RIDE ✧ {H.S.}

3.

The simple blue bubble popping up on my screen made my heart flutter. Amara's usual flirtatious tone translated into text, I felt every inch of my heat and blood travel through my body imagining her on the other side of the phone.

Have dinner with me? ;)

Delivered 4:29 PM

I'd never have the guts to send her a text like that, I'd fear the rejection too much. After only a few brief hangouts and drunk bathroom talks, I had a tiny crush emerge. She'd been on the socialite scene far longer than I had, taking charge and demanding success. God she's hot.

What prompted her to text me?

It's not like we're strangers, it's just that Amara's personal family endeavors clash a bit with mine. Us being seen together in any situation would cause press, especially a date. Her families competing car label, Monroe, was coined the 'future' of luxury vehicles with tech advancements far better than anything Accardi had conjured up.

Our teen years we both distanced from our brand lineage in favor of creating our own narratives. She stepped into the spotlight, as I began to fall into my fathers shadow. Amara was everything I wish I could embody, but for now I'd settle with just being with her.

I'd love to, pick me up when you're ready xx

Seen 4:32

She better not ignore me. I need something good in my life.

I decided on wearing red, the slutty type, for my dress. It's the deep burgundy you'd wear to an event to catch attention, while remaining within dress code. The under bust featured a cut out as the bodice perfectly held my body. To keep any sort of modesty, the dress draped ankle length, giving me the perfect opportunity to wear some heels.

With a little hairspray and some overly positive affirmations, excitement rose above my anxiety as I gave myself one last look in the mirror.

A honk reverberated from the street below as my queue was sent. Amara was here.

Common courtesy seemed to no longer exist, as she hadn't even made the effort to come to my doorstep or text. Just an obnoxious honk.

Teetering down the stairs of my flat I checked my mini purse for all essential items. Each step downward put me further in earshot of the growing L.A. nightlife. Crowds and murmurs began to build as I pushed past my apartment lobbies front door.

Amara was usually in her Monroe, with tinted windows and a matte black finish. She'd lower the windows to lessen her glistening beads of sweat as her hair strands flew with each breeze, ugh.

But she was no where to be seen.

My heels guided me along the sidewalk, misplaced, in my tight red dress with minimal coverage.

Navigation came to a halt as the familiar car horn beeped at me. An Accardi horn.

"We're going to be late for dinner, Clio," A low voice snarled at me from across the street.

My eyes hit the target as a wave of displeasure rose from my chest. This wasn't Amara.

"Don't stand on the sidewalk waitin' to be bought, c'mere," His voice rose beyond the general volume of the pedestrians beside us.

The amount of stares from onlookers grew unbearable, as the thought of getting into the car seemed like a place of refuge. I grabbed the side seam of my dress and began to prance across the street.

A pair of feet popped up from the backseat, right as I took my place on the passengers side. Amara laid in the back with a silk kerchief covering part of her hair. The rusty caramel colored car had clashing beige interiors and a removed hood as it was in the convertible mode. That infamous silver disco ball hung from the mirror.