Christopher Wallace picked me up in a Rolls Royce. A mother-freakin’ Rolls Royce. I had never thought he’d pick me up let alone in a Royce, but I humbly obliged. How often can one person—wait, let me rephrase that. How often can one broke-ass person say they were offered a ride in a Royce by a magnate? Take Christian Grey only dark chocolate and not a control freak. In fact, Christopher Wallace (yes, I might use his full name because it sounds just so damn good. Say it. SAY IT! Christopher Wallace. For Destiny’s Child’s sake, say his name. Christopher Wallace), anyway, Christopher Wallace was the coolest guy I had ever seen. He was always smiling, with brows lifting ever so slightly, hinting at a cheeky thought; he was calm and collected. Most importantly, he was easy to talk to.
“Again,” he started, “I’m sorry about the other night. It was rude of me. And I’m not usually so rude.”
“Oh? You have a nice streak?”
Christopher Wallace nodded. “I have a good heart.”
“Don’t you think I should be the judge of that?” I joked.
“Oh, come on. These dates of remorse will never end. I only have so much money.”
I rubbed my hand over the leather. “I’m sure. What exactly is it that you do?”
He sighed. “Why don’t we leave work out of it? I only just got back from a bad day, and would like to focus on something good for now.”
I pointed to myself. “I would be that ‘something good’, right?”
“Right,” he smiled. He turned and pulled out a bottle of champagne and two glasses. “Let’s start the night early shall we?”
“You came prepared,” I said, holding my glass as he poured.
“I always keep a bottle in the car. For whenever I have clients.”
Or dates, I thought. It only seemed closer to the truth than for ‘clients’. It took us all of two seconds to pull up at the restaurant he had booked. Actually, he told me bookings usually need to be in place at least three weeks prior considering the popularity of the restaurant. And that’s pushing it. Considering we only just met, Christopher Wallace pulled some strings with Masa the owner and renowned chef.
“Who’s Masa?” I asked.
Christopher Wallace scoffed. “If you don’t know that then you’ve been living under a rock. He’s a world class Japanese chef. Japanese cuisine is great for a date.” He winked.
I forced a smile and, shamefully, rolled my eyes when he looked away. The restaurant was called MASA, an easy enough name to remember. On the fourth floor of the Time Warner Centre, the ambience enveloped me with deep Earth colours and reds.
“The sushi bar alone costs $60,000,” Christopher Wallace said, leaning into me after we hung our coats.
Maybe it’s because I hadn’t gone on a proper date in a long time, but whatever the reason, I was slowly realising that he was trying his damn hardest to impress me. I didn’t bode well with men who tried to impress me in such a money-show-off-ey way. For the record, he wasn’t that much of an asshole at 230.
We took a seat and I was hoping for a menu but, as it turns out, there was none. It was like Japanese-cuisine-chef-roulette.
“There’s Masa,” Christopher said, pointing at the bar.
I took one look and felt, oddly enough, awkward. I had never been surrounded by so many cool, calm and collected rich people before. I noticed at least four women wearing Louboutins; fur coats were everywhere; jewels sparkled with enough shine to outdo the sun. I felt so out of place.
Christopher and I started to get more into the groove of things after the drinks and food came. He didn’t loosen up at all, but rather, he was speaking about superficial things. A lot about himself, actually. That he, and I quote, loves to, ‘go where the wind takes me; into unknown dimensions of pure ecstasy’, when it came to food. The more I was with him the more I felt like this was torture rather than an apology. I guarantee you this kind of ego-swelling, self-indulging, dick-bloating, pish-posh is banned in some countries. I just wanted to get out of here at this point, but I was too polite to just duck out.
Fortunately, for me, my silence seemed to have entertained him. My fake smile was hurting my cheeks though. And I hate being fake, I detest it; look at what he’s making me do. I’m going behind enemy lines to keep from denting this guy’s feelings. Who am I kidding, that would mean he has feelings beyond himself. I don’t think he even remembers that I’m sitting opposite him.
When the cheque came, I was gobsmacked. “Thi—this is almost tree—uh, three…I mean…thousand dollars!”
“Relax,” Christopher said, “I got it covered.”
He dug into his suit pocket and pulled out a card, without even looking at it, placing it into the cheque book. He snapped his fingers at the waiter, I of course cringed because I hate that, and then his money was on its way.
Like I said people, he wasn’t that much of an asshole. “At least let me pay you back.”
Christopher laughed. “No way. I’ve got this.”
“Hey,” he interjected, “no buts.”
At the end of the evening, I was more than happy to go home. Home to Adam. I never actually told him about this dinner date, but I was glad. And yet, confused. The other night, when he told me that he was giving me time to go through some stuff, I felt like he was talking to me as if I were a tree needing growth and development. But what if I wanted to start things? What if I wanted to take Adam up against a wall and kiss him ferociously? What if I reciprocated some feelings? But it was all too confusing because I didn’t know that if I started things now, he’d push me away over the simple fact that he wanted to give me space to let life happen to me. What if I wanted him to happen to me? In the end, I asked that same question to myself on the ride home.
When I started paying attention to the roads and people, granted, it was dark, but still, nothing really looked familiar.
“Where are we going?” I asked Christopher.
“To my place,” he replied, sounding a little confused himself. As if this was the plan all along.
I laughed, covering my mouth. “Sorry, but I can’t.”
“What? Why not?”
“At what point in the evening do you think we had chemistry? Honestly, Christopher, can’t you see that there’s none between us?”
We finally pulled up to a tall and large complex, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he lived on the very top of his ivory tour. He jumped out of the car before I could say anything, walking to my side and opening my door.
I stepped out. “This is borderline kidnapping.”
Christopher chuckled. “Listen, I was trying my hardest tonight, and you don’t even want to come up for one drink?”
I crossed my arms. “Now this is borderline coercion.”
Christopher laughed. “Okay, come on now.”
“No, you come on now. This isn’t fair, you can’t schmoose me, thinking that you’re doing me a favour, brag about yourself, your money, your God-like complex, and then expect to me have sex with you.”
Christopher smiled, staring at me. “Okay, believe it or not, I did feel a little unease. I’m just trying to fix it now, and I know no other way but of the comfort of my own home. And I promise you, I’m not trying to have sex with you, even though you are pretty damn fine, it’s just one drink. Pretty please?”
I narrowed my eyes. “One drink?”
“One chance; one drink, that’s all I’m asking. Then whenever you choose to, I’ll get the car out and drive you home.”
I stood between his building and his Royce, wondering what to do. I asked myself that question I thought of on the drive over here: what if I wanted him to happen to me? Adam or Christopher Wallace?
***Follow me on twitter! I posted a picture of Christopher Wallace last week. Be sure to check it out; he’s hot, hot, HOT!***