come back to take me to a nice Italian place . It was only when I reflected on this that I realized he might be taking me to a discreet mafia location where I could be executed and disposed of.
I pulled out my phone. Ten percent battery left. I texted Jessica.
“Going to dinner with Piers Letocci,” I wrote. There. That served two purposes. The first was, of course, bragging rights, even if I hadn’t known who the hell Piers Letocci was before yesterday. The second was that, if Piers was trying to pull off a mob hit on me, there would be a clear trail. I didn’t know why that thought made me feel any better. I’d still be dead.
A knock on my window made me jump in my seat. I stuffed my phone back in my purse and rolled down the window.
“Here,” Piers said, shoving a bag through the window. “Take this.”
I took the bag and he walked around to the driver’s seat. What was in there? Was it drugs? Booze? A gun? I bet it was drugs. High-level celebrities always had designer drug addictions, if the articles in Moi were to be trusted.
“Well?” he asked, settling in behind the steering wheel. “Aren’t you going to open it?”
I pursed my lips in confusion.
“Open it?”
“It’s for you.”
I peeked into the top of the bag, expecting to see bottles of prescription painkillers or baggies of uncut opiates. Instead, I pulled it out—
“A shirt?”
Now I was really confused. And Piers was confused at my confusion.
“Maybe where you go to dinner, the standards are lower. For the rest of us, a shirt and shoes aren’t optional.”
“Oh!” I said, pulling out a brand new blouse. It was a soft pink-orange, and flowy, and completely not my style at all. “Um, thanks. Thank you.”
“Put it on,” he ordered.
I stared at him.
“What? Don’t get all prudish on me. I’ve already seen you in your bra.”
The reminder made my skin turn hot.
“But we’re on a public street—”
“In a car with tinted windows. In New York City, where at any time of day you can find women dressed only in bodypaint and thongs parading down the sidewalk.”
“Okay, okay.” He had me there. I started pulling off his jacket, then stopped.
“Do you have to look at me like that?” I asked.
“Like what?” A wolfish grin spread across his face.
“Like you’re enjoying it.”
“Oh, I am.”
I clenched his jacket back over my chest.
“Cover your eyes,” I said.
“What?”
“I’m not changing until you cover your eyes.”
“You are the most ridiculous—alright. Alright.” He put his hands over his eyes. “Let me know when you’re done.”
I was already out of his jacket and pulling the top over my head. I struggled to find the right armholes. In my hurry, my head accidentally went through one of the armholes. I tugged off the top to re-evaluate, twisting it on my neck. Was this on backwards?
“Are you finished yet?”
“No!” I said. “This top is confusing.”
“I was under the impression that you were an intelligent woman.”
“Whatever gave you that idea?” I asked, trying again with a different opening. Was I putting this on upside down? Where had the tag gone?
“If putting on a shirt is too hard, I’d be happy to assist.”
“I’m fine!” I wasn’t fine. I had it on backwards. I could see the tag now. It was—
“Holy shit,” I gasped, staring at the price on the blouse.
“Well, aren’t you a deliciously hot mess?”
I turned my head, peeking through the tangled fabric. Piers had put his hands down and was staring at my chest openly. I blushed the same color as the soft blouse currently in a bunched up noose around my neck.
“This cost over two hundred dollars!” I said, staring back down at the tag. One hundred percent cashmere. Dry clean only. That Mitch Hedberg joke flashed through my mind: This shirt is dry clean only. Which means… it’s dirty.
“And?”
“And?” I looked back over at Piers. “Are you kidding me? I can’t pay you back for
I pulled out my phone. Ten percent battery left. I texted Jessica.
“Going to dinner with Piers Letocci,” I wrote. There. That served two purposes. The first was, of course, bragging rights, even if I hadn’t known who the hell Piers Letocci was before yesterday. The second was that, if Piers was trying to pull off a mob hit on me, there would be a clear trail. I didn’t know why that thought made me feel any better. I’d still be dead.
A knock on my window made me jump in my seat. I stuffed my phone back in my purse and rolled down the window.
“Here,” Piers said, shoving a bag through the window. “Take this.”
I took the bag and he walked around to the driver’s seat. What was in there? Was it drugs? Booze? A gun? I bet it was drugs. High-level celebrities always had designer drug addictions, if the articles in Moi were to be trusted.
“Well?” he asked, settling in behind the steering wheel. “Aren’t you going to open it?”
I pursed my lips in confusion.
“Open it?”
“It’s for you.”
I peeked into the top of the bag, expecting to see bottles of prescription painkillers or baggies of uncut opiates. Instead, I pulled it out—
“A shirt?”
Now I was really confused. And Piers was confused at my confusion.
“Maybe where you go to dinner, the standards are lower. For the rest of us, a shirt and shoes aren’t optional.”
“Oh!” I said, pulling out a brand new blouse. It was a soft pink-orange, and flowy, and completely not my style at all. “Um, thanks. Thank you.”
“Put it on,” he ordered.
I stared at him.
“What? Don’t get all prudish on me. I’ve already seen you in your bra.”
The reminder made my skin turn hot.
“But we’re on a public street—”
“In a car with tinted windows. In New York City, where at any time of day you can find women dressed only in bodypaint and thongs parading down the sidewalk.”
“Okay, okay.” He had me there. I started pulling off his jacket, then stopped.
“Do you have to look at me like that?” I asked.
“Like what?” A wolfish grin spread across his face.
“Like you’re enjoying it.”
“Oh, I am.”
I clenched his jacket back over my chest.
“Cover your eyes,” I said.
“What?”
“I’m not changing until you cover your eyes.”
“You are the most ridiculous—alright. Alright.” He put his hands over his eyes. “Let me know when you’re done.”
I was already out of his jacket and pulling the top over my head. I struggled to find the right armholes. In my hurry, my head accidentally went through one of the armholes. I tugged off the top to re-evaluate, twisting it on my neck. Was this on backwards?
“Are you finished yet?”
“No!” I said. “This top is confusing.”
“I was under the impression that you were an intelligent woman.”
“Whatever gave you that idea?” I asked, trying again with a different opening. Was I putting this on upside down? Where had the tag gone?
“If putting on a shirt is too hard, I’d be happy to assist.”
“I’m fine!” I wasn’t fine. I had it on backwards. I could see the tag now. It was—
“Holy shit,” I gasped, staring at the price on the blouse.
“Well, aren’t you a deliciously hot mess?”
I turned my head, peeking through the tangled fabric. Piers had put his hands down and was staring at my chest openly. I blushed the same color as the soft blouse currently in a bunched up noose around my neck.
“This cost over two hundred dollars!” I said, staring back down at the tag. One hundred percent cashmere. Dry clean only. That Mitch Hedberg joke flashed through my mind: This shirt is dry clean only. Which means… it’s dirty.
“And?”
“And?” I looked back over at Piers. “Are you kidding me? I can’t pay you back for
Similar Books
