I sigh, unbuttoning another button on my shirt. Why do I suddenly feel nervous? I take another deep breath. “What do you mean you don't know? You know where we're going, don't you?
“Yes, I'm not an idiot,” she murmurs, looking at me now, those brown eyes piercing me with a look so fierce it could cut glass.
“Okay…? Then what's the problem?” I ask again, looking out into the near darkness. It’s getting close to 8PM. “I don't want to get there when it's too late.”
She turns away from me, facing the steering wheel while she shakes out her hands as if she’s about to run a marathon, twisting her neck to the side. “I don't know,” she groans as if it’s my fault. “I’m too excited or nervous. Or both. I can't sit still.”
God, does she want to find out what happened or what?
“Then get out,” I demand. She turns back to me, eyes wide.
“What?”
"Let me drive. Move seats," I explain. If she’s not going to get us to where we need to be, I’m going to have to be the one to do it. Trying to contact Charles is not an option. You try hiding an Escalade outside a random shop in Provo and see if you don’t get caught.
She throws her hair over her shoulder. “Branson, Ihopeyou take this the wrong way, but I've never seen you control a vehicle a day in my life. You're always being chauffeured around everywhere like some sort of fucking prince. What makes you think I’m going to let you drive my car?”
I huff. “Why are you making this difficult?”
“Because I don't trust you to drive my car. Do you know how much this thing costs?" she says, gesturing to the gorgeous car.
I roll my eyes. “I have a licence and I have never had a ticket or any type of violation in my life. If you're not going to drive, let me do it. We’re wasting time. If I crash it – which I won’t – I’ll just buy you a new one. You know I can afford at least three of these.”
She considers it for a second, pulling her full bottom lip between her teeth. “Fine,” she says finally, unbuckling her seatbelt. “But be kind toBellezza Nera.”
I don’t know why her Italian catches me off guard. It shouldn't. Especially when I’ve heard her speak it a million times, but here, in this dark and confined setting of this car, the way she rolls the ‘r’ almost makes it sound filthy.
Jesus.
If I’m getting turned on by Scarlett Voss speaking Italian, Ireallyneed to get laid.
She lets me take over her seat, switching around to the other side, settling in the passenger seat, one leg hanging down and the other pulled up to her chin. How in the world is she comfortable like that? I flick my attention from her and to the road, following the instructions that the GPS has set up.
Unlike most people I know, Scarlett doesn’t change the music ten times before settling on one song. She knows exactly what she wants and settles on a playlist and the first song that plays is ‘Sweet Disposition’by The Temper Trap. It’s not a bad song, but it could have been better. The only upside to this is that she’s relaxed more now, and she doesn’t look like she’s about to bolt out of the door or stare into space.
We drive mostly in silence as the playlist continues to play more songs, similar to the one that played first.
When we get to the street in Provo, as I imagined, it’s mostly deserted. It’s never extremely busy here, but there is the odd person wandering around as all the buzz lies within the bar at the corner. It’s lively down there, loud cheers and music playing, but from where we need to be, the lights on the stores are the only thing keeping it lit. There’s a laundromat, a record shop, then the jewellery store, Julia’s, wedged between an antique store and a convenience store.
We park in a side alley, giving us a side view into the shop because of the way the streets have been designed. It would be too obvious if we parked on the main road, so this is our best shot. The store looks normal from here, a typical white, sterile looking place with a silver sign. It must be close to closing time now because there’s only one person behind the till, sitting on their phone.
“Are we going to go in?” I ask Scarlett as she stares out of her window at the shop.
“No,” she replies, her voice quiet.
“So, now what do we do?”
“We wait, obviously.”
Wait for what? I don’t know, but I’m terrified to ask any questions because she’ll either get angry at me or start to freak out again and I can’t deal with either of those things right now.
She’s still staring out the window and I’m still staring at her, and I can’t fucking move my eyes.
Okay, I have a problem.
Not like that.
Sometimes, when I get too in my head, (which is often) I stare. Not because something is particularly fascinating or drawing my attention. I just need something to focus on so my brain can just shut up for two minutes. Most of the time I’m aware I’m staring, and I probably look insane and even when I tell my eyes to move I just… Can’t.
