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Tigger chuckles. “You’ll have to ask him about that.”
“Right.” I fix my tie and button my coat, scanning the parking lot and finding Mike getting into an ancient and dirty tow truck. Looking down at myself, I wonder if I’ll have to burn this suit after today. “Right,” I repeat, pumping myself up. I can do this. It’s just a ride with a grouchy man, and tomorrow, I’ll send someone else to pick up my truck. I’ll never have to see him again.
“Let’s go!” he shouts, and I jog to the truck.
Opening the door, I see the inside is almost as bad off as the outside. The seats are torn and haphazardly repaired with duct tape. At least twenty air fresheners hang from the rearview, and a thick layer of desert dust coats every surface.
“Do you have a towel or something?” I ask, opening myself up to ridicule, but I’m wearing a custom-tailored Armani.
“No, princess. I don’t have a towel,” he huffs.
Seeing no other choice, I dust the seat off the best I can and climb in, carefully keeping my now dirty hand away from my clothes. Once in, I try to latch my seatbelt, but the damn thing looks to have been cut off with scissors. This is turning into a nightmare of epic proportions, and it’ll be a miracle if I live to tell the tale.
“You’re fine. Stop being a pussy.”
“I’m not a pussy. I just prefer not to walk into a boardroom looking like I just went through a dust storm.”
“Pussy,” he grumbles and takes off like a bat out of hell, the force of it thrusting me back into the seat. With every turn, I slide from side to side. The only thing stopping me from slamming into him is the center console between us.
“Can you at least try to not give me a concussion?” I ask.
“Hold on to the “oh shit” handle if you’re that worried about it,” he says, cranking the wheel in a sharp left.
I fly across the seat and hit the console, sending the old paper coffee cups toppling into my lap. I gasp, too shocked to scream the profanities going through my mind. Glancing down, I see someone also used the cups as an ashtray, so not only am I covered in coffee, but now cigarette butts are stuck to my trousers.
“Shit.” Mike splits his attention between me and the road, grabbing the empty cups and righting them. “Sorry about that.”
“Sorry? You’re sorry? I asked you to stop driving like a maniac.” I flick the cigarettes to the ground.
“And I told you to hold the fuck on.”
“I shouldn’t have to brace myself for a damn car ride.”
“I can’t do shit about it now. I said I’m sorry.”
The smell of stale ash and coffee wafts over me, and my stomach turns. “I can’t go to the office like this. You’ll have to take me home first.”
“First? I’m not a damn taxi.”
“Whatever. Take me to the Palladio.”
He side-eyes me. “Of course you live there. Probably in the penthouse too.”
“You would be correct.” I don’t apologize for my wealth because I had absolutely no choice in it.
I reach into my drenched pocket to pull out my phone, realizing I left it back in my truck.
“I don’t have my phone,” I grit through clenched teeth.
“So?”
“So I can’t call for a ride to the office after you drop me off, Mike.”
“The name’s Mustang now.”
“I don’t give a shit if your name’s Pony. I don’t have my phone. I can’t call for a car. That means you have to wait for me to shower and then take me to work.”
“Like hell I do.”
