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“Not this one,” she said. “My purse.”
Of course—the Yeti’s U-Haul.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because then I would have what I need!”
“What’s that?”
“Pepto, some antacid tablets, tissues, water—you know.”
I shook my head and tried not to laugh. Laughing would definitely hurt. I leaned my head against the brick wall behind me.
“You sure you’re okay?” Tria asked again.
“Yeah,” I replied.
“Okay, then,” Tria said as she straightened her back and squared her shoulders. “In that case, we need to have something absolutely clear between us.”
Her posture and words scared me a little, and when I got a good look at her face, illuminated by the glow of the streetlights, I knew I was in a lot of trouble.
“What’s that?”
“Don’t you ever, ever,” she said as her eyes blazed at me, “tell me to shut up again. If I have something to say, I’ll fucking say it. You got that?”
I swallowed hard.
“I got it.”
“I want your word,” she said. “That seems to matter to you, at least. Promise me, and don’t you dare break this promise.”
I went a little cold.
“I give you my word,” I told her. “I promise I won’t do that again.”
She nodded once before she helped me stand on shaking legs, and we both headed to the side of Sophia’s where everyone was parked. Like some sort of mind reader, Damon was standing just outside the car. He opened the back door as we approached.
“Home?” he asked quietly as we settled in.
I leaned my head back against the seat and grunted some sort of affirmative answer.
“My purse is back at your uncle’s,” she said. “And my clothes—we’ll have to go back there first.”
“All of your belongings are in the trunk, Miss Lynn,” Damon informed her. “Is there something you would like out of it now? I could retrieve it for you.”
“Oh, I can get it!” Tria responded with a bit of a blush as she reached for the door.
“Please, Miss Lynn,” Damon said with a smile as he got out of the car and leaned into the window. “Allow me.”
“Always prepared, aren’t you?” I called out as Damon handed Tria her purse.
“Not always, Mr. Teague,” he said, “but I do try.”
Tria spelunked around in her purse and pulled out a small black bag tied together with a drawstring. She untied it and pulled out a small pair of folded up shoes. She reached down, removed her heels, and placed the soft-looking shoes on her feet.
“What are those?” I asked.
“Ballet flats,” Tria said. “Those heels were killing my feet.”
