Page 30 of Wicked Dance
Blitz lifts my chin so he can meet my eyes. “How did I get such a smart girl to look at me twice?” he asks.
I shrug. “I always assume the worst.”
“I say we go out anyway. I’ll have someone go in ahead and make sure the way is clear.”
“If the staff doesn’t turn you in themselves.”
“You really do assume the worst,” he says, kissing my hair again.
“It’s a gift.”
He sits up and shifts me next to him. “I have something that will cheer you up,” he says.
He heads over to the bar and opens a cabinet where one of the safes is hidden. When he turns back, he’s holding a small flat box in shiny red wrapping paper.
“For my Valentine,” he says. “If you don’t like it, we can get something else.”
I take the box. It’s light. Too small for a necklace. Too flat for a ring. I already have a cell phone, and besides, it jingles a little when I shake it. A bracelet, maybe?
I pull the ribbon loose and tear away the colored paper. I’ve never had a Valentine, actually. I knew boys in middle school, but I never had one as a boyfriend. High school was spent at home. Dad usually brought a box of chocolates home for the family to share.
The paper falls away and I lift the lid.
Inside is a set of car keys.
“Blitz?” I ask.
“All yours,” he says. “I really hope you like it.”
My heart hammers. A car?
“Can I see it?”
“It’s already waiting downstairs.”
I snatch up my sunglasses and scarf. “Let’s go!”
We race to the elevator. We’re halfway down when I realize something important.
“I can’t drive it!” I exclaim. “I still don’t even have my permit!”
“Nobody’s going to care,” Blitz says. “You’re getting good enough.”
“I should have gone to the DMV before all this stuff happened,” I say. “Now they’ll find us for sure if I show up someplace that public.”
We step onto the elevator and Blitz wraps his arms around me. “It’ll die down. Don’t worry. And I’ll see if we can’t arrange for you to go in before they open. Surely someone can be bribed.”
“It’s the DMV,” I say. “They live to laugh at people who think they can get special favors.”
“I hear I’m pretty charming.” Blitz flashes that megawatt smile that has gotten him two million Twitter followers. It works. If anybody could sweet-talk the DMV, it’s him.
The doors slide open for the lobby. We walk cautiously to the front doors.
“The concierge is aware of the situation,” Blitz says. “He knows to alert us if anyone figures out we’re here.”
But everything is normal, other than six pretty cars sitting outside.
“Which one is mine?” I ask, practically bouncing with excitement.
