Hot Driver - S01 E11

Story 1 day ago

Hot Driver - S01 E11

Read Story: SEASON 1 EPISODE 11

The Club – Parking Lot – Night

For a moment, Duane simply stood there.

The stain spread fast, soaking through the fabric of his shirt, sticking cold and wet against his skin. The smell hit him a second later — sour, sharp, unmistakable — and he had to fight the urge to gag right there in the middle of the parking lot.

He’d imagined to throw her down, but he can’t, even though she’s as rude and grumpy as fuck. she’s still a woman.

Of all the shirts. Of all the nights.

He looked down at himself in disbelief. This wasn’t just any shirt. It was his good shirt. The one he’d ironed carefully that morning, the one without a single fray at the collar, the one he wore whenever he needed to look like more than what people assumed he was.

Ruined. Completely, thoroughly ruined.

He looked at Ivory next — slumped against his shoulder, utterly unbothered, her breathing slow and even, her face slack with the kind of peace that only came from being blissfully unaware of the damage you’d just caused.

She doesn’t even know. And even if she did, she probably wouldn’t care.

He thought, briefly, viciously, about just setting her down right there on the pavement and walking away. Just for a second. Just to breathe air that didn’t smell like vomit and expensive perfume gone wrong.

He didn’t do it, obviously. He wasn’t that kind of man, no matter how much his pride screamed at him to be.

Instead, he adjusted his grip, careful not to let her slide, and carried her toward the car. A valet nearby caught sight of them and had to look away to keep from laughing. Duane shot him a look that killed the amusement instantly.

He laid Ivory across the back seat as gently as the circumstances allowed, buckled her in loosely so she wouldn’t roll, and shut the door.

Then he stood there for a second, hands braced on the roof of the car, breathing through his mouth so he wouldn’t have to smell himself.

This job. This woman. This family.

He got in and drove with all the windows down, the cool night air doing absolutely nothing to erase the smell clinging to his shirt, his skin, probably his soul at this point.

She’s rich. She’s beautiful. She has more money than she could spend in ten lifetimes. And she still looks at me like I’m nothing. Like I’m something she scraped off her shoe.

His hands tightened around the wheel until his knuckles ached.

He glanced in the rearview mirror at her sleeping form, dress rumpled, one shoe half hanging off her foot, and felt something complicated twist inside him — anger.

He drove the rest of the way in silence, jaw clenched, counting down the minutes until he could get out of this shirt and forget this night had ever happened.

Bennett’s Mansion – Night

The living room was too bright for the hour, every lamp switched on, as if light alone could make the wait feel shorter.

Arthur Bennett stood near the window, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his expression carved from stone. He’d returned from his business trip earlier than expected, hoping for a quiet evening, a home-cooked meal, maybe an early night.

Instead, he’d walked into an empty house and a missing daughter.

“Where is she?” he demanded again, checking his watch for what had to be the fifth time in ten minutes. “It is nearly midnight, Diana. Nearly midnight. Where did that poor driver take my daughter?”

“Dad, seriously, stop it,” Hazel snapped from the couch, not looking up from her phone. you’re already calling him ‘poor driver’ like it’s some kind of insult.”

“It is an insult, Hazel. Because it happens to be the truth.”

“Being poor isn’t a crime. It’s not a character flaw either. Stop treating people like they’re less than human just because they don’t have money.”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Arthur said dismissively. “You’re too young to know how the world actually works.”

“I understand plenty,” Hazel shot back. “I understand that you judge people before they even open their mouths. That’s not wisdom, Dad. That’s just being awful.”

“Hazel.” Diana’s voice was tired but firm, cutting through before the argument could escalate further.

“Enough. Both of you.”

She turned to her husband. “Arthur, Ivory is a grown woman. She’s twenty-seven years old. She runs an entire company. She can handle a late night out.”

“She’s never usually this late.”

“She’s also never usually gone through what she went through in college,” Diana said quietly. “Let her breathe, Arthur. Please.”

