“Yikes, that sounds…dangerous.”
“Fastest production vehicle in the world, baby.” He arched an eyebrow at me. “Better buckle up.”
I clicked the belt into place, held my purse on my lap, and offered an uncertain smile. “All right, I’m buckled.”
“Hold on.”
He pulled away from the curb, around to the street, paused to let a handful of cars pass, and then when there was an opening in traffic, he gunned the engine and twisted the steering wheel. It felt like being hit in the chest by a gorilla—I was pressed back against the seat by pure G-force, tires howling. I couldn’t move, could barely manage to catch my breath, couldn’t find anything to hold on to so I gripped the gold chain of my YSL’s strap until my knuckles hurt. He drove like a madman, albeit a very talented one—weaving through traffic as if this was a chase scene in a Michael Bay flick. At one point, he even bolted into oncoming traffic to get around a slow-moving SUV. Both hands on the wheel, aviators in place, a shit-eating grin on his face, he was both completely focused but somehow utterly relaxed. We came to an intersection, a green left turn light, and he slid from the far right to the left turn lane in one swoop, and the nose pivoted to left while the tail swung out, tires screaming in a drifting turn that had me grasping at the ceiling, the doorframe, anything—I’d have screamed, but I still hadn’t caught my breath.
“Holy shit holy shit holy shit!” I finally squeaked. “You’ve proved your point, it’s fast!”
He laughed, a rumbling snarl. “Not trying to prove a damn thing, sweetheart,” he drawled. “Just driving the car like it was designed to be driven.” He smirked at me with a quick glance. “Trust me. I was trained how to drive by professionals. You’re safe as houses, babe.”
“Doesn’t feel safe—WATCH OUT FOR THAT TRUCK!”
He just laughed, tapped the brakes and snaked around it, earning honks of outrage and more than one middle finger. “What truck?”
We were already past it, topping a hill, and then he finally slowed to a more moderate—and legal—pace.
“Is that how you impress all the girls?” I asked, arching an eyebrow at him. “Scare the piss out of them by driving like a maniac?”
He just nodded. “Yep.”
“And it works?”
“Usually.” He eyed me, that cocky smirk on his face still. “Did it work on you?”
“I don’t know. I’m still trying to gather my wits.”
“Your wits are back there a ways, I think,” he said. “Saw ’em in the rearview mirror.”
“Hysterical.”
Another of those rough, wild grins. “So, Autumn. What do you do?”
“I’m a luxury real estate agent.”
“Nice. Any good at it?”
I laughed at the question. “You don’t stay in the luxury market for long if you’re not.” I glanced his way. “Feels a little lopsided, here. I know a lot about you, and you don’t know anything about me.”
He flicked a glance in the rearview mirror; I followed his gaze and saw a police cruiser behind us, lights off, trailing at a distance, clearly waiting for him to pull another stunt. “I see you, five-oh. I ain’t doin’ nothin’. Not anymore, at least.” Back to me, then. “You think you know a lot about me.”
“So what I think I know isn’t true?”
“Not sayin’ that. But some of what’s out there is true, some of it’s false, some of it is taken out of context, and some of it is true but exaggerated.”
I noticed he was very carefully going exactly the speed limit, but the way his thumb was tapping against the steering wheel gave the impression it took a lot of willpower to do so.
“So what’s one lie?” I asked.
“That whole story where I beat up that actress’s boyfriend? That was a flat-out lie. I never met the woman, and certainly never beat up her boyfriend. For one thing, I don’t date chicks who are with someone. Not my style. I like ’em single and ready to mingle. For another, that wasn’t even me in the photo—it was doctored. Also, I was in Europe for a match when that was supposed to have happened. Some sites have debunked it, since, but once the article is out there, the damage is done.”
“So you’ve never…dated…anyone who wasn’t single?”
He shrugged. “Not knowingly. I hooked up with this chick once who conveniently neglected to mention she was engaged. She was high profile, so was her fiancé, but I don’t follow that shit. I ain’t got time for gossip about who’s fucking who.”
