because of it.
She stares placidly out the windshield, her eyes watching the river as we drive toward it before curving around for the bridge. I pull a small bag of chocolate mini-doughnuts from behind my seat and offer her some. She eats six before I grab the bag back and finish the last two myself.
Teenagers.
Neither of us feels the need to fill the silence with small talk, so we’re quiet nearly the whole way to Oklahoma City. Luke calls once, but I let it go to voice mail. I don’t want Little Miss Sneaky Pants listening in on my personal calls.
Flying down the turnpike, I miss the view of wind turbines. There’s nothing to see on this drive but billboards and fast-food signs. Oh, and cows. Lots of cows.
At long last we’re in the city, and I exit deep into the interior of downtown. We pull onto the wide drive of the Skirvin, and I stop my car for the valet. Kayla loses some of her placidness and looks around with big eyes. I notice her watching as I toss my keys to the boy in the Skirvin polo shirt. I hand a few dollars to the man who grabs our luggage—and Kayla’s garbage bag—and I breeze inside, Kayla hot on my heels.
“Whoa,” she says when we get inside the lobby. I don’t know anything about architecture, but everything here is fancy. Everything is gilt against rich colors and polished wood. The elevator doors look sculpted from brass and jade. Eight-foot chandeliers hang from the three-story ceiling. It’s cool and echoey in here, with little pods of murmuring businessmen gracing the furniture like leisurely painted ladies. Kayla’s sandals slap obnoxiously against the glossy marble floor as she trails behind me.
The air smells of cool lemons and fresh flowers, and I breathe it in and smile. No cloud of pollution here.
“Good afternoon!” the girl behind the chest-high wooden desk sings as we approach. I give her my name, and she’s all gushing politeness as she checks us in and scans my card; then she steps out from behind the desk and personally leads us to the elaborate elevator doors. “Your suite is already prepared. Right this way, ladies.”
“Oh, just the one lady,” I correct her with a wide smile as we step onto the elevator.
Her grin falters as her brows dip in confusion.
“We’ll see about this one here.” I tip my head toward Kayla, who glares back.
The tiny elevator car finally spits us out on the highest floor, and the clerk leads us down a carpeted hallway spaced with beautiful wooden doors, each of them framed with painted vines and flowers. We walk all the way to the very end, where a plaque reads Presidential Suite.
Sure, I’m showing off a little, but consider it my version of Scared Straight! Stunned smart? Pampered into politeness?
The woman swipes the key and swings open the door with pride. “Here we are! Our finest suite!”
I breeze past her and stride down a short wood-floored hallway into a huge living room with expansive views of the downtown buildings that surround us. “Lovely,” I say.
“Holy shitballs,” Kayla chimes in.
We get the grand tour, of course. I’ve paid for the privilege. This place is expensive, and I want Kayla to know that, but it’s not extravagant by, say, New York standards. In fact, I couldn’t get a junior suite for this amount in Tokyo. But this one-night rental is presenting Kayla with an entire universe. You too can have this; all you have to do is learn to concentrate your psychological specialty.
People are afraid of us. Afraid of the idea of sociopaths, lumping us in with serial killers and mass murderers. But I’ve never killed anyone. I probably never will.
Still, if they knew the truth, they’d be even more afraid. There are so many of us. We’re everywhere. Sure, we’re petty criminals and fraudsters, but we are also CEOs and surgeons and military brass. More than that, we are the most successful CEOs and surgeons and military brass. The very people the world admires. Why do we have success? Because we’re not scared of anything, and we’re willing to accept the kind of risk/reward exchange that pays off in millions. We’re eager for it.
Of course, we’re also the worst CEOs and surgeons and military brass, and you definitely shouldn’t marry one of us, but you have to take the good with the bad.
And if we can’t care about people, is that our fault? How is it different from