“It was as close to a race as I’ll ever come,” I tell her. “Thank you for this. It was amazing. Having you home for Christmas will be amazing too.”
“Uh-huh,” she agrees with a laugh. “I guess a promise is a promise, but don’t you dare go around bragging that you beat me! If I hadn’t gotten someone’s grandma as my passenger…” she yells out as her monitor walks off, raising a hand in acknowledgement of her insult, “then things would have turned out a lot differently!”
“I’m pretty happy with how things have turned out,” I tell her with a grin. “Wanna grab a cold one and watch the race with me?”
“Fine. But you’re paying,” Zoe agrees with a smirk.
Chapter Ten
Zoe
* * *
I should be exhausted after the day Winston and I had. Even after all the fun at the racetrack though, I’m so freaking nervous about the upcoming job interview that I toss and turn all night. My lack of sleep is why, at first, I think I’m seeing things from the kitchen window Monday morning when a cherry red Camaro pulls up at my dad’s house and Winston climbs out.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I mutter to myself while grabbing my purse and tossing my phone in it before locking up and heading out in my black Versace dress and matching stilettos.
I meet my stepbrother on the steps. “Is this some kind of sick joke?” I ask. “If so, it’s not funny, Winston.”
“What?” He glances over his shoulder. “Oh. The car?”
“Yes, the car! The car that looks exactly like the one you fucked me on!”
“Well, that’s because it is that car,” he admits sheepishly.
“What is wrong with you?” I ask, wanting to shove him backward down the freaking stairs.
“I ended up having to buy it because there was some damage that couldn’t be repaired,” Winston explains. “The owner was seriously pissed off, so I offered to give him more than it was worth.”
“Oh my god!” I groan while rubbing my aching temples, thanks to a lack of sleep and my asshole stepbrother. “So, you bought the car we screwed on and decided to keep it for the past ten years?”
“It’s a fucking classic!” Winston exclaims. “It was then, and it’s worth even more now.”
“Whatever. I just…I can’t believe you.”
“Come on,” he says. “Forget the car and let me give you a ride. You don’t want to be late for your interview, do you? You can be pissed about the car later.”
“Oh, I’m pissed about the car now,” I assure him. “But fine. Let’s go. Unless there are cum stains on the upholstery from any of your many other conquests…”
“No cum stains, I swear. I don’t even eat or drink in my car, much less, fuck.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” I scoff with a roll of my eyes before I hurry past him down the steps and climb in on the passenger side since I need this job today. Thankfully, he was telling the truth. Compared to the car Winston had when he was a teenager, this one is immaculate inside, like it’s hardly ever been driven.
When he climbs in the driver side, I say, “You keep this locked up in the garage most of the time?”
“Yeah,” he answers. “I prefer my bike as long as the weather is nice, and, well, it’s hard not to think about that night when I see it.”
“No kidding.”
“You look…nice,” he tells me, his eyes on the short hem of my dress that reveals a lot of thigh when I’m sitting.
“Stop stalling,” I tell him, and he finally cranks the engine.
The rest of the trip up Highway Seventeen is pretty quiet. At least being angry at Winston helps me temporarily forget how nervous I am for a few minutes. This job, it may be a regular paycheck, but it’s not something I ever imagined myself doing. But modeling opportunities are rare for me lately, and the events don’t pay much. With travel expenses, it pretty much comes out to a few hundred dollars. I can’t support myself on so little, especially when I need to pay rent. My dad would probably love to have me move back home, but at twenty-eight, I can’t see that happening unless I was absolutely desperate.
“What kind of place is this in the middle of nowhere?” Winston asks as we reach the Bolivia city limits.
“Ah, you know, just a company taking advantage of cheap property in a small town.”
“Where to now?” he asks.
“I think you go a mile and then take a right on Little Swamp Road.”
“That’s really the name of it?”
“Yes.”
We keep driving and take the turn, then we’re headed down a bumpy, mostly dirt road in the middle of a field, miles away from everything before we finally reach a farmhouse with a rundown barn, stable, and several metal enclosed buildings lined up in a row. There are huge, buff men standing around, talking in front of each of the doors. It’s not exactly what I had in mind and I almost tell Winston to turn around and get us the hell out of here before he says, “What the fuck is this place, Zoe?”
“It’s a farm, obviously.”
“And are they going to hire you to feed the chickens and milk cows?”
“No. I don’t think so. Just stay here,” I tell him when he reaches over for the door handle. “Please, Winston? I’ll have my phone with me, and they probably won’t let you inside anyway.”
“I’m walking you in,” he grits out. “Either that, or we’re leaving.”
“Fine,” I huff. “But don’t say anything and keep your opinions to yourself.”
Both of us climb out of the car and hesitate a second after shutting the doors. Winston glances over the top of the roof with his eyebrow raised in question. But no, we came this far and I’m not leaving until I talk to the owner, like I agreed. The pay is great, I’m just not sure if it’s enough to make it worth it.
I finally start around the car and go up the steps to the front of the house where a tattooed man with his arms crossed over his chest rests his back against the door.
“Hi, I’m Zoe Donahue and I’m here to see Mr. Stanton.”
“You can go in. He has to stay out here,” the guy with dark tattoos up and down his arms says, with a nod of his chin toward Winston.
“Go ahead,” my stepbrother actually replies when he pulls out his phone from his pocket and slowly backs away. “I, ah, I need to make some calls in the car.”
“Okay,” I reply, a little disappointed he’s giving in so easily when the place is giving me the creeps.
“I’ll be right out here if you need me,” he adds. “You’ve got your phone?”
“Yeah, I do.” I pull it out of my purse and hold it up to keep it close.
“My number’s still the same. You remember it?”
“Yes,” I reply. Mine’s the same as it’s always been too. Winston is still saved in my contacts and his name used to show up on the screen over and over again the first few weeks after I left home. Then suddenly, one day, it just stopped, and he never called me again.