Chapter 4: Lifeline

Winnie

I rush outside.

The cold Los Angeles night wind slaps my face.

Instantly, I regret leaving my coat.

People mingle around. Some stand close to the front door. Others wander up and down the long, steep stairs or wait for their ridesharing vehicles on the sidewalk.

Repeatedly, I look from left to right, searching for Chandler.

No Chandler.

I grab my dress and hike it high enough to rush down the stairs without tripping.

Where are you, Chandler?

I rush downstairs.

Chandler would leave like that, wouldn't he?

Maybe something about me makes men promise the world, then leave.

I glance back when a church clock chimes in the distance.

Minutes later, I quicken my pace, more comfortable with the ease of moving down the small stairs.

If Chandler left, I'd return to the gala as if nothing had happened.

However, that doesn't answer why this has happened twice. So, Andrew, maybe he can tell me somehow and in some way how men keep bailing on me—at least the last two.

He used to be honest with me until...

I gasp. I have a few steps to go when I feel my heel getting caught in the hem of my dress. It's slow motion. I feel myself falling.

I extend my hands to brace my fall.

Suddenly, inertia.

As I come to a stop, I turn and gasp. "I thought you left?"

Chandler looks concerned. He has a firm grip on my left upper arm. He sounds pissed as he asks, "What the hell are you doing running downstairs in heels like that?"

I told you, I thought you left. Tears well in my eyes, and Chandler's face becomes blurred. Why didn't you do the same thing, Andrew?

Quickly, I recover from the near fall and comment, "I'm allowing you to save me."

Chandler pulls me into an embrace and tightens his grip.

Although I expect him to make a sarcastic comment, he holds me until I stop shaking and tears no longer threaten to flow.

***

I sit in Chandler's LaBelle roadster and enjoy the new car smell.

Chandler drives like a grandfather with children in the car. It's helpful because it takes my mind off of falling and Andrew.

Now, I understand why Chandler attended the gala. His roadster is a working prototype and a vehicle LaBelle hasn't introduced onto the market yet.

So, he must know some important people to buy it at a discount or participate in a focus group. I think it's the second option.

"When did LaBelle start selling prototypes?" I ask, breaking the silence.

He looks studious. "You tell me. I didn't know they sold prototypes."

I catch the edginess in his voice and call him on it. "Do you always sound so on edge when driving as slow as grandma?

"Grandma?" He glances at me, looking hurt. "My driving has been described as many things, but never that."

"Maybe they're trying to spare your feelings," I suggest.

He chuckles. "I fear you might be right."

Silence.

"Got any ideas on where to go?" He asks me, making a U-turn.

One thing I listened to Mother about is not inviting a man to a hotel room. That's where I'm staying.

Although he hasn't asked, I'm not going to his home.

"This is L.A.," I tell him, "something must be open."

He groans. "I feel like I'm sixteen again and trying to find a secluded hangout."

"You're," I study Chandler and jokingly tell him, "thirty-five, forty, right? So you're telling me you don't have a secluded place to take female friends."

Chandler stops at a red light and gives me a death stare. "I'm twenty-nine, thank you very much—and, no, I don't..."

He stops and clears his throat. Then, as he slumps in the driver's seat, he shrugs. "I'm trying to make a good impression."

Go for it, I tell myself, glancing at Chandler. He looks nervous as he taps the wheel, waiting for the red light to turn.

"What if my definition of a good impression is a naughty one?"

Chandler stares at me. His eyes widen as if he has a million things going through his mind. He quickly recovers and says, "You tell me your definition, and I'll tell you mine."

I swallow hard and nervously look away because I don't have a definition, not one that would sustain this flirty conversation.

"Is this like the biting by request thing," I joke.

Chandler laughs. "It's always the good girls who are so elusive."

There's more silence as we drive.

Sometimes I glance at Chandler and see a distant look on his face. I can't tell what he's thinking. He's not like Andrew. I could tell when he was distraught—or I thought I could.

"We can go to a restaurant," I suggest.

He shakes his head. "You look too beautiful to go to any restaurant open at this hour."

I feel my face redden.

Chandler exhales, sounding frustrated. "Everything I think of has serial killer written all over it."

"Like what?"

He stops at another red light. "I've got this place I'm trying to sell for more than a year. But, unfortunately, the client wants to double the listing price instead of decreasing it, and it's eating my *ss. It's a fully furnished apartment."

"I'm game," I tell him with a shrug. "Let's hang out there. I have friends and family in Los Angeles. Maybe they will want it."

He nods.