m usually not like that… Well… I am, but…”
“I was going to apologize to you,” I said with a grin.
“You were?” He chuckled and slapped his palms on the steering wheel. He held out his right hand for me to shake. “Well, I’ll accept your apology if you’ll accept mine.”
“Deal,” I said, shaking his hand. Every nerve in my body sat up and took notice when his fingers closed around mine. I slowly tugged my hand from his and looked out the windshield to change the subject.
“So, where are we going?” I asked.
“Before I tell you that,” he said, his tone turning serious. “I have to ask a question. And I need an honest answer.”
“Okay…”
“Why do you want to interview me?”
“Well, it’s more of a profile piece,” I said quickly.
“Okay, why do you want to profile me?”
“Because you’re Sean Donovan.” I knew it wasn’t a good answer, but it was all that I could come up with on short notice. I cleared my throat and searched my brain for a better explanation.
“I know I’m Sean Donovan,” he said, keeping his eyes on the road in the heavy traffic. “But do you know how many interviews I’ve done? And how many profiles have been written about me?”
“No…”
“Fucking hundreds,” he said. “And they all said the same thing. Sean Donovan is great on the field, but a total train wreck off the field. All they wanna talk about is how much I drink and how many women I fuck and how many bar fights I get in.” He shook his head. “Shit, I’m the one doing all that stuff and it bores the fuck out me. Why would Playboy’s readers want to read a rehash of the same old shit they can see on TMZ or ESPN any night of the week?”
He glanced at me and closed his mouth to let me know it was my turn to speak.
“Well, I thought that…” I stopped speaking because I realized that he was right. Sean Donovan’s exploits were given more press time than Donald Trump’s hair. What was I thinking? There was no need to write an exposé on Sean Donovan because, as I’d contemplated in Walter’s office, there was nothing left to expose.
He spoked without looking at me. “You thought that I would let you follow me around for a few days to personally eyewitness what a train wreck my life is. Is that it?”
Jesus, I didn’t expect this guy to be so smart…
“Well, I…”
I heard him blow out along breath as he shook his head.
