Hot Driver - S01 E05

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Hot Driver - S01 E05

Read Story: SEASON 1 EPISODE 5

On the Road – Morning – Creston City Streets

The black Maybach hummed through the streets of Creston City, cutting through traffic like a blade through silk. Inside, the air was thick with something heavier than silence.

Ivory sat in the back seat, her arms crossed, her dark eyes fixed on the back of Duane’s head with an intensity that could have melted steel.

Duane drove with his usual easy confidence, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the gear shift. He hadn’t said a word since he’d told her not to slap his handsome face and she’d fumed in anger

He didn’t seem bothered by the silence. He didn’t seem bothered by anything

.

Ivory hated that.

“You know,” she said, her voice cutting through the quiet like a knife, “you’re supposed to make conversation. That’s what drivers do. They make their passengers comfortable.”

Duane glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “Are you uncomfortable, Ms. Bennett?”

“Does it look like I’m comfortable?”

“You look like you’re always uncomfortable,” he said calmly. “That’s not really my problem.”

Ivory’s jaw tightened. “Excuse me?”

“I said—”

“I heard what you said.” She leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping to something cold and precise. “Let me make something clear to you, Duane Brooke. You work for me. I don’t care if you’re confident or arrogant or whatever it is you think you are. At the end of the day, you’re my driver. And I expect you to act like it!!!.”

Duane didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. “I’m acting like a driver, Ms. Bennett. I’m driving. That’s what you hired me for, right?”

“For driving, not for backtalk.”

“I wasn’t aware that silence was backtalk.”

Ivory sat back. Her hands were gripping her bag so tightly her knuckles were white.

“Let me ask you something,” she said, her voice dangerously calm. “Where did you grow up?”

“Does that matter?”

“Answer the question.”

Duane was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “Albern Street. You’ve probably never heard of it.”

“You’re right. I haven’t.”

“I’m not surprised.”

Ivory’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you don’t seem like the kind of person who spends time in neighborhoods like that. Nothing wrong with it. Just an observation.”

Ivory stared at him. “I know exactly where you come from, Duane Brooke. I know people like you. I know your whole family probably couldn’t afford to buy a car like this. I know you’re probably only here because someone took pity on you.”

She expected him to flinch. To shrink. To show some sign that her words had landed.

Instead, Duane smiled.

It wasn’t a big smile. It wasn’t even a mean smile. It was small, almost amused, like she’d just said something mildly entertaining.

“You’re right,” he said simply. “My family couldn’t afford a car like this. But you know what? They don’t need to. Because they have something that money can’t buy.”

Ivory’s eye twitched. “And what’s that?”

“Self-respect,” Duane said. “They don’t need to put other people down to feel good about themselves.”

Ivory’s hands tightened into fists.

“Pull over,” she said.

“Why?”

“Because I said pull over.”

Duane glanced at her in the mirror. Then, calmly, he pulled the car to the side of the road.

Ivory didn’t get out. She just sat there, breathing deeply, trying to compose herself.

“You think you’re so clever,” she said. “You think you can talk to me however you want because you have nothing to lose.”

“No,” Duane said. “I talk to you how I want because I don’t see you as more than what you are.”

“And what am I?”

“You’re a woman,” Duane said simply. “A woman who’s been hurt. A woman who built walls so high that even she can’t see over them. A woman who thinks that being cold makes her strong.”

Ivory stared at him

.

For a moment — just a moment — her mask slipped. Something flickered in her eyes. Pain. Surprise. The briefest flash of something vulnerable.

Then it was gone.

“Drive,” she said flatly.

Duane pulled back onto the road.

The rest of the drive was silent. But it wasn’t a comfortable silence. It was the kind of silence that came before a storm.

Ivory glared at the back of his head. She wanted to rip that smug smile off his face. She wanted to scream at him. She wanted to make him feel as small as he made her feel.

But he wouldn’t budge, Instead, she sat in silence, fuming. she loathe his stupid confidence.

—

Ivy Fashion Empire – Lobby – Morning

The car pulled up in front of the towering glass building.

