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"I somehow doubt you were selling crack and shooting people as a teen."
"No," she agreed, smiling softly. "My parents hated this kind of music. Though, to them, if it wasn't Brahms or Tchaikovsky, it wasn't real music. So my siblings and I would blast this and sing along at the tops of our lungs just to screw with them. I eventually got my mother to admit that the lyricism in some of the songs is on-point."
"Small win."
"Exactly. It just reminds me of those times with my brother and sister when we were young and careless. Do you have siblings?" she asked, turning her head on the headrest to look at me.
"I have three brothers and a sister."
"Big family."
"Yeah."
"Where do you fall?"
"Close to the top."
"Are all your siblings as loquacious as you are?" she teased, lips curving up.
"You'd probably like Atlas. He never shuts the fuck up."
"Atlas. That's an interesting name."
"Atlas, Kingston, Rush, and Scotti," I volunteered, not knowing why I did so. I was not the sort to share personal information with random people.
"And you?" she asked. "What's your name?"
I'd practically given her a family tree; there was no reason I couldn't give her my name at this point.
"Nixon."
"You're kidding," she said, shaking her head. "Right?"
"No. Why would I kid about that?"
"It's just... funny. Don't you think?"
"My name is funny?"
"Well, no. But also yes. Nixon. Reagan. We both have presidential names. That's funny. Was your mother a Nixon fan? I mean, he was disgraced and all of that, but there is no accounting for people's tastes. People wanted to screw Charlie Manson even with those crazy freaking eyes of his and the swastika carved into his forehead."
"I...I..." I stammered. I never fucking stammered. This woman was throwing me off-kilter. I wanted to say I hated it, but I had to admit I was actually enjoying it. "No. She just... she collected interesting names. I guess she always knew she wanted several kids, so she stockpiled anything that sounded good."
"Rush is the weirdest of the bunch."
"Yes, yes he is," I agreed, smirking a bit.
"I meant his name."
"He came early and fast. In a rush. My mom went off the cuff with that one. But it suits him. He loves cars."
"Does Atlas love traveling?"
"That he does," I agreed, nodding.
"And Kingston?" she asked, brows drawing together.
"I guess he is like our patriarch. It fits in a way as well."
"Nixon was notoriously ambitious, insecure, and paid obsessive detail to his public image. I think your mom might have missed the mark a bit with you."
"I don't know if I should feel insulted or complimented," I admitted.
"Well, no one wants to come off as insecure. It is the least appealing trait you can possess outwardly. So it is good you don't. But I think if you were ambitious, you wouldn't be the one sitting in your car; you'd be the one calling the shots from an office somewhere. And, well, you need a shave."
"That's fair," I agreed, shrugging.
"Hey, look! See," she said, grabbing for the travel mug in my cupholder. "You're using it. Which is reducing more paper or styrofoam waste. Plus, you are a walking billboard for my company. So, win-win. Is this just plain coffee?" she asked, pulling it up, popping the mouth part open, sniffing, then taking a sip. "Oh, God. That's awful. Just terrible," she declared before taking another sup. "Ugh. Why do you do that to yourself?"
"Why did you just do that to yourself if you hate it?" I shot back.
"Because it is getting late, and I am getting useless. A little coffee will help me push through."
"It's not even seven yet. That's not late by anyone's standards except maybe a newborn."
"I tossed and turned last night."
"Having nightmares about your upcoming restraining order?" I asked.
To that, a long sigh escaped her. A defeated sound. It was a shame to hear it.
"I've been thinking about that."
"I bet."
"So, what I have come up with is this."
"Can't wait to hear it," I drawled.
To that, she gave me an eye roll, but pressed on. "How about we come to some kind of compromise?"
"You mean where you stop stalking, so I can get off this fuckhead's case?"
Her dark eyes warmed at that. Amused, maybe.
"Not quite."
"You're made, babe. For fuck's sake. Have some pride. Quit the creeping."
"This has nothing to do with my pride." Her feet pulled from the dash, slipped back into her shoes. Her spine straightened, arms moving to cross her chest. I'd hit a nerve, that much was clear.
"Clearly," I agreed.
"Has anyone told you that you are a dick?"
"Not today."
"Well, allow me. You're a dick."
With that, she threw open the door, climbing onto the mostly deserted street. Somehow, while I was distracted by her, most of the office had cleared out, only leaving a few cars on the street. I had a second of panic that I'd missed the client--despite having spent the time distracting his stalker--before I saw his car parked down near the corner.
