Page 77 of Selfless

“We are.” He scans his key card. “There is not much room for parking in New York, so the buildings that do have them are underground.” I nod as if I knew that.

We go down a few floors, and the doors slide open when we reach the parking garage. I step out into the brightly lit garage and follow him since I have no idea where he is parked.

Then I see the SUV, but he walks right past it. “Aren’t we taking the Escalade?” I ask, running to catch up with him.

“No. Milton will need it this weekend.”

I frown. “Where is he going?”

“To see his family.”

“How will he get it? Do we need to take it to him?”

He looks at me over his shoulder with a smile on his face. “He lives here in the building.”

Of course, he does! I roll my eyes at myself. That makes total sense now.

He turns to the left, and I see his apartment number written in white paint on the concrete wall in front of a white car. “What kind of car is that?” I ask, looking at the sleek thing. It sits low to the ground with blacked-out windows and big black rims. My first thought is that it matches his private jet.

“It’s a Bugatti Veyron,” he says as if I should know what that is. I’ve never heard of it before.

He opens the passenger side for me, and I bend down, sliding into the white leather seat. He closes the door, and I feel like I’m sitting in the cockpit of a plane. The dash is solid black with a few silver accents in the center. It smells of expensive leather and brand new. He climbs in beside me. He starts it up, and the car hums from the deep sound of the exhaust.

A screen pops out, and he pulls out of his spot. “How often do you drive this?” I ask as he maneuvers us out of the very tight parking garage. It makes me nervous he’s gonna hit a concrete barrier.

“I’ve driven it like twenty times.”

“Did you just get it?” I ask.

He shakes his head as we start to climb a small hill, and I see a red gate ahead of us. “No. I’ve had it a little over two years now.”

“Why even buy it if you never drive it?” I wonder.

He stops in front of the gate and reaches out, pressing a few numbers on a keypad. The gate rises, and he proceeds into a back alley. “You’ll see,” he says, looking over at me with a smile on his face.

Traffic is a bitch. I guess I never really pay attention when I’m in the back seat of the Escalade while Milton drives us around. But it’s bumper to bumper for as far as the eyes can see. It is Fourth of July weekend, after all.

But I like that he is driving. I haven’t seen him behind the wheel of a car. He has a baseball cap on backwards, just like the first night I met him in Panama. His hair peeks out from the sides, and he wears a pair of Aviators. His right hand is on the stick shift while his left lies carelessly over the steering wheel. He looks so carefree. So not the Ryder I’ve seen the past couple of weeks. He’s got a pair of holey jeans on with tennis shoes along with a light blue t-shirt. The way the color makes his skin glow has my mouth watering. And every time he shifts, his arm muscles flex, showing me how defined they are.

The windows are down, and the radio is up. He comes to a stop at a light and looks over at me. Reaching over, he turns the radio down and smirks. “What?”

“Just admiring how gorgeous you are,” I say, making him laugh.

“You’re the only gorgeous one in this car,” he says, reaching over and grabbing my hand from my lap.

“I’m pretty sure those are the same sunglasses and hat you were wearing the first night I met you on the beach,” I say.

He smiles, not taking his eyes off the road. “Remember what you said to me?” I frown. “I told you that I could be anything you wanted me to be …”

“I said I wanted you to be mine,” I say, remembering with a smile.

He brings it to his lips and kisses my knuckles.

I go to open my mouth, but his phone rings through the speakers. He presses a button on the screen, and the sound of a woman fills the car.

“Mr. O’Kane?” she asks nervously.

“Yes,” he answers, rolling up the windows as the light turns green. He shifts, and we start to move forward through the intersection.

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