Nine Lives

The String Test

"Quite a ride you got here." I laughed, admiring the spotless leather of his classic car. It smelt like him - oranges with a hint of spiced cinnamon.

"I knew you'd like her." His expression oozed pride, the dashboard filled with scratches and wears, obvious to years of journeys and memories I was yet to be told. I could imagine him cruising through the streets of France, windows down and orange juice pouring out, marking his territory in one of the most classic cities in the world.

"It's quite impressive, I must say. Classic car lover?" I looked him up and down, his attire worryingly casual. Compared to my tailored blazer and glossy lips, Blake came equipped with a plain black t-shirt and grey joggers, the green outline of his earlier trainers standing out from the acceleration peddle. He hid his lack of style with a brown coat, the material cuffed and stained, probably as old as this car. I felt immensely overdressed.

"My pride and joy." He said, sounding chuffed. "I must say, you look beautifully stylish, darling." He held his gaze on my outfit, I couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic with the toned down vibe of his own. Despite my slight embarrassment, being called beautiful felt amazing. I hadn't heard that word in months.

"So, where are we going?" I tried not to think about my outfit, my confidence draining as I felt the heating rise of embarrassment climb onto my cheeks. I crossed my arms, covering my fancy blazer and bringing my sleeve up to remove some of the glossy reflection.

Blake turned the engine on, placing his hand behind my head rest as he reversed with precision out onto the neighbouring road. "You'll see."

"All about the mystery, aren't you? Can I not have a slight hint?" I pleaded, still overly nervous.

"Hints ruin surprises." He stated, shifting gears.

"So it's a surprise?"

"It was always going to be a surprise. Adventure is surprising."

Blake started to drive, out of the small town I called home and closer to the bustling towns around us. "For all I know you could be driving me to my death...charming stranger in a classic car on a winters night, what a storyline. They'd pay big bucks for that true crime tale."

"If I was going to kill you, I would have at least worn my best suit...Patrick Bateman never murdered without Mulberry."

I sat shocked, staring at the grin on his face as I realised he knew more about books than I first thought. I was impressed with his knowledge of literature. "American Psycho." I verified.

"Indeed." Blake drove smoothly, his eyes flickering onto me whenever we reached a turning or stop sign. "You can't flaw that monsters have taste."

"Bateman was somewhat a victim." I studied Literature for two years, believe me, I have some...questionable opinions.

"Now isn't that controversial. Care to argue that case?" Blake seemed genuinely intrigued, his knowingness of books enough to throw me into heated discussion on one of my favourite gothic texts.

"Bateman was victim to society. His work, his money, his era, his role models - all pressurised a hero into villain. American wall-street was brutal, context gives us the facts that businessman were ruthless; drugged up, alcoholic ballers who were professional workaholics. The blood on Batemans hands was red, yes, but none the redder than Macbeth. Society follows history, its impact turning heroes, into villains. And in every case, a villain is a victim..." I was hooked in my literary debate deep, Blake throwing controversial questions at me, sparking my interest and sprouting a carefully crafted answer from my years of analysing books. I've never had such a fulfilling conversation, speaking of sociopaths and murderers was funnily enough not a topic made for everyone.