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“You lived in a fucking Lambo?!”
She immediately flashes me a sarcastic expression.
It takes a couple breaths for the realization to knock me upside the head and roll out of my mouth. “Ohhhhhh! You mean that’s the most expensive car you’ve ever been in!”
“Yeah.” My mouth twitches in preparation to ask for the nitty gritty details she can remember down to the type of custom leather I’m sure it had yet is stopped by her adding, “It’s also the most expensive car I almost died in.”
The proclamation furrows my brow.
Tightens my jaw.
Curls my fists in spite of the fact I’ve got nowhere to swing them.
Just because I’m not a fan of fucking fighting doesn’t mean I don’t know how or can’t or won’t.
You can bet your ass I always will when it comes to protecting someone who for some unknown reason struggles to protect themselves.
I’m sure that’s what Bunny’s convinced herself she’s doing by being on the run.
Hiding.
Trying not to be found.
Problem with running away from your past is sooner or later that shit always catches up.
Real question is what are you prepared to do when it does?
It’s impossible to ignore the sudden shakiness of her hands that are moving to grip the handle. “You hear Lamborghini and think of its top speeds-”
“Two twenty-one mph. Zero to sixty in under three seconds.”
“I hear Lamborghini and think about how I was screaming at the top of my lungs that I loved the person who was threatening to drive us into the cement wall of a parking garage.”
All the air in my chest is suddenly knocked out of me as if an airbag exploded.
What…what am I supposed to say?
What can I say?
Sorry?
Sorry for trying to make fucking conversation and get to know you better?
Sorry for not knowing something I thought was innocent was really just me yanking around wires that I had no business touching in the first place?
What remains of our trek over to the counter occurs in stark, uncomfortable silence; however, the second we arrive, Mrs. Suzie Cotterell, the store owner, darts her round, light honey face up and away from whatever it was that she was reading on her phone. “Afternoon, Kipp!”
“Afternoon, Suzie,” I warmly greet in return and prepare to place objects on the counter. “How’s the store this afternoon?”
“Slow.” She flashes us both a friendly grin. “But you know how things go around this place. It’ll pick up in a few when everyone gets back to town and comes to grab their beer and wine and whatever they need to feel fine.”
Most people who live in this small town don’t actually work here.
That special hell combination is reserved for just a few of us.
“Date?” Suzie asks, chocolate glare inspecting Bunny from head to toe. “Tourist, maybe?”
“Friend,” I declare despite that being a debatable truth.
