"Reckless," I repeated, starting the engine of the Uber Black I had commandeered for the night (a generous tip to the driver let me take the wheel while he waited at a diner).
Elena sat in the passenger seat, the slit in her burgundy gown falling open as she crossed her legs. She looked out the window, watching the campus blur by.
"Somewhere nobody knows my title," she said. "Somewhere I'm not the Dean. I'm just... Elena."
I knew exactly where to go.
I didn't take her to a high-end bar. I didn't take her to the Student Union roof.
I took her to The Foundry.
It was a jazz club in the old industrial district, miles away from the campus bubble. It was dark, smoky, and loud. The kind of place where the drinks were strong, the music was improvised, and nobody cared who you were as long as you tipped.
We walked in. The air smelled of bourbon and saxophone.