Arthur’s jaw worked, but before he could respond, the front door swung open.

Duane walked in.

Ivory was cradled against his chest, carried bridal-style, her head lolling limply against his shoulder, one arm hanging loose at her side, her heels dangling from his fingers where he’d hooked them without thinking.

The room went utterly silent.

Hazel’s mouth fell open. Diana rose halfway from her seat. And Arthur—
Arthur’s face transformed in the space of a single breath, shifting from irritation to something far darker, far more dangerous.

“What,” he said, his voice dropping low, each word deliberate, “did you do to my daughter?”

“Sir, she just had too much to drink at the club, I was only—”
Arthur didn’t let him finish.
His palm cracked across Duane’s face with brutal, echoing force, the sound sharp enough to make Hazel flinch and cry out.

“DAD!” she screamed.

Diana’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide with shock.

“WHAT DID YOU DO TO HER?” Arthur roared, stepping closer, his finger jabbing toward Duane’s chest even as the man’s arms remained full, still cradling Ivory carefully despite the blow. “DID YOU TOUCH HER? DID YOU LAY YOUR FILTHY HANDS ON MY DAUGHTER WHILE SHE WAS UNCONSCIOUS?”

“Arthur, please—” Diana started.

“NO. I want an answer. RIGHT NOW.”

Duane’s cheek burned, heat spreading fast across the skin, his head still turned slightly from the force of the slap. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t defend himself. He simply stood there, absorbing the accusation, the insult, the sheer unfairness of it, and said nothing at all.

“She is too beautiful for someone like you,” Arthur spat, his voice trembling with fury. “Too good. Too refined. And let me make something very clear to you, Brooke — if you so much as breathed wrong near my daughter, if you touched a single hair on her head that she didn’t ask you to touch, I will ruin you. I don’t care how much it costs. I don’t care who I have to pay off. You will disappear from this city, and no one will ever find you.”

Diana’s eyes had drifted, almost involuntarily, to the front of Duane’s shirt. The stain. The sticky liquid darkening the fabric. The smell finally reaching her from across the room.

Her expression shifted — confusion melting into understanding, then into something like guilt.
“Arthur,” she said quietly. “Look at his shirt.”
Arthur glanced down, his fury faltering for the briefest moment as he registered what he was seeing. His nostrils flared.

“That doesn’t excuse anything,” he said stubbornly, though his voice had lost some of its earlier certainty. “He’s still—”

But Duane wasn’t listening anymore.

He turned without a word, Ivory still cradled carefully in his arms, and walked toward the staircase, his back straight, his steps steady, refusing to give Arthur the satisfaction of seeing him flinch or falter.

Arthur stood there, chest heaving, hand still stinging faintly from the impact, watching Duane’s retreating figure disappear up the stairs.

“That boy,” he muttered under his breath, “needs to learn his place in this house.”

“He just carried your drunk daughter home and you slapped him for it,” Hazel said, her voice thick with tears and disgust. “I hate you”

“Hazel, that’s enough,” Diana said softly, though this time there was no real conviction behind the words. She was staring at the staircase too, her own guilt sitting heavy in her chest.

Ivory’s Room

Duane laid her down on the bed with more gentleness than he felt he owed her at this point.

His cheek still throbbed where Arthur’s palm had connected, a dull, pulsing heat that would probably bloom into a bruise by morning. His eyes stung, bloodshot from exhaustion and the sting of humiliation, though no tears actually fell. He wasn’t going to give this family the satisfaction of his tears. Not over a slap. Not over a ruined shirt. Not over any of it.
He knelt down carefully and slipped off her heels — the ones he’d been carrying — setting them neatly beside the bed frame, aligning them the way he imagined a proper maid might. He didn’t know why he bothered. Habit, maybe. Or maybe some small, stubborn part of him still cared about doing things right, even for someone who’d never bothered to care about him.

