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“Straight home,” I say, my tone clipped, the sea of cars ahead of us unmoving, unwilling to help me get through this torment any faster.
I hate feeling like his mother. I hate that I'm being made to do this. I hate that I feel like I have no choice. But this morning I had my monthly review, and that meeting was not one of the best ones I've ever had. I was shown a whole bunch of press clippings of Miles and his bad behavior and told yet again that under no circumstances was there to be a repeat of this.
“I don't know what they put in the water in England,” my manager said, “but we don’t tolerate this kind of behavior here. Unfortunately, we won't be in a position to fire him unless he actively breaks the law.” He left the rest of the sentence unsaid, but he didn’t need to use any words to get his point across with sickening clarity.
Miles may not be able to get the boot, but I certainly could.
“You know,” says Miles, and I can just hear that cheeky little grin in his voice. “I'm not allowed to go out by myself? I'm under house arrest.”
“I wouldn't put it like that,” I say. “But I suppose so, yes.”
“Okay. So, I can’t go out myself. Whatever. But there's no rule against me going out if you come with me, right?
“I am not coming out with you,” I say, scoffing at the idea. The last thing I need is for Miles to jeopardize my career even more than he already is by getting me more tipsy than necessary with him.
“I'm not saying we have to go clubbing or anything,” he says, mirroring my own derisive tone. No wonder people struggle to say no to him. He has this way of making you want to roll over and give in to everything he wants. “Just, like, you know, to a bar for a drink. I'll be good, I promise.”
“No,” I say again. “I'm taking you straight home and if I have to, I'm locking the door and taking the key.”
“You can’t stop me climbing out the window,” he says. “Surely you’d rather come with me where you can keep an eye on me than let me out to cause chaos on my own. After all, won't it look worse for you if you take me home and then I go and do something wild when you chose to leave me alone?”
I grimace, my heart sinking like it’s full of rocks. “Dammit,” I mutter. I'm not going to admit out loud that he’s right, even if he is, so all I do is say through gritted teeth, “Fine.”
“First tab’s on me,” he says, grinning like butter wouldn’t melt.
“All the tabs are on you,” I grumble. “If you're going to drag me out with you, then you are paying for it all.”
He turns his head, from where he's looking out the window to raise an eyebrow at me while he smirks. “You won't regret this, Livvy. We're gonna have fun.”
Despite what he might think, I'm not so buttoned-up that my idea of fun doesn’t involve going out. I know how to party. I just prefer my going out to be off-the-clock. Still, it has been a long time since I went out, and I could do with a night of thinking about something that's not keeping a leash on him. For now, I'm going to choose to believe him when he says he’s going to behave. I just hope he doesn't make me regret this.
I take the next exit to swing us back towards the city. I figure that because I'm driving, I get to choose where we're going. Plus, he doesn't know that much about this area yet. I wouldn't trust his recommendations for a second.
Parking is usually pretty tricky round here, but we get lucky and manage to park up just a block away from the club. I guess it’s not that busy because it’s midweek, but I’ve been caught out by it before. I just wish I wasn’t still in my business-casual work clothes.
When we get into the bar, one of my favorite songs is playing and I immediately start humming along. Miles gives me a look but doesn't say anything about it. Instead, he asks, “What do you want to drink, Liv?”
I've given up trying to correct him on not giving me a nickname. Nobody calls me Liv except him. I’ve always figured that I've been given my name for a reason. I don't need to make it any shorter than it is.
“I'll have a rum and coke,” I say. He raises both eyebrows. “What? It's a good combination.”
“No, I know,” he says. “It’s just that’s my favorite. Other than a strong cocktail, anyway. Makes you feel like a pirate.”
“Well, maybe we'll have cocktails a bit later on.”
“Aren’t you driving?” he says with such genuine concern that it almost makes me burst out laughing.
“We can always call a cab.” He shrugs in agreement and, now the matter is solved, wanders up towards the bar. I follow him and take a seat on one of the barstools. I like this place because it’s never too busy and the atmosphere is always awesome. Despite being small, they always have great music, cool specials, and fun seasonal decor.
The bartender slides my drink over to me and I turn to ask Miles what he’s having, but there’s no one there. He’s vanished into the darkness, leaving me here like an idiot.
I can’t believe I’ve been stood up during something that’s fundamentally a work engagement.
Minutes turn into an hour and I’m still sitting here, staring at the wall and tapping my fingernails against my glass. Maybe I should have followed him. But I didn’t see him get up, so how could I have? He really has conned me. If he’s run off into the arms and bedroom of some girl when he swore to me he’d behave, I'm going to be absolutely furious with him.
And if he gets me fired. I'm going to make him go to my manager and crawl on his hands and knees to get me my job back, because if I get fired, it'll be his fault.
The clock keeps ticking, and I decide to order a cocktail so I get at least something out of tonight. I don't really feel like paying the extortionate parking fee for staying overnight, but I’ve barely touched my drink so I’m still okay to drive back. I wave down the bartender and order a Shirley Temple so I can sip it nervously through the straw while my mind races with the panic of having to update my résumé.
