One More Time

Not that I was going to complain about it. Someone who tipped well always got brownie points in my book. When you work in the service industry, you get it. Too many people don't. Especially those like Malcolm who were born into a life of luxury and who never had to work for anything in their lives. They never really saw people like me for the hard workers we were. They never took the time to appreciate us or understand how much a decent tip meant.

It sometimes literally did mean the difference between paying the light bill or putting food in the fridge. A generous tip sometimes allowed us to do both.

He smiled at me. “What is it?”

“Just – nothing,” I said.

“My car is parked at the club,” he said. “Think they'll let me retrieve it?”

A devious grin spread across his face.

“We might have to steal it,” I teased.

“Stealing back my own car,” he said. “Sounds exciting.”

“Life is always an adventure when you hang with me.”

I winked at him as we stood up. I couldn't help but smile as Malcolm continued chuckling. Most people don't appreciate my dry, sardonic sense of humor, but Malcolm was an exception.

He seemed to be an exception to a lot of things. He certainly wasn't the man I had thought he was.

As we walked out of the diner, I thought that for how shitty the night had started, it didn't turn out all that bad.

~ooo000ooo~

We didn't have to steal his car back, thankfully. The valet was happy to retrieve it for him. When a black luxury sedan pulled to a stop at the valet station, I groaned.

“You drive a BMW,” I said. “Why am I not surprised?”

Malcolm opened the car door for me, an amused smile on his face. “What do you have against BMW?”

“Just that every rich asshole seems to have one,” I said.

He closed the door and walked to the other side, climbing into the driver's seat. When he was buckled in, he looked at me with that mischievous little smirk on his face.

“Do you think I'm an asshole?” he asked.

I shot him a sideways look, my own smile pulling at my lips.

“The jury is still out on that one,” I answered. “I hardly know anything about you, to be honest. Except that you like punching pricks in the face as much as I do.”

“Oh look, something else we have in common,” he said. “Careful, we may end up best friends before I get you home.”

“That's probably all we have in common, you know,” I said. “We come from two entirely different worlds. I'm not even sure our worlds are in the same universe.”

Malcolm put the address I'd given to him in the GPS and eased out into the road, turning left out of the nightclub's parking lot at the automated voice's request.

“You might be surprised, Casey,” he said. “If you actually knew me, you'd know I come with my own share of problems, and that maybe, just maybe, I'm not the snooty prick you think I am.”

“You may not be a snooty prick,” I said. “But, you never have to worry about ending up on the street or without a job, I'm sure. You never have to worry about having to scrounge up money to feed your siblings and help keep the house afloat.”

“Wanna bet?”

We were stopped at a red light, and he looked over at me. He seriously seemed to believe we had similar problems in life. How – well – I would say cute, but I didn't exactly find it endearing that he didn't recognize his privileged life. Hhe actually thought he could relate to me. I didn't bother arguing with him though. It would have been utterly pointless. Sometimes, you just couldn't get through to guys like him, because he'd never had to go without before. He'd never wanted for anything. He'd never had to choose between paying rent and feeding the kids. He couldn't possibly understand my life and the idea that he thought it could pissed me off.

“Maybe it's not the same thing,” he continued, “but what if I told you I might lose everything in a few months if I don't complete an impossible task my father requires of me.”

“What? Like find some ancient, oriental rug to decorate one of your eight bedrooms with?”