Ivory gathered her bag, ready to exit. But before she could open the door, she paused.

“Open the door for me,” she said.

Duane turned to look at her. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Open the door.”

“That’s not part of my job, Ms. Bennett.”

“Everything is part of your job if I say it is.”

Duane studied her for a moment. Then, slowly, he unbuckled his seatbelt, got out of the car, and walked around to her side.

He opened the door.

“There,” he said, his voice flat. “Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” Ivory said, stepping out of the car without looking at him.

She walked toward the entrance, her heels clicking against the pavement. She didn’t look back.

Duane watched her go. Then he sighed, closed the door, and followed her inside.

—

Ivy Fashion Empire – Lobby – The Entrance

The lobby of Ivy Fashion Empire was a cathedral of luxury.

White marble floors gleamed under soft gold lighting. A towering crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, its droplets catching the light and scattering it across the walls. The reception desk was carved from a single block of white stone, behind which two immaculate receptionists sat in coordinated black-and-gold uniforms. Along the walls, behind glass cases, iconic pieces from the company’s runway history were displayed like art in a museum.

And then Duane walked in. He was the the first to enter. Ivory is still walking majestically like a queen she is behind.

The effect was immediate.

The two receptionists stopped mid-sentence. A group of designers near the elevator turned. A cluster of employees near the coffee station froze.

Whispers erupted.

“Oh my God,” one receptionist breathed. “Who is that?”

“He’s the new driver,” the other said, her voice barely a whisper.

“The driver? For Ms. Bennett?”

“Yes.”

“That’s the driver? He looks like—”

“I know.”

Duane glanced around the lobby. He took in the marble floors, the crystal chandelier, the glass display cases. He saw the price tags in his head, even though there were none visible. He saw money. Power. The kind of wealth that made his neighborhood look like a different world entirely.

His face gave nothing away.

He walked to one of the plush leather sofas in the seating area and sat down. He crossed his legs. Leaned back. Looked completely at ease.

And different comments frim different angle erupted.

“He’s so hot.”

“His face card is 10 over 10.”

“Heard he is the new driver”

“He’s too hot to be a driver.”

“I would date him in a heartbeat.”

Duane heard them. He smiled. Just slightly.

The murmurs intensified.

Then the elevator doors opened.

Ivory walked in.

The temperature in the lobby dropped by several degrees.

All conversation stopped. The employees scrambled back to their posts, adjusting their clothes, dropping their gazes. The two receptionists straightened, suddenly focused on their work. The designers near the elevator melted into the background.

Ivory’s eyes swept the room. They landed on Duane.

He was sitting on the sofa like he owned it.

Her eyes narrowed.

Then she looked away.

“Michelle,” she said, her voice crisp. “Your blouse is wrinkled. Press it before your next shift or don’t come back.”

“Yes, Ms. Bennett,” the woman stammered.

“And Jenn,” she continued, “your earrings. Gold? In this office? Do we work at a costume jewelry store now?”

“No, Ms. Bennett.”

“Take them off. Now.”

Jennifer’s hand flew to her ears.

“And you.” Ivory pointed at a junior assistant near the coffee station. “What’s your name?”

“Daisy, Ms. Bennett.”

“Not anymore. Clear your desk. You’re dismissed.”

Daisy’s face went white. “But—I—”

“You heard me. Out.”

Daisy walked away, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

Ivory didn’t watch her go. She turned and walked toward the elevator.

“Get someone to bring me a coffee,” she said to Miles, who had appeared at her elbow. “And make sure it’s made properly this time.”

“Yes, Ms. Bennett.”

She stepped into the elevator. The doors closed.

The lobby exhaled.

Duane watched the closed elevator doors.

So this is wealth.

This is what it looks like.

And this is the woman I’m supposed to drive around every day.

He didn’t know if he should be impressed or horrified.

—

Prestige High School – Creston City – Morning

Prestige High School was the biggest school in Creston City.

