Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 66215 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66215 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
The cashier asks for our table number and produces the tab.
Mint takes it gingerly. “Shall we split it?”
I gape at him. I told him I couldn’t afford to eat out. He was the one who nagged until I gave in. He’s the budding billionaire.
Know what? He’s not worth my pride. Let this be a valuable lesson in not trusting my gut. I’ll just cut my losses and run.
“Yeah,” I say, fishing a bill from my purse.
He takes out his phone and opens the calculator app. I can’t believe it.
“It’s two-hundred and something,” I say. “Let’s just give one-fifty each to cover the tip.”
He grins at the cashier to gauge her reaction, at least having the decency to look somewhat embarrassed.
After punching the total into his phone, he holds the screen up for me to see the divided amount.
One hundred and ten rand and fifty-one cents.
I watch dumbfoundedly as he hands the cashier a credit card and tells her to take that amount. Stingy bastard. I pay my part and leave my last hundred for a tip. I’ve waited tables. It’s a tough job. Plus, I feel sorry for the waitress who’s constantly pulling down her skimpy casino uniform to cover her ass.
“While we’re at it,” he says as he waits for the credit card machine to connect, “we should probably split the petrol and wear and tear.”
My jaw drops another inch. “Wear and tear?”
“For the car,” he says, taking back his card. When I frown, he adds, “You know, for the wear on the tires and the engine.”
“I know what the hell wear and tear is.”
His smile is all teeth. “Good. I reckon fifty should cover it.” He must’ve seen the disbelief on my face, because he continues in an uncertain tone, “For driving you here. The upkeep of my car is expensive.”
My cheeks turn hot with anger as I ask the cashier for a fifty’s change. She hands it to me with a sympathetic look. Mint takes the fifty and slides it neatly into his wallet.
I don’t wait for Mint to get the receipt, which he says he needs for tax purposes. He’d probably lie on his tax return and say it was a business dinner. I steamroller out of the fast food area and into the lobby, walking faster than what my high heels allow. I’m already at the train that commutes to the parking lot by the time Mint catches up with me.
Luckily, a train pulls in straight away, and we get on with the other two pathetic and out-of-their-luck people leaving at two in the morning.
“That was fun,” Mint says. “We should do it again.”
I scoff and look out of the window. It’s summer, but the breeze is cool, and there’s dew on the roofs of the cars. I shiver as we get off at the third parking lot and cross the quiet, almost-empty space to his Porsche.
He unlocks the car and hops in, waiting for me to follow suit. I’m still buckling my seat belt when he drives down the lane of palm trees to the exit.
The silence between us is awkward, but I’m knackered and grateful he’s not talking. Leaning my head against the headrest, I close my eyes.
“Hey.” He nudges me with an elbow. “You should probably talk to me to keep me awake.”
The road to Rustenburg is dark and quiet. It runs through a rural area and is infamous for fatal accidents due to drunken drivers or cows crossing the road. We’ll hit the old border in ten minutes, and then it’s another thirty to town.
“I’ll talk if you prefer,” he says.
Sighing, I open my eyes. Getting home alive is in both our interest, so I let him brag about his latest investment, a horse that’s going to win him a fortune at the next Durban July race.
A pair of headlights flash in the rearview mirror. I squint at their brightness.
“The asshole is driving with his brights on,” Mint says, adjusting his rearview mirror with a scowl. “People don’t know shit about driving these days. You’d swear they all buy their licenses on the black market instead of passing exams.”
I keep my eyes on the lights. They’re advancing too fast. We’re on a single road with no shoulder and a ditch on the side. My insides clench as the vehicle behind us closes more distance.
“Let him pass,” I tell Mint. The driver is reckless. Having him on our tail is dangerous.
“Like hell.” He glances in the mirror. “I’m respecting the speed limit. He needs to slow down.”
The vehicle is close enough that I can make out it’s a red Hilux truck.
“Mint.” I grip the edges of my seat as the driver comes so close, I swear he’s going to hit our bumper. “This isn’t a cock fight. Slow down and let the guy pass.”