He turns his attention back to you once more, breaking the ice but thankfully also without bringing up the very obvious pink elephant in the room.


“Wait here, I’ll bring my car around,” he says, already walking away.


“Didn’t you have a valet park it for you?” you ask.


“No,” he says simply. “I don’t like other people touching my car.”


You sigh and shake your head. “Oh lord, you’re one of those guys?”


He looks at you incredulously, his brow arched. “What guys?” 


“You know, those car-obsessive type guys,” you explain.

He just gives you a confused look. “Never mind,” you finally say, waving it off.


He’s only gone for a few minutes, and when he comes back, he’s rolling up to you in a sleek, silver two-seater Bentley.


You move toward the car warily, but he quickly gets out and walks over to your side, popping your door open for you and waiting on you to go inside. You get in slowly, trying to figure out the best strategy to get seated without baring your entire ass for him and the entire world to see.


You struggle to sit in the low car, and your dress rides up again in typically trashy dress fashion, riding up your thigh to reveal the top of your thigh-high pantyhose and your garter belt. In horror, you realize you’re basically flashing him, and you pull at the hem frantically as you adjust yourself in the seat, refusing to let the hem of your dress go for fear that it’s going to end up riding up all the way above your waist if left to its own deeds.


You clutch the front of his jacket around you furiously in an attempt to insulate yourself from any further flashing and the sheer embarrassment that comes with it. You think you catch him grinning when he shuts your door, but it could just be in your head.


He gets back into the car, and you can’t help but notice the difference in your seats. His is pushed as far back as it can go while yours is much further ahead. His body completely fills the seat, and his legs look so much longer.


It’s a two-seater, but it looks pretty sizable, certainly comfortable enough for him and big enough to support his large frame. It almost looks like it was customized especially for him. You wouldn’t be surprised, given the kind of company he clearly keeps.


You buckle in your seat belt, hearing the soft click of the metal being secured, but when you look over to him and don’t see him doing the same, you can’t help but arch your brows.


“Aren’t you going to strap up?” you ask.


“Seat belts make me feel claustrophobic,” he simply says, as if that’s a perfectly normal excuse for someone to not wear their seat belt.


“Are you kidding me? You’re a frickin’ doctor!” you say, flailing your hands for emphasis. “You tell people not to smoke or drink and you won’t even wear your seat belt?”


He simply shrugs.


“Unbelievable,” you mutter, sinking into the back rest. Whatever. If he wants to chance dying ‘cause he won’t do something as simple as wear a stupid little seat belt, then that’s on him.


You drive in silence for a while, and you flip through a few stations in an attempt to make the ride a little less awkward.


There aren’t really any good radio signals this far out in the city, so you settle for the least offensive country music you can find, maintaining your end of the silence while keeping your eyes on the stretch of dirt road through your window.


“You work for Minderah now?” Frost asks suddenly, his deep voice easily overshadowing the mediocre music in the background, but his eyes remain on the road ahead.


“I’m not exactly sure yet,” you say, before quickly turning your head to face his serious profile. “And her full name is Minderah?”


He arches his brow, but his attention remains on the windshield.


“You know, I really think it would be in your best interest to at least know the name of your potential employer,” he says, and the copious amount of sarcasm in his voice is not at all lost on you.


You don’t have to take this B.S., especially from him. He doesn’t know you or what your situation is.


You don’t want to ask, and you’re doing your best to just bite your tongue and leave it alone, but as much as you don’t want to sound bothered or concerned by the fact that he knows her— seemingly well, actually—you can’t stop yourself from asking.


“So…you and Mindy—I mean, Minderah—know each other, huh?”


You’re trying really hard to come off like you’re just making casual conversation and not sound as annoyed as you feel, even though you know you have no reason to feel annoyed in the first place.


“Yeah, we go way back,” he simply says.


You’re sure he does.


“How far back?” You don’t know why you’re asking. You really just wish you would keep your mouth shut.


“Med school,” he says.


Your eyes go wide instantly. “Mindy went to med school?!” you sit up at hearing this surprising news, and the shock is all too apparent in your voice.


“Yes,” he says. His tone is nonchalant, but he keeps giving you these monosyllabic answers, and you need more than that. You want him to elaborate, but you also don’t want to sound nosy and bothered by whatever history he and Mindy may or may not have. Besides, it’s really none of your business who he hangs around or does anything with, anyway.


You don’t say anything for the rest of the ride except to give him a few directions and tell him where to turn when you approach your side of the city.



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