“Adelaide Montgomery,” I said, remembering the buzz about it at the time. “How could you not know Adelaide was engaged to Zeke?”
“I don’t even know who that Zeke doofus is,” he growled. “Hell, I barely knew who Adelaide was. It was at a party in Paris after a match, I was buzzed on painkillers and Cristal, and it was dark. I recognized her the next morning, in the photos that had been taken of us. But at the time she was just a hot, willing body.”
“That Zeke doofus,” I echoed. “He’s a platinum-selling artist. Everyone knows who Zeke is.”
“I ain’t everyone.” He huffed. “Told you, I don’t keep track of that shit. If I know you, it’s because I know you. In my world, there’s just people. Celebrity, not a celebrity, I don’t give two shits. People are people.” He smirked at me. “Plus, I met the guy at some stupid red-carpet bullshit later on, and he was a doofus.”
“You met Zeke Pryor?”
“Sure. And he’s a doofus.”
I sighed. Zeke Pryor was a doofus. This guy was too much. “And what would an example of something exaggerated?”
He checked his mirrors, put on a blinker and changed lanes, then made a right turn. “Hmmm. Oh, I know. That story about the brawl in Prague? It did happen, but it was way overblown. Me and the other dude got a little heated, he threw a punch, I threw one back, our respective friends pulled us apart, there was some scuffling, but it wasn’t a fuckin’ brawl. Me and my boys decide to brawl, you’ll fuckin’ know it.”
We pulled into the valet lane of a well-known high-end restaurant in the LA area; I had to now figure out how to exit this car gracefully, without flashing the whole restaurant, and particularly the valet who was opening the door for me. I pressed my knees together and rotated so I was sitting half out of the low-slung rocket-mobile, feet on the cobbled brick of the valet pavilion. Seven was there, then, stone-and-leather paw wrapping around my suddenly tiny, dainty, frail little doll’s hand, and he was standing in front of me, his big body blocking view of me as I levered myself upright with my knees still pressed together. If you’ve never tried to stand up with your feet and knees pressed together while in a car barely six inches off the ground, then you won’t understand how simply physically difficult that is.
As soon as I was on my feet, Seven smiled down at me. “Easier getting in than out, ain’t it?”
I huffed. “No kidding. Next time, either drive something I don’t need a crane to help me out of or let me know so I can wear a skirt I can move in more easily.”
His eyes narrowed and a devious grin slid across his chiseled features. “Next time, huh?”
“Slip of the tongue. If there’s a next time, and you know that’s what I meant.”
He rolled a shoulder. “Hey, I take people at face value and at their word. I assume folks mean what they say, say what they mean, and if someone’s words or actions don’t match their intentions or desires, sucks to be them. I don’t play games. Life’s too short to fuck around like that.”
We were inside, at the host stand. The short, young, beautiful, and somewhat scantily clad hostess saw Seven as we entered and inflated her lungs and pushed her shoulders back in a way that somehow made her boobs look several sizes bigger and more prominent than they already were.
“Mr. St. John. Thank you for joining us today, sir. Your table is ready, please follow me right this way.” Her voice was high and breathy, and I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anyone bat their eyelashes that obviously before.
Not so much as a gl
ance at me, obviously.
Seven’s hand rested on my lower back, subtly and neatly putting me between himself and the hostess. We followed her through the low-ceilinged, dimly lit restaurant, weaving between tables of two and four people, around servers with trays of food and bottles of wine. She led us to a dark back corner, away from everyone and hidden behind a pillar so we wouldn’t be easily spotted. Or, rather, so Seven wouldn’t be, since no one cared about spotting me.
“Here you are, Mr. St. John. Our most private table.”
I felt Seven lean down close, murmuring in my ear. “Cue the bend over toward me and tell me she’s here if I need anything.” His voice was barely audible, and amused.
The hostess indeed sidled toward him, completely ignoring me, and bent toward him to offer him an obvious look straight down her cleavage. “And if there’s anything at all I can do for you, please, let me know. And I do mean absolutely anything.”
Well. You can’t get any more obvious than that, can you? Also, how many words in a single sentence can you emphasize?
