Page 25 of Demon Apathy: Sunderverse
“Well, this is all I’ve got,” I said, “so you take me to breakfast or to the airport. It’s all the same to me. I’m hungry, but I can grab a McMuffin at one of the vendors.”
He shuddered. “Oh please, I don’t understand how you would choose to eatthatover eggs Benedict, freshly squeezed orange juice, and Kona coffee.”
“Benedict can keep his eggs if he doesn’t like my hoodie.”
He waved a hand in front of my face as if to scare away a gnat. “I have something that you can change into in my car. C’mon.”
Drevan grabbed my elbow and guided me toward his car. I was going to argue that there was no way I could change inside that matchbox when the car’s sleek lines and shimmering paint job practically stole my voice.
“A Ferrari Spider?!” I squeaked. “My sister, Toni, would freak out. She loves cars. She would like it even more if it was vintage, but I much preferred the newer models.”
“I’m glad you approve.” He opened the passenger side door and let go of my arm. I climbed in, my jaw unhinged as I scanned the luxurious interior. The controls were ultra-modern, and there were buttons and pegs that didn’t exist in regular cars. The bucket seat hugged my butt as I reclined.
The engine roared to life as Drevan pressed the ignition button. My entire body seemed to rumble. He revved the motor as he shifted into gear, his large hand wrapping around the chrome shifter. My chest pulsed with each thrust of the accelerator, feeling as if I’d swallowed a thousand bees. I hated to admit it was exhilarating. I’d dated some bad boys who had a thing for speed, and they seemed to have passed their passion along.
Drevan’s foot eased off the clutch, and we were off, tearing through the streets like bats with hellfire on our tails. As we went, every car, traffic light, and pedestrian stayed out of our way. The cars switched lanes, the red lights turned green, people hurried along the crosswalks.
“I could get used to this,” I said, even as I scanned our surroundings for cops, though I suspected they were all getting a craving for donuts right about now.
Drevan winked, his golden eyes lingering on me longer than it was safe. They swept the length of my body. “There’s a cute outfit behind your seat that you could change into.”
He licked his lips, looking expectant. I caught a glimpse of a shopping bag tucked in the non-existent space between my seat and the back of the car. What did he have in there, a slip?
I shrugged. “Like I said, if they don’t like my hoodie, they can follow you to your ancestral home.”
“So stubborn,” he complained under his breath.
We made it from West Village to the other side of the Brooklyn Bridge in ten minutes, a feat that would normally take twenty-five under the best conditions. It seemed I didn’t need to worry about getting to La Guardia on time.
When we stopped in front of a place called The River Café and an attendant wearing a black bow tie took Drevan’s fob, I regretted not changing, though only for a second. My hoodie and dirty jeans would definitely make me stand out like a nun in hell. It was egotistical to refuse to change but also to want to look good in front of high-brow people. Either way, pride could get in the way, and I figured the best choice was not to sweat it, right? I stepped out of the car and tried to shrug my worries away.
“Something the matter?” Drevan asked as he joined me on the tree-surrounded path that led to the restaurant.
“Uh, no,” I said unconvincingly as I second-guessed my decision. It was a recent malady: this constant wavering. I’d never been like this. But now, I incessantly evaluated everything. It was a bitch!
Taking my hand and hooking it around his elbow, Drevan walked into the lobby while I tried to keep my eyes from staring fixedly at the floor, and I tried not to tug on my hoodie.
10
Drevanspoketothemaître d’ as my eyes roved past the lobby toward tables set with white linen, crystal glasses, and fine dishes and silverware.
The din of conversation was animated. The place was already packed with all kinds of people, most of them the Wall Street type, dressed smartly in suits and shoes that could pay for my tuition at the University of Missouri all the way to a Ph.D. degree.
The maître d’ was a guy of about twenty-eight with coiffed hair and a jawline stronger than a steel beam. He looked prim and proper, smartly dressed in a dark suit. He stared hungrily at Drevan, as if he could memorize every detail.
“Do you have a reservation, sir?” he asked.
Drevan waved a hand in the air. “No need. You will find me a table.”
“Of course.” He started to leave, then paused. “I have to say… you’re so hot. I want to kiss you.”
Say what?!
I glanced up at Drevan, expecting to see anger or confusion in his features. Instead, he looked impatient, as if this was something that happened to him all the time.
“Unfortunately for you, Roderick,” Drevan said.
I searched for a name tag on the guy, but there was none. Did Drevan know him?
