Page 10 of Slick Trip

“No wonder he looked at me so strangely when I complimented his ink gloves.”

I pushed the blanket off me, sitting up and trying to reclaim some dignity. “He won’t be getting a cent of my money.”

“Don’t worry. He’s doing this for free.”

A cold shiver ran down my spine. That didn’t bode well at all. Why was he coming along for free? Maybe he wanted a front-row seat to my misery. Or to keep me close enough to make sure I never said a word about what had happened between us.

“Promise me one thing, Mom,” I said, my voice turning dark and dramatic. “When Jon calls to tell you I died in some freaky accident in the middle of the desert, don’t take his word for it. Check the trunk first.”

4

Already Wrecked

JON

The bedroom door slammed shut after Cooper, and I had to force myself to stay still. Something in the center of my chest pulled taut, dragging me toward his closed door, but going after him would only make it worse.

I didn’t need to guess what was going on in his head. How he seethed and raged.

He’d tried to shoulder-check me on his way to his room. He was too short and slight to actually move me, but I wasn’t unaffected. The blue in his eyes had darkened into something raw and defiant. He looked the way he had that first day by the warehouse—furious at being cornered and dangerous to my peace of mind.

Back then, he’d gawked at me like I was something bigger than I was. Like I’d walked out of some action movie just to punch a guy for him. Now that he knew what I was capable of, he probably hoped some other guy would come and punch me for him. I wouldn’t blame him. Still, the thought of another man stepping between us, defending Cooper, made me grind my teeth. Let Cooper hate me. Let him curse my name and say he’d never forgive me. I’d fight anyone who tried to take my place in his life.

I breathed out slowly, trying to get a grip. It didn’t help.

“Stay,” I muttered under my breath. I was talking to myself like I was a dog, but then again, I’d always felt like a stray. I had no relatives I knew of. The various foster parents who threw me out like garbage when they inevitably got sick of me were a far cry from a real family. People like me didn’t come from homes like the Taylor household, where fridges were stocked and mothers worried.

My mind drifted back to a basement in Springfield, a cold hard floor, and the heavy click of a lock from the top of the stairs. Stay down there until you learn some manners, boy. Funny, that. Even though I sometimes spent days there with nothing but water, crackers, and a thin mattress, I didn’t learn their manners. Like domestic violence, discrimination, and being a douchebag.

I came from wreckage, so of course I’d ruined the best thing I’d ever had the privilege to touch. The guilt was eating me alive.

I still remembered the way Cooper used to be around me when he was fifteen. He was always nearby—hovering in doorways, or, if he was feeling courageous, planting himself on the floor right next to me. He’d be close enough to be impossible to ignore, stubbornly refusing Jack’s orders to leave. It hadn’t taken long for him to evolve from lurking to pestering, and from pestering to pranks—always testing the limits of my patience.

Until it all stopped.

Jack clapped my shoulder, pulling me from my thoughts.

“He’ll come around,” he said. “He’s just acting out as usual.”

I almost laughed. This was not that. Not at all. This was not some stupid prank where Cooper put salt in my coffee or stole my hoodie. This was about me letting him crash and burn. So no, he wouldn’t come around. There were things an apology couldn’t fix. And yet, I was still going to get in that fucking car with him in the morning. It would serve me right, honestly, to be constantly reminded of what I’d done.

That damn Cadillac hadn’t even left the driveway yet, and I was already wrecked.

5

All Set

COOPER

I’d shoved my things into a gym bag. Yes, I called it a gym bag even though I’d never been to a gym. Sue me. Really, lock me up and throw away the key. Anything to save me from that muscled misery in gray sweatpants. Jon hauled his own bag into the trunk, the cotton of his T-shirt straining against his broad shoulders. His forearms flexed as he lifted it, the veins standing out against the ink. Oh, look at my biceps, I’m so strong, woo-fucking-hoo . . .

Why was everyone staring at me? Did I say all that out loud? I might have, judging from the way Jack snorted. Jon didn’t say anything. As stony-faced as ever, he held his hand out for my bag. I stared at his palm. Then I looked at him. Narrowing my eyes, I tossed my bag into the trunk myself. His evil hands were not touching my things, or me, ever again.

“Look at that,” I marveled. “I managed to lift my own bag. No bench presses needed.”

“Cooper,” Mom admonished. “Jon was only trying to be polite.”

“Sure.”