“What’s that, baby?”
Oh, yeah. Then there’s the fact that he keeps calling me baby. What the hell is that about?
“Never mind.” Crossing my arms over my chest, I grumble under my breath and stare out the window, watching the palm trees and farmland go by. We’re driving through what I’ve learned is a weird area that’s actually used by a lot of folks for grazing cattle. And I guess not a whole lot else, because it’s dark as fuck here aside from an occasional other car.
I glance at the back seat, where Iggy’s tank is strapped in. Iggy, like a sleepy little puppy with scales, has been chill this entire time. Probably helpful that it’s late, and he’s usually sleeping now. Aside from a bit of jostling when we put him in the car, he’s been calm.
I envy him.
Even when Milo falls quiet, even when exhaustion threatens to drag my eyelids down, I can’t forget that the person next to me has a loaded gun. A gun he still might use.
“Oh. There’s the turn up ahead. Almost there.” Is it my imagination, or is he talking to me like a bored kid who asked, “Are we there yet?” too many times?
After Tucker, I’m probably being overly sensitive. I hope.
Milo’s hand finds my upper thigh in the dark, patting and then rubbing in lazy circles that bring his long fingers closer and closer to my confused dick. Is he trying to comfort me or turn me on? Both?
“You can stop that, you know.”
His hand pauses its circular motion, but his fingers grip my leg tighter. “Stop what?”
“Acting like we’re fucking boyfriends or something.”
“Funny, I didn’t think I was. Then again, I haven’t dated much. I helped you muscle that fucking baby dinosaur into the back seat, and now we’re driving to a cozy cabin on the lake together. At this point, we might as well open a registry or take someone out together.”
“We’ve only known each other for a few hours.”
“Don’t forget I killed a man for you. Those few hours are like a decade in murder years.”
“You really think I forgot that? What’s wrong with you?” When I turn to look at Milo, the lights of a passing car are caressing his face. He looks calm, wearing a slight smile, elbow propped on the windowsill as if we’re on a relaxing Sunday drive.
What does it take to be the person who seems chill as fuck after shooting a guy in the head and jerking his—what? His mark?—off in the shower?
“So many things, Rowan. My mom smoked while she was pregnant. I took way too many questionable pills back in the day. Accidentally hit a friend’s abusive ex with my car and ended up living a life of crime. Who can say what the trigger was, really?”
“This is ridiculous.”
He flashes me a quick grin as his hand resumes its circular motion on the top of my leg. “Care to be more specific?”
“You’re sitting here talking about us being boyfriends as if all the supremely fucked-up shit that happened tonight was a minor inconvenience. By the way, you still haven’t confirmed for sure that you will not put a bullet in my head.”
“Of course we’re not actually boyfriends, Rowan. Unfortunately, that’s the only thing I can confirm at the moment.”
“Fantastic.” We turn onto a quiet side street and when the house we’re approaching has the lights already on, I sink lower in my seat. “Whose place is this?”
A tall figure emerges from the small house at the end of the drive and for the first time I grab onto the hand on my leg. Honestly though, can you blame me for being jumpy?
“It’s okay, baby. He’s a friend.”
When the man comes closer and the headlights show him more clearly, I realize I know him as well. Brown skin, a friendly smile, and awfully warm eyes for a guy who’s always armed. I’m still reeling when Milo lowers his window, and the guy pops his head in.
“Jalen?” Jalen works for, well, my pimp, I guess. “What’s going on?”
It still feels a little weird that I have one of those. A pimp. Then again, the way Milo kept calling me a whore…
Don’t pretend you didn’t like that.
“New guy. How’s it hanging?”