He straightened, looked down at her for one long, quiet moment — her face slack in sleep, her chest rising and falling evenly, completely unaware of the storm she’d left in her wake downstairs .

She has no idea, he thought. No idea what just happened because of her. No idea what it cost.

He turned to leave without saying a word. There was nothing to say to someone who couldn’t hear him anyway.

Hazel was waiting just outside the door, arms wrapped around herself, her eyes still glistening.

“Duane,” she whispered, voice cracking. “I’m so sorry. My dad, he’s just — he’s protective, overly protective, he didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine, Hazel.”

“It’s not fine. He hit you. In front of everyone. That was humiliating and wrong and—”

“I’ve been hit before,” Duane said, offering her a tired, crooked half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Trust me, this isn’t even close to the worst thing that’s happened to me today.”

Hazel’s face crumpled further at that, like the admission hurt her more than the slap itself had hurt him. “Your room is this way. Let me show you.”

She led him down the hallway, glancing over at him every few steps as if checking to make sure he was still standing, still breathing, still okay despite everything.

When they finally reached his room, she lingered at the door for a moment.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “For taking care of her tonight. Even though she doesn’t deserve it.”

“She’s your sister.”

“That doesn’t mean she deserves kindness she never gives back.”
Duane didn’t have an answer for that. He just nodded, and Hazel finally left him alone.

He closed the door, exhaled a breath he felt like he’d been holding since the club, and peeled off his shirt.

His favorite shirt. The only genuinely good one he owned, saved for occasions that mattered, worn sparingly so it would last.

Ruined beyond saving.

He balled it up with more force than necessary and threw it into the small trash bin by the desk, then walked straight into the shower and let the hot water run over him until the smell, the sting on his cheek, and some fraction of the anger simmering in his chest finally began to fade into something more manageable.

Downstairs, the argument between Arthur and Diana continued long into the night, their raised voices occasionally drifting up through the floorboards, though Duane was too exhausted to make out the words.

Brooke Residence – Night

The dining table was small, cracked at one corner where the wood had warped years ago, but tonight it held something it hadn’t held in longer than either of them cared to admit.
Abundance.
Rice steaming in a proper bowl. Stew rich with tomatoes and pepper. Fried plantain, golden and crisp. A whole chicken, portioned generously between them.
Real food. Enough of it. More than enough.

Celeste had stayed home from the Morales Mansion today. She told herself it was to rest, to recover from the bruise still tender along her cheekbone. Really, it was fear — plain and simple — the fear of walking back into that house and finding another reason to be struck, another excuse for Ron’s temper or Maeve’s cruelty.

Luis came home from his shift at the pet store, grinning so wide it looked like it might hurt.

“Mama,” he said, dropping his bag by the door and practically running to the kitchen. “Is that chicken I smell? Real chicken?”

“It’s chicken,” Celeste said, unable to keep the smile off her own face.

“Sit down and eat before it gets cold.”

They sat together, and for the first time in longer than Celeste wanted to count, they actually ate — not rationed bites, not careful portions meant to stretch across days, but real, full plates, second helpings, laughter between mouthfuls.

“I still don’t understand who’s sending this money,” Luis said, scooping another spoonful of rice onto his plate. “Half a million, Mama That’s not pocket change. That’s real money.”
“I don’t know either, baby.”
“Do you think it could be Duane?”
Celeste paused, considering it. “He just started that job. He can’t be making that much yet. Not this fast.”

“Maybe he found another way. Maybe he’s not telling us everything.”

“Maybe,” she said slowly, though she didn’t sound convinced. She didn’t want to question it too hard, honestly. Not when the money meant they could finally breathe, finally eat, finally exist without the constant, gnawing anxiety of not knowing where the next meal was coming from.

Luis kept talking between bites, filling the small kitchen with more warmth and noise than it had held in years, and Celeste let herself simply enjoy it — the food, her son’s laughter, the rare, precious feeling of things being okay, even if just for one night

.