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Okay. It's clear he has no idea what he's saying. He's simply being obtuse.
"So how am I meant to get back to Scuttlebutt?"
"Hmmm." He strokes his chin. "That sounds like ayouproblem to me."
"Wilby!"
He cops another smack from his grandmother, as she sneaks up on him. "You are going to take Col back to town."
"But Gra?—"
She cuts off his protest with a firm, "And that is final, Wilby Jebediah Linfox."
His eyes land on me and narrow. "Do not ever use my middle name against me. Anything you hear on this property cannot and shall not be used against me in the court of law."
Jesus, he's really mangling his legalese. Do they not haveLaw and Orderor any of theCSIfranchises in Australia?
"Wilby, stop it. You're behaving like a child."
Polly isn't messing around. She looks pissed, and even though my news has likely contributed to her foul mood, I'm guessing Wilby acting like a petulant child isn't helping things.
"Take Col back to Scuttlebutt. We may be many things, but we are not rude people. Use the plane. You'll be back in no time."
I inhale sharply, my eyes flying to Wilby.
He stares at me for what feels like an eternity.
Oh god, oh god, oh god.
Polly doesn't know about my flying issues, and, fuck, is Wilby going to be a dick about this? Is he going to actually force me into that flying metal death cage?
He's so pissed I wouldn't put it past him.
"No," he says to Polly. "I'll drive him."
"Why would you do that? It'll take too long," she says, and I think she's thinking Wilby's still being obstructionist.
"It's fine," he tells her, not taking his eyes off me. "I could use the long drive. I've got some songs I want to rehearse for next month's karaoke."
He gives her a peck on the cheek. She looks at him like he's out of his mind, as a wave of relief washes over me. He came through for me, and, man, I'm so eternally grateful I could kiss him.
If I wasn't meant to be pissed at him.
Which I still very much am, by the way.
"Get in," he barks at me with a deep scowl on his face. "My singing is going to require active audience feedback."
I gulp. Okay, maybe my gratitude won't last an eternity. Maybe it'll die the second he flicks on the radio and starts torture-singing at me.
And, yep, I'm right.
Thirty minutes later, I've had about as much as I can take. Waterboarding would be preferable to enduring Wilby screeching at the top of his lungs. It doesn't matter if he's taking on Taylor or Drake or Rihanna or, god forbid, the occasional eighties rock track, he has a knack for always homing in on the screechiest part of any song and making it even screechier. It'd be a talent if the end result wasn't so ear-bleedingly bad.
He's smacked my hand away from the radio dial so many times I'm going to bruise if I keep attempting to shut the music off.
So I am well and truly stuck.
For the next two and a half hours, I'm captive to this ordeal, and there is nothing I can do but sit here and put up with it.
