Yep. A stark white envelope sticks out of the windshield wiper.
Nick Brandt, you are such an idiot.
I pull the envelope from the wipers and hand it to him.
“Fuck, these traffic cop tattletales are so annoying. I’ll take care of it tomorrow,” he growls, wrinkling his nose.
I wish we could all be so carefree.
He climbs in the back seat and lets out a salacious groan when he feels the heated seat on his back. I try not to wonder if it’s the same sound he’d make in bed, sans the rest of his clothing.
I walk around the car and get into the driver’s seat. We actually move a few miles before his voice grates my ears like nails on a chalkboard again.
“Thanks for all the help tonight, man,” he says quietly.
Oh my God.
“You’re so not welcome, jackass,” I mouth to the windshield.
“I got desperate with the keycard. My bad. I’ll make sure you get a good bonus anyway, Halle. You’re good help and that’s damn hard to find.”
Can you make sure I get some sleep too? I wonder.
I glance at the clock on the console. Two thirty a.m. and I still have to take him home before returning to my apartment. Then, after the world’s longest shower, I can sleep for an hour before I leave to pick up Ward.
F-M-L.
I may have bags under my eyes tomorrow—not that it matters, since apparently I look like a dude regardless. I should just give up my straightening iron and cosmetics, ’cause they’re not doing it. But at least I’ll have a nice fat paycheck coming up to put toward my future man cave.
I almost pick up another ticket, speeding to Brandt’s penthouse.
“Can you turn on some music? The XM?” he asks.
I mash the third button on the stereo for the satellite radio, pre-programmed as his station.
He lets out a low chuckle.
“You’re such a quiet one, dude.” He flings his arm out like he’s holding a whip in the back seat. “But I like it, man. I get it. Pensive. Mysterious. You’re basically Batman.”
I wish I had millionaire superhero money. Then I’d be about as rich as my freak of a boss, and not regretting this joke of a day care job disguised as a corporate driver.
It’s a mercifully quick drive from the hotel to his penthouse. I feel better already.
If I’m lucky, I’ll be rid of his assholery for a whole twenty-four hours.
2
Double Take (Nick)
Six Weeks Later
Halle’s in the town car, waiting for me at the curb like the loyal monk he is.
It’s strange, spending so much time with a driver who’s taken a vow of silence. Usually, I can get anyone to talk to me.
Not him.
He’s a closed book. At least the guy’s always on time. Ready to rock and roll at the snap of my fingers.
He’s steady. Reliable. And today, I can’t get away from this damnable meeting fast enough.
My phone vibrates on the way to the car. I get in before checking it.
Of course, I know what’s waiting.
More about my shirtless dancing escapades with Jorge Franca. I slam the phone down with an annoyed grunt as I slide across the leather seat.
“Can you believe they’re still talking about this horseshit? It’s been six weeks, Halle. Six fucking weeks and now we know nobody in the Chicago press has a life. They all have to obsess over mine. I mean, I get it. I’m rich and handsome and brilliant, but come on. I can’t carry this whole city on my shoulders. I’m not Zeus.”
Halle clears his throat and mutters something that sounds like “Atlas.”
Hmm, quite the reaction for this guy.
I’m surprised he said that much.
“Yeah, whatever. Greek mythology was never my specialty. When you’re ripped and you can dance, I guess it’s par for the course. I know, I should shut up and take my licks and be glad that night went as well as it did. Too bad Grandma and Ward started clutching their pearls over it as usual. They’re fine with the half-billion-dollar deal I signed, of course. Jorge even sent me a thank you for the best night of his life. Ward should be groveling on his hands and knees for the next year. If I weren’t the black sheep, shit, he would be.”
I grit my teeth too loudly. Halle lets out this oddly shrill snicker.
If I’m making an ass of myself for his amusement, so be it.
Let’s be real.
Most of this crap would blow over if Roland Osprey—or Birdshit as I affectionally call him—and his pathetic little piss blog at The Chicago Tea would leave me the fuck alone. The guy lives to make us look bad—everybody named Brandt who doesn’t have a Beatrice in front of it.
I wish Grandma’s latest architectural masterpiece was all this city wanted to jack itself off to.
Ever since my parents scandalized themselves in a boating accident with America’s next heartthrob actor—and kinda sent the ship and the star to the bottom of Lake Michigan—being a Brandt has sucked more than wealth and fame ever should.