Page 19 of Dozer

She laughs again and against every instinct I've spent years developing... I smile. She sees it. Of course she does. Her grin widens.

I look back at the road, this is going to be a long trip.

CHAPTER 3

Kenzi

Twenty minutes into the drive, I decide the silence is a personal insult, and I'm going to treat it as one. To be fair to Dozer, he hasn't done anything to earn that decision, except exist quietly in the driver's seat like a man carved out of a single piece of granite and occasionally check the mirrors. I’ve never met anyone as quiet as this man before. How can you drive for twenty minutes without saying a single word or at least having music on? Who does that?

I've never met a silence I trust to just be silence. Silence is usually a person deciding what not to say, and I find that infinitely more interesting than whatever they'd have said if you'd just asked them nicely.

So, I don't ask nicely, but then again, I never really do. "You're humming," I say. It's a lie, he is absolutely not humming. I’m not sure he would know how to hum. But I have to start the conversation somewhere.

He has made a sound approximately once that might have been a stray molecule of air escaping his nose, but do you know your nasal exhale had a slight melodic quality isn't going to land the way I want, so I call it humming.

His eyes stay on the road. "No."

Great. One word. Wow, he’s such a talker. "You are."

"No." He answers again.

"Very off-key, too, which, respect, honestly. Most people at least try to hum in tune, but you've clearly decided that's beneath you."

"No."

I wait for him to expand on it… and nothing. Not even a twitch. "Okay, so we're committing to the silent treatment."

"I'm driving."

"Those aren't mutually exclusive activities."

His mouth moves. Barely. I can't tell if he's fighting a smile or regretting the decision to let me within ten feet of him. Either way, I consider it progress.

I turn in my seat, seat belt cutting into my shoulder, and study him properly for the first time since we've left the compound. His big hands on the wheel at exactly ten and two. Who actually drives with their hands at ten and two? It’s like he learned to drive from a manual and never once deviated from it. His posture appears relaxed, but not really. I already know there's nothing relaxed about Dozer. He just knows how to make tension look comfortable.

His eyes move between the road and the mirrors, methodical and constant. Every few seconds, he checks something I don't have the experience to identify. What is it he’s looking for? All I see is the passing vehicles. Is he cataloging everything else? The reflections in the mirror? Every intersection? Is he looking for all the possible problems? I’m sure he is.

Whatever he's looking for, he sees it before I even think to look. He’s impressive if not a little intimidating. And, if I'm being completely honest, more than a little attractive. Which is inconvenient, I don’t need a distraction while trying to prove to Hunter that I am worth the risk. I need a permanent position, and I can’t squander this opportunity just because the operator on the job is attractive. I definitely should not be noticing how his jaw is doing absolutely nothing interesting. No clenching, no twitching and no tell that gives me a clue what's happening behind those dark eyes. I’d really like to know what he’s thinking about.

I am well trained in picking up nonverbal clues. But, Dozer, is a man who apparently decides emotional expression is a resource to be rationed, and he's hoarding his like the last bottle of water in a desert.

I find him fascinating but then again, I have always found the wrong things fascinating. It's possibly my most consistent personality trait, right after talks to fill silence and directly before occasionally correct about things nobody asked her to be correct about.

"Okay," I say. "New topic." He glances at me. I catch it. Is it a new topic if we aren’t on any topic at all? I don’t care. "Road-trip snacks."

Nothing. Absolutely no response from Dozer. I plunge ahead. "What's your ideal road-trip snack?" Still nothing. This man is infuriating. He’s a large man. Surely, he eats. And, who doesn’t like a good road trip snack? If he tells me he doesn’t snack, I’ll suggest to Hunter that he might be a serial killer.

"And before you say jerky, I want you to sit with the fact that jerky is a sad, dry cry for help, and I will be judging you accordingly." I lean back and cross my arms over my chest, determined not to say another word until he answers me.

"Jerky." Is it really jerky or is he teasing me. Does Dozer even know how to tease?

"I knew it." I throw one hand toward the ceiling. "I knew it." His eyes flick toward me for half a second. I catch that, too. "You're going to make me eat gas-station jerky the entire way to D.C., aren't you?"

"No."

I relax before responding. "Excellent."

"There's a cooler in the back."