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“That’s not why you were crying.”
“Yeah...”
I reached out and poured him the tiniest glass of water ever.
He took it, his lips twisting in a wry smile. Clearly he thought I was ridiculous. Which I was.
He also knew I was stalling.
Also true.
I took a deep breath.
“The paper was for my favorite professor. Linguistics. He uh…”
I trailed off. Feeling incredibly foolish. Jace took pity on me, prompting me to continue.
“He didn’t like your paper?”
“No – he did. I mean, he gave me an A. Without reading it.”
He frowned.
“Is that normal?”
I stared at my hands where they rested on my knees.
“No.”
I looked at Jace.
“It’s not normal. In fact, it really pissed me off. Then he…”
Jace leaned back in his seat.
“He made a pass at you.”
My mouth opened as I stared at him.
“How did you know?“
He shrugged, looking at me like I was a curious specimen.
“Come on, like that doesn’t happen to you all the time.”
“It definitely doesn’t!”
He frowned at me, belatedly realizing he had a glass in his hand. He took a swig and I stared at his throat as he swallowed. He had a… really nice throat.
A nice throat?
Get a grip, Frannie!
He finished the measly bit of water and put the glass down. Then he turned his head, staring at me.
“You don’t get hit on a lot.”
“I never get hit on,” I said, feeling embarrassed admitting it. “Certainly not by my professors!”
He stared at me, then shook his head.
“So you were surprised.”
“Yes.”
“And offended because… he’s married?”
“I thought he was but apparently he is not.”
“Huh.”
“What?”
“And you weren’t interested? Even though the class is over?”
“Ew, no!”
“He’s old?”
“Kind of.”
“Ugly.”
“No.”
“You have a boyfriend.”
I rolled my eyes.
“I wish.”
I clapped my hand over my mouth. I’d gotten so comfortable I forgot I was talking to a hot guy and not Nevada or Becky, my sometimes roommate.
He laughed, not unkindly.
“You’re a funny girl, Frannie,” he stood up to leave. “Thanks for the water.”
“No problem. I – uh – should I give you a check now?”
He shook his head.
“It’s okay. I don’t even know what’s wrong with it yet. It might take a few days.”
I nodded eagerly, ready for this awkward moment to be over. As soon as he left I could collapse into a puddle. And hopefully figure out exactly what was going on here.
At the front door he paused, staring at me intently.
“This guy – did he hurt you? Or do something he shouldn’t have?”
I shook my head, realizing that Jace was asking for a reason.
He was asking to see if he needed to beat somebody up.
For me.
It sent a thrill through me, I can’t lie.
“No he just… stared. He touched…
“He touched what” Jace said in an even, very deep tone.
“My arm but he was looking at my…” I cleared my throat. “He just creeped me out.”
He cracked his knuckles like a thug in an old time movie.
“That’s too bad,” he said with a hint of a smile then and turned away. “Later, Frannie.”
I watched him walk down the hallway and take the stairs. He kept his eyes on mine as he walked down them. He had a funny little smile on his face.
There was something about it that reminded me of Nevada’s fiancé Clay.
I closed the door before it hit me.
It was arrogance.
And something else. Something about the way he looked at me reminded me of how Clay looked at Nevvie. I got a shiver when I realized what it was.
He looked… hungry.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Jace
I flexed my hands, resting them lightly on the steering wheel. It was dark out here behind the old cannery. Once this had been a bustling factory. But now it was silent, except for the sound of souped up engines.
I was using Flannery’s car tonight. With his permission of course. We had an arrangement now. After the first time I’d won.
That time had been without his permission.
To say that my mother’s youngest brother had been pissed would have been an understatement.
But since I’d split the pot wit him, he hadn’t stayed angry for long.
Besides, he liked it when his cars won. Even if he wasn’t behind the wheel.
Flannery had been born with an innate ability to pull things apart and put them back to together. Motors specifically. He’d also been born with a club foot and a degenerative neurological disease. That meant he twitched and limped.
It also meant he was shit behind the wheel.
I’d inherited a similar ability for gears and wiring. But I was also born with lighting fast reflexes and steely, unflappable control. Control over myself and control over the machine I was driving.
I was a thrill seeker. Reckless. Not too worried about getting hurt.
Add my relentless need to prove myself and you got the perfect driver.
Hot rod driver to be exact.
I sat perfectly still as I waited for the race to begin. This wasn’t an official race. No rankings would be posted on a brilliantly lit score board.
