Hot Driver - S01 E12

Story 3 days ago

Hot Driver - S01 E12

Read Story: SEASON 1 EPISODE 12

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Rodriguez Mansion – Same Night

The Rodriguez dining room was grand in the way old money always seemed to be — chandeliers dripping soft gold light over a table set for exactly two, silverware polished to a mirror shine, candles flickering in crystal holders down the center.

Abigail Bennett-Rodriguez sat across from her husband, laughing at something he’d said, her cheeks flushed a soft, happy pink.

“This is too sweet,” Tyler said, setting down his fork and pushing his plate slightly away. “Did you add extra sugar to the sauce, love?”
“I did not,” Abigail said, feigning deep offense, one hand pressed to her chest. “My cooking is flawless, thank you very much. Maybe your taste buds are just broken.”

“My taste buds are perfectly fine. This is just very, very sweet.”

“You’re impossible to please.”

“I’m plenty pleased,” he said, reaching across the table for her hand. “You’re the best cook I know, sweet sauce and all.”

Abigail beamed at that, pushing back from her chair and crossing to his side of the table instead, settling herself easily onto his lap, arms winding around his neck.

“Say that again,” she teased, leaning her forehead against his.

“Best. Cook. I. Know.”

She kissed him, slow and warm, and for a moment, the whole world outside that dining room simply ceased to exist.

Then his phone buzzed against the table, screen lighting up.

Tyler’s eyes flicked toward it. His expression shifted — just barely, just for a fraction of a second, so quick Abigail almost missed it entirely — before he reached over, grabbed the phone, and turned the screen face-down against the tablecloth. A moment later, he powered it off completely.

“Who was that?” Abigail asked, tilting her head, a small line of curiosity forming between her brows.

“No one important.”
“Tyler.”

“It’s nothing, baby. Just work stuff. Nothing worth ruining a good evening over.” He stood smoothly, lifting her into his arms as easily as if she weighed nothing at all. “Let’s not worry about work tonight, hm?”

He carried her toward their
bedroom, and whatever question had been forming on Abigail’s lips got lost somewhere in the hallway, swallowed by his laughter, his lip on hers and the warmth of his arms.

Bennett’s Mansion – The Next Morning

Ivory woke up with a headache splitting through her skull like something had taken a hammer to it overnight.
She groaned, pressing the heel of her hand against her temple, and for a long, blank moment, she couldn’t remember anything at all.
Then it all came rushing back in fragments.
The club. The bar. Drink after drink after drink. Duane’s voice cutting through the haze, telling her something she couldn’t quite recall.

His arms, solid and steady, wrapping around her when the floor had tilted sideways. The dizzy, spinning sensation right before everything had gone dark.

Oh no.

She looked down at herself — still in yesterday’s clothes, wrinkled beyond saving, smelling faintly of alcohol and something else she didn’t want to identify. Her shoes were gone.
Did I— she started to think, then immediately shut the thought down before it could fully form.
“Oh my God,” she muttered into her hands. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.”
She hated this feeling more than almost anything — the complete, total loss of control. She hated not remembering. She hated the vulnerability of it, the not-knowing.

And most of all, she hated that the one person who’d clearly witnessed her at her absolute worst was him. Duane Brooke, of all people. The one man in this house who already thought less of her than anyone else did.

Ivory Bennett does not lose control. She does not get carried home like a child. She does not need anyone.
And yet, apparently, last night, she had.

She dragged herself out of bed and into the shower, scrubbing at her skin harder than necessary, as if she could wash the memory away along with the sweat and stale alcohol. She dressed quickly afterward, applying her makeup with practiced, mechanical precision, rebuilding the armor piece by piece until she looked, once again, like Ivory Bennett — untouchable, composed, in control.
Even if she didn’t feel like it.

Duane’s Room

Duane stood in front of the wardrobe someone had clearly restocked overnight, blinking at the sheer number of shirts hanging neatly inside — crisp, pressed, exactly his size, tags still attached to a few of them.
Diana, probably. Or maybe Hazel. Either way, someone in this house had noticed his shirt was ruined and quietly, without fanfare, fixed the problem.

He picked a plain black button-down, dressed quickly, checked his reflection once in the small mirror by the door — the faint bruise on his cheek was already yellowing slightly, more visible in the morning light than he’d expected — and headed downstairs.

He reached the staircase at the exact same moment Ivory did, both of them descending in an awkward, silent tandem, neither quite looking at the other.

The tension between them was thick enough to choke

They reached the dining room together. Duane, ever unbothered on the surface no matter what churned beneath it, offered the table a cheerful, “Good morning, everyone.”

Hazel and Diana returned the greeting warmly. Arthur did not so much as look up from his newspaper.

Arthur set down his fork with slow, deliberate precision, the metal clinking sharply against porcelain.

“I don’t eat breakfast with the poor,” he said coldly, still not meeting Duane’s eyes. “Take your plate to the washroom, Brooke. Or better yet, eat in the kitchen with the maids. Actually — no. You’re beneath the maids in this house. Figure out somewhere appropriate like the washroom.”

Duane’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but he said nothing, simply standing there, absorbing the insult the way he’d absorbed the slap the night before.

“DAD!” Hazel’s voice cracked across the dining room like a whip, her palm slamming flat against the table hard enough to rattle the cutlery. “Are you serious right now?! He got SLAPPED yesterday! Because of Ivory! Because he was doing his JOB, taking care of her while she was drunk out of her mind, and now you want to send him to eat in the WASHROOM?! Like an animal?!”

“Hazel, watch your tone—”

“No! I won’t watch my tone! This is insane! He’s not going anywhere. He eats at this table, with this family, like a human being, or I swear I’m leaving too, and I’ll tell everyone at school exactly why!”

Diana placed a firm hand over Arthur’s arm before he could respond, her expression tired but resolute. “Let it go, Arthur. Please. He stays.”

Arthur’s jaw worked silently, a muscle ticking at the corner, his gaze flicking between his wife and daughter before finally landing, briefly, coldly, on Duane. He gave a single, stiff nod of concession, though his glare didn’t soften even slightly
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