Page 34

“Still afraid I’m a serial killer?” he asks.

“Maybe?” The memory of wriggling into the sadistic panties is still fresh in my mind, and the inevitability of having to do it all over again strikes fear in me. Get in and get out. That’s the goal for Memphis. I can hold it until we get back.

Dash leads me around the side of the building.

I glance over my shoulder, wondering if I’d spoken too soon. “Where are you taking me?”

“I told you I had to be patient and resourceful.” He stops in front of a cherry-red Tesla.

And not just any old Tesla, either. I recognize the expensive vehicle from the cover of one of Damian’s many luxury cars magazines.

“Hang on . . .” My eyes follow the long extension cord running from the car to the building. “You drive a Model X and you can’t afford a decent phone?”

“I never said I couldn’t afford a smartphone. You assumed. I choose to use a basic phone. There’s a big difference.”

“It’s barely a phone at all.”

“Actually, it’s primarily a phone. And without all the other useless nonsense, it holds a charge for a lot longer with way less distractions. Plus, I’ll bet I get a better signal in rural areas than you do.” He scratches the back of his neck and clears his throat. “Best of all, my family can’t use an app to track me everywhere I go.”

Hmm, interesting. “Speaking of your phone . . .” I hold out my hand.

He stops and gapes at me. “I thought you were kidding.”

“Nope.” I wiggle my fingers until he slaps the phone into my palm. I crack open the clamshell and stare at the display. “How do you—” I click the menu button and find the option for the camera. “Ah, got it. Smile pretty for the camera.”

Dash poses at the back of his car with a stony expression that, somehow, makes him hotter. After taking a few snaps, I send the best ones to G-Lo and return his phone.

“I don’t know how you can use that thing. It doesn’t have iTunes, or Spotify, or anything.”

“There’s more to life than iTunes, you know.” Dash rests the burger bag on his hip while fishing the key fob from his pocket. He clicks a button and the front passenger door swings open on its own. He clicks another button and the rear doors open upward, like wings, folding up and tucking in above the sleek body.

“How do you listen to music?” I mutter, mesmerized by his futuristic vehicle.

Dash sets the white bag in the back seat. “Ever heard of this thing called a radio?”

“There’s never anything good on the radio.”

With one more press of a button, the trunk opens with a quiet snick. “There is when you have satellite.”

“How does a college student afford a hundred-and-twenty-thousand-dollar car, anyway? You didn’t steal it, did you?”

“College graduate.” He grins. “And no, I didn’t steal it. It was a graduation gift. If I was going to steal a car, I would’ve picked something a little less flashy.”

My fingers itch to glide across the glossy finish, and I tuck my hand under my arm to stop myself. “Must be nice.”

“If you say so.” He snorts. “Gifts from my father always come with strings.”

“Still . . . could be worse. You could’ve gotten stuck with a ’73 Cutlass with an armadillo in the radiator.”

“True . . .” He grimaces. “One of the few perks of being Daniel Hammond’s only son.”

He spits out his father’s name like a curse, and I wonder if I should know who he is—a famous Hollywood director or music producer, maybe—but I don’t ask.

After loading the car, Dash runs around and disconnects the power cord from the diner outlet and then stows it in the back.

“How’d you get them to let you charge this thing all night long?”

“Resourceful, remember?” He taps his forehead. “Now, get in.”