David’s secret entrance is a shed-cum-garage that’s big enough to house two cars. The door rises automatically as he approaches, and David drives straight into the dark space. I follow. As soon as the door behind us closes, lights come on, showing a wide tunnel sloping downward to create an underground passageway.
David rolls down the ramp, and I follow, feeling like a kid in a special hidden wonderland. We go through a tunnel for what seems to be a couple of blocks and then there’s another ramp back up to ground level. We end up inside his garage.
I park my car and get out. “Wow,” I say. “It really is secret!”
He grins, shutting the door to his Lamborghini. “Cool, huh?”
“Totally. It’s like Batman.”
“Or James Bond. But better because it’s real.” He winks.
I laugh. “Definitely.”
I look around. I’ve never been in this part of his mansion before. A couple of fancy European cars are parked—a gleaming silver Maserati and a black Rolls-Royce. Then I see it in the corner—a Harley.
“You ride a motorcycle?” I ask, shocked.
“Used to. During my rebellious phase.”
Rebellious phase? “I’ve never seen you ride it to work.”
“Mom didn’t like it. She said it was a deathtrap. I told her it couldn’t be a trap because I wasn’t strapped into it, but that didn’t help.”
I shake my head, then laugh. “Of course not. Your mom was just worried. Every mother’s job.”
“Yeah. Anyway, I keep it because it’s such a beaut, but I don’t ride it for the sake of my mother’s peace of mind. She told me she might have a heart attack if I didn’t quit.” Exasperation mingles with love in his gray eyes.
I get a little warm at the idea of the two butting heads with each other out of love. “I think it’s sweet of you.”
“How about you?” he asks as he grabs the pepperoni pizza we picked up.
“What about me?” I check my car to make sure I’ve got all my things.
He opens the door to the mansion. “Ever do anything rebellious?”
I scrunch my face. Pretend to think. “No.”
“How come?”
“I was a very good girl,” I say primly.
The reality is that I wasn’t allowed to do anything that could possibly be considered improper. Dad was paranoid I’d do something that would embarrass him or negatively affect his chances of winning each election. “What would my constituents think?” is most benign of the things he said when I did something he didn’t like.
David nods. “And you spent your weekend doing the training. Bet you got straight As in school, too.”
He places the food on the kitchen counter, then washes his hands. I do the same, ignoring his comment about the As. I was a good student, but not that good. Another thing my dad didn’t like, although his campaign manager said it was okay because it’d make me appear like a normal kid, which would in turn increase “voter relatability.”
“Want something to drink? I have wine, Coke…OJ. Water, if you want that.”
“Coke would be nice. Thank you.”
He takes a small bottle out and hands it to me. He pours himself a glass of Chianti.
We sit on stools by the counter and start eating. The pizza’s nice enough. Still hot, the cheese soft and gooey. But what’s best is the easy atmosphere. I can’t put my finger on it, but somehow it feels comforting and natural to share a quiet meal with him.
Which is weird. We’ve had meals before when we were working late. But what is it about this one that feels so special? Because it’s more personal? Or is it because we have this secret pact?
His phone rings again before we get to finish even one slice. I tense, wondering if it’s the people he hired with more bad news. Maybe the reporters broke into my apartment and planted bugs.