“Excuse me.” I heard myself talking, and had no clue what I was about to say. Something rude, knowing me. “I’m his date, and I’m right here. In front of you. Not sure if you’ve noticed me, yet, since you haven’t so much as looked at me. I mean, look, I get it, okay? It’s Seven St. John. But have, like, some dignity. Throwing yourself at a man when he’s with another woman is just…slutty. It’s not a good look on you, sweetie.”
She finally turned her eyes on mine, and her gaze and posture were haughty. “Like he’d even take you home after. I don’t even recognize you. Sorry to break it to you, sweetie, but you don’t stand a chance.”
Seven’s voice cut in. “Darlin’, I somehow doubt it’s gonna go over well with your boss if I tell him you’re insulting my date, number one. And number two, I’m real, real close with Freddy. You know, Fredrick Lyons, the owner of this place?” He stepped closer to the hostess, and somehow he made himself seem even bigger and more imposing. “Number three, even if you were right about anything you said about my date, which you’re not, insulting her in front of me isn’t going to earn you any favors with me. And number four…” he paused for emphasis. “I don’t fuck with children.”
She blinked up at him, and her chin quivered. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. Please don’t tell Mr. Lyons—I really need this job.” Her eyes went to mine, suddenly meek. “I apologize, ma’am. I was out of line.”
I tendered a forgiving smile. “It happens to the best of us. I did something very similar once when I was cocktail waitress, in front of Christian Slater.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Who?”
I sighed. “Before your time, I guess. Look him up. You’ll thank me later.”
Seven rumbled a laugh. “Can we sit?”
He held my chair for me, and waited until I was settled before taking his own. So far, his manners were impeccable, if you ignored his salty language.
Once we were seated, a server came over with a rocks glass full of clear bubbly liquid, garnished with three lime wedges. “Titos and soda with extra lime. And for the lady?”
“A regular here, huh?” I asked Seven. To the waiter, then: “Dry red, please. Something from Napa, pre-2017.”
“Of course, madam.” He bowed, turned, and left.
Seven sipped his drink. “Like I told the hostess, I’m buds with the owner, so yeah.”
“Buds.”
He frowned, confused. “What? Not a cool enough word?”
“It just feels…like a dated term, I guess.”
“Well, I’m not one of those guys who uses ‘bro.’ It’s douchey, and I’m not a douche.”
I snorted a laugh. “I went on a date once with this guy. We had dinner, and it was great. He was fairly articulate, could hold interesting conversation, didn’t lecture me about his business or whatever. But then we went for a drink after dinner and we ran into a group of his friends. I shit you not, he referred to his friend as ‘bro-chacho.’”
“At least it wasn’t bro-tato chip?” He snorted, shook his head. “Did you ghost him?”
I nodded, laughing. “I texted my friend group our escape code, and she called me. I told him I had to take the call, and I left.”
“You have escape codes with your friends?”
“Hell yeah. If we’re on a date that’s going bad, we text the phrase ‘escape clause’ to the group thread, and whoever is free calls. You then say you have to take the call, and you leave.”
“You gonna use it on me?”
I grinned and shrugged. “So far, no. But if I tell you I have to take a phone call, the date’s over.”
“What if it’s a real phone call?”
“I don’t answer real phone calls on dates. If my phone rings, I let it go to voicemail, and then I excuse myself to the restroom and check it there.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “I might steal that. Usually I just tell whoever I’m with that I gotta go check my phone.”
“The bathroom excuse is more polite. Makes them feel less like you’re choosing your phone over them.”
“Nice.” He flipped open his menu as the server approached with a glass of wine. “You know what you want?”
“Nah, but if you go first, I’ll know by the time you’ve ordered.”
“Ma’am. Silver Oak Cabernet Sauvignon, from 2015. One of my personal favorites.” He set it in front of me and hesitated nearby, clearly expecting me to taste it and let him know it was good.
I took a sip, and nodded at him. “Perfect, thank you.”
“Of course, madam. Sir, would you like to hear the specials for the evening?”
