Page 29 of Bronx

“You’re dropping me off?” The woman rolls her neck in disbelief.

She’s insulted, which probably means that this is not the type of treatment that she’s used to. Okay, well, so at least I know he didn’t just pay this woman for sex.

“This is an actual date?” I mistakenly say out loud exactly what I’m thinking.

Geez, Karma.

An amused expression spreads across Bronx’s perfectly chiseled face. “What did you think it was?”

“The fuck?” Michelle reacts as she looks between the two of us. “You’re dumping me for a dinner with her?”

Okay, I realize this is probably a very awkward situation for her, but she doesn’t have to be so damn rude.

“Listen, we can reschedule,” I say to him. “I’m not trying to interrupt your date—“

“Actually, I’ve changed my mind,” Bronx cuts me off mid-sentence and looks over at the woman. “Michelle, you can politely get the fuck out right here.”

“In Norristown? I don’t fucking live here.”

“Call an Uber.”

I lower my gaze, a bit embarrassed for the woman, but shamefully gleeful that she’s leaving.

“You’re the biggest dickhead,” she lambasts him.

“You mean I have a big dick?”

I try not to laugh.

“And you can’t fuck.”

“Now that’s one I’ve never heard.” He looks at me. “I promise you that.”

I chuckle a little to myself as I try to pretend not to care as this drama between them unfolds. I’m not going to lie, though. I’m kind of happy that Bronx is kicking this woman to the curb. She’s not likable at all. He could find a nicer woman to take out.

Michelle flops her chest heavy body out of the car, carrying a huge designer handbag covered in logos that I don’t recognize, and wearing platform heels that are a weird metallic pink and frankly aren’t even that pretty.

Her nails are too long to use her fingertips on the screen, so she angrily uses one of her knuckles to press the screen of her phone, perhaps to arrange an Uber to pick her up. As she knuckle types, she hurls one more insult Bronx’s way.

“And my name is Mikayla, not Michelle, you asshole!”

Ooh, he might have deserved that one.

Bronx seems to be done with their exchange, ignoring her last comment, but now directs his frustration toward me.

“Ready?” he asks impatiently.

“Okay, I’m coming.”

When I reach for one of the back doors, Bronx presses a button, which locks all the doors.

“Hey!” I protest.

“This is not a cab. Get in the front seat.”

I squish my face up as I stare at the seat that the bitchy woman just vacated.

“She didn’t have cooties,” he says in a voice dripping with sarcasm. “Get in.”