“I’m not sure that’s a great idea,” I said, sitting up and swinging my legs over the side of the bed. “I get car sick when faced with certain death.”
“I haven’t killed myself or anyone else yet,” he reminded me, as he often did to defend his frequent visits. “One ride, Sophie. Just to cheer me up.”
He knew exactly how to appeal to my goodness. Of course I had to agree; I wanted to cheer him up, didn’t I?
With a resigned sigh, I rolled my head on my neck and paused to crack it. “If I go and I don’t like it, you can never, ever ask me to go again.”
“Agreed.” He grinned up at me and stretched his long arms. He looked so warm and inviting, I wanted to climb back in with him. But he shooed me toward the bathroom. “Go on, get ready. Wear something tight, make my friends jealous.”
I uttered an outraged “Uh!” but I not-so-secretly loved it when Neil wanted me dolled up so he could show me off. It was the shallow, appearance-obsessed side of me that made me so good at my job. I hurried through my shower, took my time with my hair and makeup, and selected my outfit carefully. When Neil saw the finished product—my hair curled and teased to porn-star volume, my dark, smoky eye makeup, the low-cut, long-sleeved black knit top I’d paired with black skinny jeans that were just a little slinkier than I was usually comfortable with—I got the reaction I wanted.
“We don’t have to go to the track.” Fresh from his shower, he tossed his towel aside. “We can stay right here, and I can do unspeakable things to you.”
I backed away slowly. “Hold it right there, wet naked man. I did not get this made up so you could undo it all. Besides, wasn’t this about showing off your hot young mid-life crisis trophy?”
He raised his eyebrows and nodded his head to the side. “All right. Let me get dressed, and we’ll go.”
While Neil got ready, I selected a burgundy leather jacket that would be utterly useless against the cold, but was cropped high enough that it didn’t hide my great ass. Deja had once asked why it didn’t bother me when Neil made comments about showing me off, but I didn’t see how it could when half the time I was dressing up to show myself off.
I was zipping up my calf-high, leather, high-heeled boots when Neil emerged from the closet. He wore a gray sweater over a white t-shirt, faded jeans and black sneakers. A beaten up brown leather jacket was folded over his arm.
“Oh my, now that is really special,” he said as I lifted my head, still fiddling with my boot. I looked down and caught my pushed up cleavage practically falling out.
“Dirty old man.” I stood pulled my shirt back into place. “Okay. I promised you I’ll go around the track one time. But you can’t go fast.”
He rolled his eyes and sighed at my hopelessness. “It’s a race track, Sophie. You’re supposed to go fast.”
“Right, but we’re not racing.” I paused. “You guys don’t race each other, do you?”
He looked down and scratched the back of his neck.
“Neil!” I barked. “What if you wrecked one of those expensive cars? What if you got hurt? Or killed?”
“That sentence seems to be out of order,” he groused.
“You’re out of order!” I put my hands on my hips. “I thought you were just hanging out with your similarly middle-aged car enthusiasts at the track. Now you’re what, racing for pink slips like in Grease?”
“No, we don’t race for pink slips. We race for bragging rights. And, occasionally, thousands of dollars.” His lips quirked in amusement. “Come now, Sophie, you have to let me have a little fun.”
“Was it fun being in the hospital for as long as you were before? Because if your Zogani Panda or whatever bursts into flames—”
“My what?”
“Your Zogani Panda. That car that looks like a bug from the front.”
“The Pagani Zonda,” he corrected me, even more amused at my anger now.
“Whatever! Neil, I don’t want you to get hurt!” Panic clutched my chest. I couldn’t breathe. I teetered on my heels to slump down on the edge of the bed.
He came to sit beside me and put his arms around me. “Sophie, I won’t get hurt.”
“You can’t promise me that,” I reminded him. I leaned my cheek against his shoulder and hoped I wouldn’t get my foundation on him. “You just think you can because you’re an egotistical control freak.”
“I’m a good driver, and I don’t take unnecessary risks,” he promised. “You’re coming out to the track today. You can see for yourself.”
“Okay, but no races.” It was immature of me, but if he was going to do something dangerous, I didn’t want to hear about it or be near when he did it. Denial was the only thing that would keep me sane. “Just take me out, impress me with your fast, fancy car, and don’t die or kill me while you do it.”
The track where Neil drove—and housed some of his car collection—was a private facility in Connecticut. To drive there, you had to have the money to pay your share of the state-of-the-art track’s upkeep and cover garage fees, and membership was by invitation only. It was a rich guy club with life-sized toy cars.