Chapter Sixteen

Cindaf***in’rellas

At around six thirty Monday evening, I stood in my front bay window, watching a white stretch limousine pull up in front of the house and attempt to park next to the curb.

Darius had arrived in style, and I added that mental note to his pro list.

I grabbed my purse and a light sweater and made my way downstairs and out to the car. I had never been picked up like this before, in a limo—not when Rob and I went to his prom; not when I went to my own prom. That year, I’d picked up my date in my parents’ Dodge Caravan.

I waved to Darius as I approached the car, and the limo driver opened the door for me. “Thank you,” I said, sliding into the backseat.

Darius shimmied back down into the limo and took the spot next to me. He handed me the bouquet of sterling roses. “Sorry I’m a little late. An interview ran long. Sometimes my time is not my own.”

“Well, that’s certainly something I understand.” I sniffed the flowers—sweet and strong—and set the bouquet gingerly on the seat across from me. “The roses are beautiful, and this is quite the car.”

“Only the best for Annie Kyle.” He squeezed my hand. “We have an exciting dinner ahead of us.”

“Good!” I grinned nervously as the car started moving. “I’m starved.”

While I’d invited Rob over for simple pizza delivery last night—we spent the entire evening on the couch, watching the new Matthew McConaughey action movie while separated from each other by a big mutt, though we did hold hands across her back there for a little while, and it was definitely nice—Darius had proposed taking me out to one of the hottest new restaurants in Chicago.

“So, what is this place?” I asked. He wouldn’t tell me the name of it on the phone.

Even now, he zipped his lip. “Trust me. The less you know, the better. Go into it with your mind wide open to the possibilities.”

“Okay.” Grinning, I leaned back in my seat. I was so used to always being in control in every facet of my life; I was the boss, the decision maker. It was nice to be with someone else who was willing to take charge. With Darius, I could relax and go with the flow.

He grabbed a bottle of champagne from the limo’s mini fridge. “Want some?”

“Sure.”

Darius expertly popped the cork, as if he’d practiced this maneuver hundreds of times in front of the mirror to achieve maximum coolness.

It worked.

He poured me a glass.

“Thank you.” We clinked flutes, and I felt myself relaxing even further. It was summertime in Chicago, and my date and I were being driven around from place to place. We had champagne. Life was good.

After a few minutes of chatting about the weather and complaining about traffic, I said, “How’s your story coming?”

He looked at me, confused. “Which story?”

I giggled. “The one about me!”

“Oh!” He laughed. “Good. I’m retooling it a little bit, trying to figure out the exact right angle.” He pressed his lips together for a moment, and his eyes grew serious. “I think we can win an Emmy.”

“Really?”

“Well, a local one, obviously, but yes.” He smiled, puffing out his chest. “Of course, I approach all my stories with the same vim and vigor—each subject is award-worthy, and each segment must be up to my impeccable standards. Oh!” He snatched the champagne glass from my hand. “Here we are.”

I peered out the window at a nondescript, beige building—a warehouse. I checked the other side of the street. Similar view. I spied no other cars in our vicinity. Nerves churned in my belly. This was why I usually was the one who took charge, because when I didn’t, I could end up being taken to a murder den or sex dungeon. I was about to become a skin suit.

“Where are we?” I asked, hoping Siri would catch the name of this place, praying I hadn’t turned off the location services on my phone.

Darius’s eyes lit up. “We’re at Jam.”

“Jam?” Definite sex dungeon.

He flashed me his pearly whites. “The hottest new restaurant in Chicago.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“You wouldn’t have. It’s that new and that hot.”

The limo driver opened the door, and Darius slid out. I followed, and he offered me a hand. Gravel crunched under my only pair of high heels—gunmetal Michael Kors pumps from a few years ago. We were in an alley. “This is where the hottest new restaurant in Chicago is located?”

“Yes.” He grinned excitedly.

He had to be lying. There wasn’t even a fast-food restaurant here, let alone a trendy new bistro.

I would not yet rule out my skin suit theory.