Page 59 of Slumming It
I bit my lip. Which one wasIriding in? I didn't dare pull out my cellphone to check, but I was dying to know.
This wasn't the only thing I was dying to know. Before leaving the hotel – this time without Vivian spotting us, thank goodness – I'd asked Reese Murdock where we were going, and he'd tersely replied that he would tell me during the drive.
By now, we'd been driving for at least five minutes, and he still hadn't said anything about our destination. In fact, he'd said nothing at all as he'd navigated the quiet city streets in his not-so-quiet vehicle.
The Ferrari's engine didn't just purr. It rumbled low and dangerous, like a powerful beast on a very tight leash. And even though the city streets were mostly deserted, every person we passed turned to stare, as if we were riding a flaming red dragon down Main Street.
The whole thing was really unsettling – and slightly fun as much as I hated to admit it. Yesterday, I'd experienced something similar when riding in that exotic yellow sportscar, butthattime I'd been way too cranky and distracted to focus on anyone's reaction to the vehicle itself.
But I was plenty focusednow. Whether Reese Murdock noticed the staring bystanders, I couldn't say either way. His face held no expression as he leaned back in the driver's seat with his hand draped loosely over the steering wheel as if this were just a normal Saturday night.
It wasn't – not for me and probably not for him either, considering that he was a big-city guy in a town so small we didn't even have our own Chevy dealership.
I asked, "So, where are we going, anyway?"
I already knew that we weren't going anyplace fancy because both of us were wearing holy jeans paired with a T-shirt – not matching but definitely in the same ballpark.
Judging by our clothes, tonightbothof us were slumming it – well, unless you took into account the obnoxiously expensive car that hid our humble clothing like its own dirty little secret.
Reese Murdock kept his gaze trained on the road as he replied, "To check out the nightlife."
"Seriously?" I gave a snort of laughter. "Thereisno nightlife. Or haven't you noticed?" I didn't want to be rude, but this should've been glaringly obvious by the lack of traffic and closed city shops.
Sure, Driftwood Cove had a few local bars, and some even had dancing on the weekends, but the places were relatively small and populated mostly by locals – "townies" as a snob like Reese Murdock would surely call them.
When the billionaire in the driver's seat ignored what I'd just said, I felt compelled to add, "I mean, seriously, look around.The town's deader than a doornail. If you want the truth, it's really super boring."
I felt disloyal saying it, especially because the town wasn't boring tome. But I hadn't forgotten my original mission, which was to make the city sound as unappealing as possible to the vulture who'd swooped in to pick at its bones.
And besides, I told myself, I wasn't even lying. Sure,Ididn't consider the town boring, but Reese Murdock surely would.
In the driver's seat, all he said was, "We'll see."
As an answer, it was completely unsatisfying.What did that even mean?
But then I perked up as a lightbulb went off in my head. Maybe boring wasn't bad enough.
There was this biker bar on County Line Road that had wet T-shirt contests every Saturday night. It drew rough customers from a fifty-mile radius and would send a spoiled rich guy like Reese Murdock running for the hills –fast.
As casually as I could, I said, "But if you don't like boring, there's always Treads. It's this…um, dance club maybe twenty minutes away."
In the shadows, his gaze slid in my direction. "So you're a fan of biker bars." He gave a slow nod. "Good to know." And with that, he returned his attention to the road, looking slightly smug like he'd just caught me in a trap.
Damn it.
The man had done his homework.
I went for a recovery. "But it's notonlybikers who go there. Sometimes there are contests. It can be pretty lively, you know."
Slowly, he turned to look at me, aiming his eyes not at my face, but at my boobs – or to my pink, glittery T-shirt, if I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, which I totally didn't.
With a hint of amusement, he said, "Contests, huh?" His sharp gaze lifted to my eyes. "So, you planning to enter?"
The wet T-shirt contest?I stiffened at the thought. "No. And besides, you don't even know what kind of contests I meant."
This made him chuckle as he returned his attention to the road. "Right."
"Okay, fine," I said. "Forget Treads. Whereexactlydo you plan on going?"
