Page 16 of The Comedown

“So you’re all about being seen?”

Me being seen? Isn’t that what he’s all about? I thought that’s why I was here.

“I know a place crawling with paps. We can grab you something to eat and the pictures will be everywhere by the time the check comes. Boom. Publicity. And we don’t have to finish those whack fucking interviews.”

A publicity date? This is all starting to bring up memories I prefer to leave in the past.

“Just…take me back.”

“What do you mean? I thought you were hungry.”

“Not that hungry,” I mumble but he must hear me because he side-eyes me, his attention completely off the road and missing the line of cars quickly building up.

“Watch out!” I yell, pointing at the windshield.

He cuts lanes, dipping around a delivery truck smoothly, but backed-up traffic greets us in the other lane as well causing him to slam on the brake to avoid collision. His right arm shoots out to the side at the same time, blocking my chest from flying forward before the seat belt can even engage, and we come to a stop inches away from the car’s bumper in front of us.

“Shit. Are you okay?” he asks, scanning me from head to toe.

Gently, I guide his arm back to his side, nodding.

“I think I should drive.”

“What? Why? That was nothing.”

Because I don’t trust that you’re not under some sort of influence. Because I don’t trust you to get us back safely. Because I don’t trust you, period.

Opening my door, I quickly get out and hurry around the vented hood, hearing Julez yell from inside about us being on a highway. Oh, now he notices.

“Scoot over,” I tell him when I reach the driver’s side, opening his door until it’s high in the air.

Someone in another car screams my name, and I say, “Hurry,” practically shoving his long body over the center console.

“Can you even drive in those heels?” he asks when I’m seated again, and I give him an unimpressed look, putting the car back into Drive.

“I do everything in these heels.” I even add a wink so there’s no confusion.

His eyebrows scrape the roof but I turn my focus out the windshield, mashing the throttle to the carpet and instantly swerving us on to the shoulder to pass all the traffic. There’s bound to be an exit up here somewhere…

“Tacos.”

“What?”

“Tacos,” Julez repeats. “Don’t take us back yet. Let’s get tacos instead.”

“Tacos?”

“What? You don’t like tacos?”

“I do. But there’s only one way to eat tacos in San Diego and it’s not somewhere crawling with paps.”

“Perfect,” he says.

“Perfect.”

Several minutes later we’re creeping our way into the uneven parking lot of a taco truck, an authentic taco truck, too, not the artisanal, hipster-ran kind.

After killing the engine, I glance over at Julez.