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“Yes.” He gives a hard nod. “But not tonight. Tonight, you pay the price for me giving in to you like this.”
“Giving in to me?”
“Are you going to repeat everything I say? Yes, I gave in. I’m letting you work at that shitty place.”
“Letting me…” I clench my teeth. “You’re being an ass again.”
He nods. “I know it.”
“You just don’t care?”
“I care that you’re safe. If that means I have to be an asshole, then I’ll be an asshole. I’ll even let you say it, but I won’t let you put yourself in danger.”
“So, I can call you an asshole so long as you agree you’re being an asshole?” There’s trickery afoot here, I think.
“If I agree, yes,” he says, then climbs out of the car.
“I think maybe we should put some of this in writing,” I say to him when he opens my door and helps me climb out.
“Why? I’ll let you know when you’ve done something wrong.” He smacks my ass on his way to the trunk to grab my overnight bag.
While he grabs my bag, I look over at the motorcycle. “Is that yours?”
“It is. Do you want a ride, Pchelka?” His question is loaded with innuendo which makes me roll my eyes.
“And I suppose the other cars are yours too?” I point at the black and red cars lined up beside the motorcycle. “Do they impress women the way you want them to?”
He steps up to me, my bag thrown over his left shoulder, and slides his free hand around my waist. “They don’t impress you?”
“Maybe if I knew anything about cars they would, but no. They’re pretty to look at though.” I shrug.
His eyes nearly bug out. “Pretty?” He grips me tighter against him. “You think my Aston Martin DBS ispretty? They only made twenty-five of these.”
“Really?” I look at the red car he’s pointing at. “I don’t know… it sort of screams expensive.”
“It’s over three hundred thousand dollars,” he presses.
“At least it’s honest?”
His mouth drops open for a moment.
“If it makes it better, I don’t even know how to drive. So, these things are lost on me.” I look at the car again. “It is pretty though.”
“Don’t say that again, Pchelka.” He pinches my hip, making me jump. “You never tell a man his car is pretty,” he continues to admonish me on the way to the elevators.
“Fine. I won’t say she’s pretty.”
“She?” He hits the elevator button with the heel of his hand. “It’s a she?”
“Of course. Something that unique that makes men spend all that money just to be shown off has to be a she. Just like men who walk around with supermodels on their arms. They want to be envied, so they carry around something that others would love to have. Even if it’s completely superficial.”
The doors to the elevator slide open, and he nods for me to get inside.
“Is that what you are, then?” he asks as the elevator glides up to the penthouse.
I laugh. “Of course not.”
“What does that mean?” His voice dips.
