And now I have to go in and face Dawson. His Bugatti is parked parallel across three spots, way in the back of the lot. I let the engine idle as I attempt to collect myself. I’m nearly calm when the passenger door opens and Dawson slides in. He’s wearing a faded orange Billabong shirt and khaki cargo shorts with black Old Navy flip-flops. A pair of Ray-Bans cover his eyes, and his hair is spiked with gel, looking prickly and stiff. His jaw is covered with scruff, thick and dark, almost a beard. I want to run my hands over his cheek, feel the stubble tickle my palms.
I clench my fists around the leather of the steering wheel and try to breathe through the need to touch him.
“You look tense.” He leans against the car door, legs stretched out in front of him. He’s calm and utterly composed. A small smile graces his beautiful, expressive mouth.
I lick my lips and grind my hands around the wheel. “I’m fine.”
He snorts. “Babe, don’t lie to me.”
“Don’t call me that. I’m not your babe. I’m not anyone’s babe.”
“See? Tense. It’s just a word.” He drags the seatbelt across his torso and clicks it in place. He points north. “We have errands. Drive.”
“Drive where?” I glance at Dawson, who has his nose buried in his phone.
“First, back to my place. We gotta grab my script. I forgot it. Then we have a meeting with one of the secondary production firms…uh…Orbit something.”
“Orbit Sky,” I fill in.
“Yeah, them. And then back here. Jeremy wants to go over some things with me and Rose. Since you’re my assistant for this project, you’re with me.”
“So we’re going to the Orbit Sky offices?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No, it’s a dinner meeting. Spago.”
Even I know what Spago is. “Am I dressed for that?” I give Dawson a once-over. “Are you?”
He shrugs. “Does it matter? You look great. We’re stopping at my place, so I’ll put on some jeans or something. It’s not like they’ll tell me I can’t come in, you know.”
“So where do you live?”
“Just head toward Beverly Hills,” he says, not looking up from his phone. When I hesitate, he glances up at me. “What?”
“I’ve…I’ve never driven around here. Or…anywhere, really, before today.”
“You what?” Dawson frowns at me. “How have you never driven before? You have your license, right?”
I nod. “Yeah, I got my license, but I never drove. I never had to, or got to, depending on how you look at it. My mom or dad just drove me where I had to go. Here I take the bus, or I walk.”
Dawson seems like he’s fighting laughter. “And I gave you a Range Rover Autobiography?”
“A what?”
He does laugh then. His teeth are white, and the laughter transforms his face, makes what is already beautiful almost unbearably so. “This? This is a 2013 Range Rover Autobiography. It’s…” He sighs and shakes his head. “You know what? It doesn’t matter. It’s just a car. Come on.”
He reaches over me and yanks the keys out of the ignition. His forearm brushes my chest, and electricity zaps through me at the contact. He doesn’t notice, just slides out of the car and strides toward his Bugatti. I researched his car this morning during class. It’s a Bugatti Veyron 16.4 Grand Vitesse, and by all accounts it’s the most expensive car in the world, especially since he ordered some kind of special features that make it one of a kind. There was a whole magazine article on the fact that Dawson bought one, and there was also an article on his other cars, since he apparently has several super-luxury sports cars, including an Aston Martin Vanquish, a Bentley, and a Maserati. I had to look up what each of those were.
I grab my purse and follow him to his car. He’s waiting for me, holding the door. I slide onto the leather seat, and he closes the door after me. It’s a gentlemanly gesture that confuses me. I buckle up and clutch my purse on my lap, refusing to watch Dawson as he folds his frame into the seat and brings the car to life. We’re gone with a squeal of tires and a lurch of my stomach. He weaves the car through traffic, disregarding traffic laws left and right. He blows through at least one red light, carving the wheel to the right to narrowly avoid a cube van. I’m breathless, terrified.
I seem to spend a lot of time terrified around this man.
He squeezes the car between lanes, fitting into spaces I wouldn’t have believed a car could go. Having just navigated the streets of L.A. myself, I realize the mastery he has over his vehicle. He makes it look effortless, as if hurtling through the congested traffic of Hollywood at sixty miles an hour is totally normal.
His phone chimes and he pulls it out, tosses it to me. “Can you see who that is?”
I hold the unfamiliar phone in my hand and stare at it. I don’t have a cell phone, since I can’t afford one and don’t have anyone to call. I have an iPad that I use for the internship, though, and it’s just like that. I slide the little green icon across the screen. “It’s from…Ashley M.” I start reading the text aloud. “She says, ‘You should come over tonight. I have an eight-ball and some Blue Label.’”
His faces contorts. “Shit. I thought it was from Jeremy.”
“Who’s Ashley M?” A thought strikes me. “And why just the first letter of her last name? Do you know so many Ashleys that you have to differentiate between them?”
“Shit,” he says again. “She’s…a friend of mine.”
“A friend.” It’s not really a question.
He grabs the phone without looking at me and shoves it between his thighs. “Yeah. A friend. And yeah, I know lots of Ashleys. And lots of Jens. Last names…aren’t usually necessary.”
“So should I answer her for you?” I know exactly what the message meant. Well, maybe I don’t know what an eight-ball is, but Blue Label is high-end whiskey. I’m guessing an eight-ball is drugs of some kind, which means sex. Ashley M is probably glamorously beautiful and sophisticated and knows how to please him in ways I don’t.
My heart clenches. I force myself to remember that he’s my boss. I work for him. He can do drugs and drink and have sex with anyone he wants. This has nothing to do with me.
He shifts gears, and grabs the phone, spinning it idly between thumb and forefinger. Then he tosses it to me. “Yeah. Answer her for me.”