“Seriously?”
“Don’t act like it’s out of the realm of possibility.”
He folds his arms over his chest and stares down at me. “I’m disappointed you would think that about me.”
“Get in the car.”
He gives the car a thorough once-over, then looks back at me, his gaze dubious. “Are you a good driver? You don’t tailgate, do you? That front bumper is original. I don’t want it getting scratched.”
“Get your behind in this car before I peel out of this parking lot in a plume of smoke and run over your giant feet.” I lean over and open his door. “Now.”
With a grudging grunt, he gives up and ambles around the rear. He gets in the passenger seat so slowly and carefully I could have time for a nap.
“I’m dying of old age over here.”
He settles in, sighing in pleasure. “God. Look at the condition of the leather. Pristine. I’ve had blow jobs less exciting than this.” He looks as if he’s about to get naked and roll around on the floor like a dog.
I warn, “If you start removing your clothes, I’ll kick you out. Even if we’re on the freeway.”
When I gun the engine, he lets out a little moan.
“Okay, it’s getting weird now, Sparky.”
Running his hands reverently over the dash, he says, “How do you have this car, Pink?”
“It was my dad’s. He loved cars. He was a race car driver.”
He stops fondling the dashboard and looks at me. “Your father was a race car driver?”
I put the Cobra into reverse and pull out of the parking spot. “Why does everything I’m saying make you act like you’re having a religious experience?”
“I wanted to be a race car driver when I was a kid.”
Surprised, I glance at him. “Me too.”
He does that cartoon character thing where it looks like his eyes are about to pop out of his skull. “What? You? No.”
“Please stop talking before I’m forced to physically harm you.”
“I just… can’t…” He shakes his head as if to clear it. “You’re blowing my mind.”
“Well, believe it or not, yes. I wanted to race cars, just like my dad. Two of my brothers were into computers and photography. Another was pre-med. Another was an artist. None of them thought cars were cool. But I did. I thought racing was the coolest job in the world. I thought my dad was cooler than Steve McQueen. That’s why I got this instead of them when my parents died.”
I pause for a moment, awash in memories. “But after the accident, I didn’t want to race cars anymore. In fact, I couldn’t get into a car for more than four years. All my friends were getting their driver’s licenses in high school and I was still riding my bike. It took a lot of therapy before the nightmares stopped.”
We drive in silence. I feel Mason looking at me, but don’t glance over at him.
“By the way, where am I going? I don’t know where you live.”
“I’m in Buckhead.”
“Of course you are.”
“Don’t judge me for being rich.”
That makes me smile. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Life must be terribly difficult for you.”
“Snob.”
“Rich guy.”
“You say that like having money is a bad thing.”
“Money itself isn’t good or bad. It’s what you do with it that matters.”
After a moment of silence, he says, “I take it you’ve never been poor.”
He gets quiet after that, and so do I. We drive through the city lost in our own thoughts, until we come to the swanky part of town known as Buckhead.
Mason says, “Left here. Follow it up four blocks, then make another left. I’ll direct you from there.”
As we go, the houses get bigger and bigger and farther apart. Mason tells me which streets to turn on, until finally we’re idling in front of a massive stone wall interrupted by a wrought-iron gate so large and elaborate it could pass as the entrance to heaven.
“Punch one-nine into that keypad.” Mason nods to the small black box on a stand on the left side of the driveway. I pull forward a bit, then lean out and key in the numbers.
“What else?”
“That’s it.”
I turn to look at him. “Your passcode is only two digits?”
“It’s my jersey number. Why are you staring at me like that?”
“Because that’s got to be the least secure entry code in the history of entry codes.”
He shrugs, as if security doesn’t matter. “I wanted something I wouldn’t forget.”
The gates swing open. I press my foot on the accelerator pedal, shaking my head in disbelief.
The disbelief turns to shock when, after what seems like a mile long drive down a beautiful gravel driveway flanked on either side by huge willows, an enormous estate comes into view. It looks like a palace.
“Oh my God. Is that where you live?”
“Yep.”
“How many people live there with you?”
“None.”
We drive closer. I lean over the steering wheel to look up and take it all in. It’s the hugest residence I’ve seen in my life. “How big is this place?”
“Thirty-four-thousand square feet on seventeen acres.”
I burst out laughing. “I’ve visited theme parks smaller than this!”
He stares at it through the windshield with a faint air of distaste. “I told my real estate agent I wanted the biggest place available. This is what I got.”
“Wow. Your electric bill must be a killer.”
He smiles, but it doesn’t look like a happy smile. “I wouldn’t know. Everything gets paid through my money manager.”
“Well. That must be great.”
“You’d think.”
The undercurrent of dissatisfaction in his tone is so strong, I want to ask him why he lives here if he dislikes it so much. But I hold my tongue and keep driving, until he tells me where to stop. I put the car in park and thank him for dinner.
He turns to me, startled. “You’re not coming in?”
It’s my turn to be startled. “Oh. Um. Did you want me to come in?”
He jerks his thumb at his mansion. “Don’t you want a tour?”
“Of Hearst Castle? No, thanks.”
His expression tells me how incomprehensible that is. “Everyone always wants a tour. Always.”
“I mean, it’s a very nice place, I’m sure.”
Now he looks insulted. He turns to stare at the house, then turns back to me. “Nice?”
“Please don’t take it personally. I’m not trying to start World War III here. A house like that just isn’t my thing.”
“Your thing?”
“Will you stop repeating everything I say?”
“It’s just that I’m having trouble with the fact that you don’t like my house. Everybody likes it. Everybody. Especially women.”
I sign in exasperation. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Mason, I could give a flying fig what everyone else thinks. I’ll take my cozy little cottage over this place any day.”
“But why?”