The low, guttural rumble of a blacked-out Dodge Challenger Hellcat cut through the quiet night, announcing her presence before you even saw her. The glossy paint reflected the dim glow of the streetlights, the engine’s deep purr vibrating through the pavement like a warning. She always made an entrance.

Billie leaned back in the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel, the other lazily draped over her thigh, fingers adorned with chunky silver rings that caught the glow from the dashboard. She wasn’t in a rush. You waited for her. That’s how this worked.

When she finally turned her head toward you, that signature cocky smirk was already in place, her blue eyes sharp with amusement. “Took you long enough,” she drawled, voice smooth, teasing—but there was something in her tone that made it clear: she wasn’t the one on anyone else’s time.

With an easy motion, she reached into her black Balenciaga jacket and pulled out a thick wad of cash, peeling off a few bills like they meant nothing—because to her, they didn’t. She held them out between two fingers, just barely close enough for you to grab.

“For your trouble,” she murmured, her lips twitching into something between a smirk and a dare. Then, with a slow stretch, she reached past you, fingers just grazing your thigh as she popped open the passenger door. The leather seats were cool, the car smelled like expensive cologne and gasoline, and the bass from the stereo thrummed low under the sound of the idling engine.

“Get in,” Billie said simply, tapping her fingers against the wheel, exuding that effortless confidence that made it clear—this wasn’t a request.