It was the kind of school that had its own website, its own newsletter, its own Wikipedia page. The campus stretched across fifteen acres of manicured lawns, with buildings that looked more like museums than classrooms. The main building was a sprawling structure of white stone and glass, its columns carved in a style that was meant to evoke Ivy League universities.

The classrooms were spacious and modern, each equipped with the latest technology — smart boards, individual laptops, ergonomic chairs that probably cost more than most people’s monthly rent. The hallways were wide, clean, and lined with display cases showcasing the school’s many awards and achievements.

Hazel Bennett sat in her English class, staring out the window.

She was seventeen, effortlessly pretty, and completely bored. Her dark hair was pulled into two pigtails, her uniform was perfectly pressed, and her expression was the particular brand of disinterest reserved for teenagers who had already decided that the world wasn’t interesting enough to hold their attention.

Her only friend, Penelope, sat beside her, furiously scribbling notes.

“Hazel,” Penelope hissed. “The teacher’s looking at you.”

“Let her look,” Hazel said, not turning. “I’m not paying attention anyway.”

“Hazel.”

“I said I’m not paying attention.”

The teacher, a middle-aged woman with sharp glasses and sharper eyes, cleared her throat.

“Hazel Bennett,” she said. “Would you like to share what’s so fascinating outside that window?”

Hazel turned slowly. She smiled sweetly. “Just thinking about the meaning of existence, Ms. Carver.”

The class giggled.

“Then perhaps you can share it with the class after the lesson,” Ms. Carver said dryly. “In the meantime, please pay attention.”

Hazel turned back to the window.

This place is so boring.

—

Hallway – After Class –

The hallways of Prestige High School were crowded with students, their voices echoing off the high ceilings.

Hazel was walking with Penelope, on her way to her next class, when she heard the commotion.

“Please—please stop—”

She stopped. So did Penelope.

“What’s that?” Hazel asked.

“I don’t know—”

Hazel turned the corner.

And froze.

Three boys — juniors, clearly, given their height and the way they carried themselves — had cornered a senior boy against the wall. He was on the ground, his books scattered around him, his glasses broken, his face bruised.

“Please,” the boy said again. “I didn’t do anything—”

“Scholarship boy,” one of the juniors sneered. “You don’t belong here. You’re just taking up space.”

“Let him go,” Hazel said.

The juniors turned.

Their eyes widened when they saw her.

“Bennett,” one of them said, his voice suddenly uncertain. “This isn’t your concern.”

“I’m making it my concern.” Hazel stepped forward, her eyes cold. “Let him go. Now.”

The juniors hesitated.

“I said now.”

One of them stepped forward. “You can’t tell us what—”

Hazel didn’t wait for him to finish.

Her leg swung up in a clean, precise arc. Her foot connected with his face. He went down with a satisfying thud, clutching his nose.

The other two stared.

“Anyone else?” Hazel asked sweetly.

They scrambled backward.

“Get out of my sight,” she said.

They ran.

Hazel turned to the boy on the ground. She knelt down and extended a hand.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

The boy looked up at her.

He was pale, dark-haired, with intelligent eyes behind his cracked glasses. His uniform was torn. His lip was bleeding. But there was something in his expression that wasn’t just fear. It was surprise. Gratitude.

“Thanks,” he said, taking her hand.

Hazel pulled him to his feet.

“Are you hurt?” she asked.

“I’m fine. I’ve had worse.”

“Who were they?”

“Just some juniors. They’re always picking on scholarship students.”

Hazel’s eyes narrowed. “They won’t bother you again. Trust me.”

The boy smiled. It was a small smile, but genuine.

“I’m Mitchell,” he said.

“Hazel.”

“I know who you are. Everyone knows who you are.”

Hazel frowned. “Is that supposed to be a good thing?”

“I meant it as one.” Mitchell picked up his scattered books. “Thanks for helping me.”

Hazel nodded. She turned to leave.

But she paused. Turned back.

“You’re in my English class, right?”

“I am.”

“Then maybe you should pay attention. Ms. Carver’s tests are hard.”

Mitchell blinked. Then he laughed. “I’ll remember that.”

Hazel walked away.

—