I don’t, and I don’t really know what a Bugatti is other than it’s one of those really fancy car brands, like a Lamborghini or something. I can’t tell you if it’s Italian, German, or how well it is meant to perform—but I know it’s more expensive than I already thought it was. Out of sheer nervousness, my teeth sink down on the middle knuckle of my index finger. My posture continues to sink down, my eyes hardly able to see out the window at this point.
He's stomping over to me and all I can think to do is slap my hand down on the catch to lock the doors. If the Bugatti isn’t enough to tell he’s from money, his outfit is. I don’t know designer brands, but I know the suit he’s wearing is a custom fit and the gold around his neck and fingers are real. His tanned face is turning red from anger and his slick blonde hair is slightly coming out of its gelled hold as he slams his open palm against the glass.
“Get out of the truck!” he demands through a shrieking, gravelly voice.
Okay, I might be at fault for hitting the car—but there is no possible way that I’m going out there with him, not in a mood like this. I’m not about to get myself murdered in front of the Chuk Polo Club of all places. We can exchange insurance information through the glass, can’t we?
The insurance.
My heart rate increases just at the thought of how high this is bound to make our insurance premiums. If this guy doesn’t kill me, Sierra sure will. My partner in the trials of life, business, and now apparently crime, is going to have a breakdown. My mind toys with the idea of just driving away, but I’m not that kind of person.
And the club knows who had a horsebox outside.
“Are you deaf or just stupid?” the guy spits. Literally, I can see droplets of his saliva splatter on my window. “Get out of the car! Jesus! If you think I’m being harsh, just wait until my uncle gets here! That’s his car and that thing is his baby. You better have some stellar insurance or he’ll sue you for everything you’ve got.”
I sink further so that I can no longer see out of the window, no longer get a look at how mad he is. Steady breathing to calm my nerves feels impossible, though I’m doing my best. This shouldn’t be such a big deal, I shouldn’t be reacting in such a way, but I can’t help it. Confrontation has never been my strong suit. All through school, all I would do was hide and cry while kids taunted me for my weight and acne. If there was nowhere to hide, I would just stand there and take it as I tried not to cry.
Just like right now.
Other voices join the mix, but now my anxiety has spiked and I can’t even attempt to understand what I’m hearing. This rich guy with the fancy imported car is going to ruin us, isn’t he? Our stable has just gone through the worst outbreak of Strangles ever, killing half of our breeding horses. We were already fragile, and if it hadn’t been for Marcus, Sierra’s cousin, buying fifty-one percent of the business, we would have been financially ruined. This stupid Bugatti is going to be the nail in the coffin. Marcus will never, ever let me forget how much money this stupid mistake is going to cost him. Maybe I should just run away. I could get out, unhook the trailer, and drive into the night—
Knock, knock.
I nearly jump out of my skin. With tears stinging my eyes, I jerk into the sitting position and grip the steering wheel until my knuckles are white. “I’m sorry I hit your Bugatti, Mister, but you’re parked like an asshat and this thing is massive. Maybe learn to park or something? Shit, no, I mean… I… I’m sorry, please don’t take my horses.”
I hear a snort of…laughter?
“Quite true,” a different voice says. A calm, even voice. Cool and soothing. “That parking truly is some of the worst I’ve ever seen. And while I’m sure your horses are fine beasts, I’m not interested in taking them away from you over a fender-bender, I assure you. Actually, I just wanted to see if you’re okay.”
Well it’s definitely not the guy from before, that’s for sure. For starters, he’s being nice. And second… I don’t want to discuss what just happened between my legs at the mere sound of it.
It’s enough to convince me to slowly turn my head, to assess if this is some sort of new trap, using a sexy, low-voiced guy to draw me out like some sort of feed bag, or sincerity.