Page 22 of UNAwere

‘I’m fine.’ I shoot him with double finger guns.

He opens his mouth to say something, but then our plates are brought out.

I see his plate of fried chicken placed in front of him and grin.

‘You got it, too! See, I knew you couldn’t resist a good wing.’

He grunts, picking one up and tearing into it with his teeth.

A strange feeling flutters down my spine at the sight, and I quickly glance at my meal, frowning.

What the heck was that?

I pick up a drumstick and bite into it. It’s crispy and well-seasoned. I hum.

‘Hey, this isn’t half bad,’ I murmur.

‘No need to go to other non-approved restaurants,’ he says through his food.

‘Maybe you’re right.’

We eat in silence, and I don’t realise how hungry I am until I’m a few bites in. And then I’m scoffing it down, picking up several fries at a time and shoving them into my mouth. When I glance up, mouth full of food, Briggs is watching me, an odd look in his eye. And it’s the first time I’ve seen him not look mad or annoyed. He looks… ravenous.

That strange feeling comes back. A blooming heat. A skittering, creeping thing that crawls over my flesh.

I quickly dip my chin, swallowing thickly.

I’m exhausted. I need a shower and a good sleep.

I tell myself this as we finish eating and walk back to the truck. I keep repeating it in my head as we drive in silence to the next motel. Like a mantra, until I’m in the shower in the motel room’s bathroom, washing my hair and scalding my skin with hot water.

Briggs is sitting on the armchair opposite the bed when I come out. He’s staring at his phone, mouth twisted, but glances up when the door opens, steam billowing out behind me. His eyes snap to my bare legs, where I haven’t bothered to put on pants, my oversized tee covering me well enough.

‘Get some sleep,’ he growls.

I frown at him, still towelling my wet hair.

‘Why don’t we watch some TV together?’

‘TV stays off.’ He’s still staring at my legs, and it’s like he realises, because he quickly looks back at his phone.

‘Why?’

‘Because I said so.’

‘That’s not a good enough reason.’

‘It should be.’

‘Why?’

His voice is deadly when he says, ‘Because, Miss Palmer, I should scare the fuck out of you.’

‘Twenty,’ I say, ignoring the heated glare he throws me. I sit on the edge of the bed, rubbing the towel on my head. ‘And you definitely don’t scare me.’

‘I should.’

‘You don’t.’