Two minutes of enjoying a ride in Alpha’s SUV, and no words have made it past my lips. Alpha’s words keep resounding in my head.
‘It’s mine.’
“What do you mean it’s yours?” I finally ask.
Watching him command the steering wheel with a composure that none other than a car owner can possess, I am even more terrified. When he doesn’t answer, I ask a more disturbing question.
“Who are you?”
“Now this is laughable,” he says, although I find no amusement in his voice. “You don’t know a thing about me and yet you’re so bent on being my girlfriend. Who does that?”
“I know the basic things about you,” I say. “That’s something.”
“Indeed,” he says, a hint of mockery in his voice. “I doubt you know past my name.” This is the most life-draining conversation I’ve ever had. I can already feel my blood boiling.
“I know past your name, okay?”
“Prove it.”
“You are Alpha Jordan!”
“Middle name?”
“Are you kidding? How should I know your middle name? You don’t even know mine, so don’t even go there.”
“Marie,” he blurts out. My blood runs cold at the sound of the name. “Bethany Marie Howell.”
“How do you know?”
“Unlike you, I do my research before embarking on any project.” Why does Alpha always find a way to make me feel worthless? I blink to expel the beat up look in my eyes.
“So, what’s your middle name?” I ask.
He grins at me, and although I’m offended by his last words, I can’t ignore the flutter of butterflies in my stomach. He returns his attention to the road, and for the next few moments, he drives in quietude.
“None,” he says.
He gives me a moment to realize that he’d just humiliated me over nothing. “So, what else do you know about me?” To be honest, the only thing I know other than his name is that he’s drop dead gorgeous, he’s my classmate, and he’s middleclass. But how can I reconcile his middleclass status to the fact that he’s driving one of the most expensive SUVS, and that he bought me the expensive piece of jewelry hanging down my neck? “You should just admit you don’t know past my name,” he says.
“You don’t know past my name either,” I shoot back.
“Bethany Marie Howell,” he says. “Only child of Katherine and Chester Howell. Your father owns a three star hotel he inherited from his…”
“Five star hotel,” I say. He turns to look at me.
“I wouldn’t call that a five star hotel.”
“Chester’s Castle is a five star hotel.”
“I have a thousand and one reasons why it doesn’t qualify as a five star hotel,” he says. “Should I start?”
I make no attempt to answer.
“I always hear that empty shells make the loudest noise,” he says. “Being with you just proves this to me a thousand times in a split second.” I scoff.
“If this was coming from someone like Miller Jordan’s son, it wouldn’t be completely meaningless. But coming from a middle class like you…”
“Would it kill you to think before you spoke?” I think for a moment.
“No. Why?”
“Because, trust me, not everyone wants to hear your assumptions.”
“Well at least they’re not complaining.”
“You assume too much.”
“And most of the time I’m correct,” I say. “Wait, why are we having this conversation? You should be explaining how you got this car.”
“You’re probably assuming I stole it,” he says.
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I don’t attempt to deny. I can’t stop thinking he stole this car, and the last thing I want is getting my name associated with a stolen property. He goes on,
“And like I already told you, it’s mine.”
“How?”
“Miller Jordan is my father,” he says.
The news hits me like a hammer blow. Miller Jordan is one of the well known billionaire in town. He owns a football club and a couple other businesses, which includes a motor shop recently called AJ motors. It performs a number of services ranging from car repairs, rentals and sales. It was rumored that he handed over his motor shop to his son on his 17th birthday. Now that I think of it, I find myself believing Alpha. If Alpha is Miller’s son, then AJ in the company name stands for Alpha Jordan. I blurt out the next words that pop into my head.
“You walk to school.” He smiles.
“I love reminding my legs they’re important. And, unlike some people, I’m not a show off.”
“Says the boy who goes around driving a Porsche Cayenne Turbo S,” I say.
“This is me testing it out before returning it to the garage,” he explains. “The brakes were faulty. I spent all morning fixing them.”
“Didn’t you say you owned the place?” I ask. I don’t know why, but I’m super eager to find some loopholes in his claims about being a billionaire.
“I’m sure if you were in my shoes you’d rather go around barking out orders to your employees,” he says. “I, on the other hand, love to make myself feel useful. Getting my hands dirty once in a while doesn’t hurt.”