“Nah, just tell Chef Ricardo to surprise me. He knows my dietary restrictions and preferences.”
“Very well, sir. And for you, ma’am?”
“You can tell me the specials, if you want. Everything on the menu sounds good, so far.”
The server rattled off three specials: a seafood presentation, a steak presentation, and something that I thought was pasta.
I sighed when he was done. “That doesn’t help. I’m ravenous and it all sounds amazing.” I considered a moment. “I’ll have the steak special. Medium. No potatoes, extra vegetables of the day.” When the server was gone, I sipped my wine and regarded Seven. “So, dietary restrictions, huh?”
He nodded, shrugged. “Yeah. I may not be a professional fighter and athlete anymore, but I’m not about to let myself go. I’m in almost as good condition now as I was at my peak as a fighter. I wouldn’t want to step into the ring without sharpening up a bit, but I’m still dangerous, you know? And that means proper nutrition. Mostly meat and eggs. So Chef Ricardo knows I like my plate full of meat, nice and medium-rare but not quite mooing, no sauce, no fuckin’ veggies or any of that shit.”
“So you basically eat like a lion.”
He grinned, and it was indeed predatory and leonine. “You got it, baby—I’m all lion.” He leaned forward, his big paw covering the rim of the glass. “So, Autumn Scott. Tell me things about you.”
“Like what?”
He used the tiny stupid little black straw to stir his drink, shoving the limes down further. “Why luxury real estate? How’d you get into that?”
“Well, my sister and I were in college and going nowhere fast, partying more than studying and all that. And neither of us had a damn clue what to do with our lives. We were both in the liberal arts program, but only because it was something to declare. We were clueless.”
“Kids.”
“Exactly.”
“College is a fuckin’ racket, if you ask me. What fuckin’ eighteen-year-old kid has any damn clue how to live alone? These idiots send their precious little doves off to a mega university a billion miles away, and they’re alone for the first time ever and have never had to even wipe their own asses, just about, let alone work on their own initiative, budget money and time, tell themselves no, all of that adult shit. Literally everyone around them is partyi
ng like alcohol is going out of style, there’s no supervision, no consequences except failing their classes, which they don’t wanna go to in the first fuckin’ place and aren’t paying for anyway. Fuckin’ stupid.”
I bite my lip over a smirk. “I take it you didn’t go to a university.”
“Hell no. I didn’t even graduate high school.” He sighed. “Anyway. Sorry, back to you.”
“Well, you’re not wrong, and that describes us, mostly. My sister is Zoe, just F-Y-I. We met our friend Laurel in college, and she was our entree into real estate. We weren’t super close with her at first, just sort of…drinking buddies, I guess. We went to a lot of the same parties and we’d hang out, eventually on our own outside of parties. She was friends with a girl named Lizzy who worked for a brokerage owned by her uncle, and she was banking, man. Like, she was our age, a year or two older maybe, and she was just killing it. One of the top real estate sellers in the whole area, in her twenties. Mid-range, at that point, from the three hundreds into a million or so, but her turnover rate was crazy. She’d get a listing, show it a few times, and bam, sold. And Zoe and I were like, shit, we want some of that. It was just the money, at first.”
He nodded. “Nothing wrong with that.”
“We grew up poor as church mice, so seeing a girl our age driving a nice car, living in a nice apartment, working full time, being good at what she did and enjoying it? Yeah, it appealed.”
The server came by, then, with two plates. He set one in front of me. “The filet mignon, medium, no potatoes and extra vegetable du jour, for the lady. And for you, Mr. St. John, a tomahawk done medium rare.”
I boggled at the cut of meat on Seven’s plate. It was the size of three normal steaks, with a huge bone creating a handle. It was alone on the plate; I wondered how any one person could eat that much meat in one sitting.
“Great, James, thank you. Tell Ricardo he should just keep these tomahawks on the menu just for me.”
The server, James, grinned. “He does keep them on hand just for you, but Mr. Lyons doesn’t want to put them on the menu. He says the margin on them isn’t in his favor.”
Autumn Rolls a Seven (Billionaire Baby Club Book 2) Page 2
