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It’s partly because I’m so fucking aware that I want more of him. That I’m on the verge of giving him whatever he’d want, just to keep him. That’s the crux of it. I want him. And more than that, I want him to want me.
The car engine clicks over and the radio booms to life. I keep telling myself that I can pretend. I lie and tell myself I’ll like pretending.
I think I’ve lied so much up to this point that I’m not even sure what’s real anymore.
“This song blows,” I say, reaching for the stereo just to fuck with him and distract myself, but Dean smacks my hand away. It stings for a moment and I feign a pained expression.
“My car, my radio,” he says, completely deadpan.
“Seriously,” I tell him, giving up on switching the dial since he keeps thwacking me with the back of his hand. “I’m not listening to this for two hours.” My brow is raised and the most serious of expressions is on my face.
“You have to be kidding.” Dean stares at me with a look of despair in his eyes and I finally break my composure, settling back into the seat and kicking off my flip-flops so I can sit cross-legged.
“Yeah, I am. This is the only station I actually like up here.” I can’t hold back my smile as that familiar warm feeling flows through me. The one where I give a damn about how my words will be taken. If he gets me.
I’ve heard Dean laugh a few times and usually it’s this sexy, deep and rough chuckle that seems to vibrate up his chest, but this laugh, this is different. It’s easy as he throws his head back and gives me a handsome smile.
It’s a dangerous look because it makes me smile too.
“Thank fuck,” he says and then he turns the radio down before putting the car into reverse. It’s at that volume level where you know the other person wants to talk. Right now, I don’t like that level. I’d rather blare music the whole way down.
“Hey, I like that song,” I tease him but he ignores me. The car moves easily out of the spot in the parking garage and for the first time since this trip came up, I start questioning it.
Dean clears his throat and puts the car into drive.
“You all right?” I ask him, feeling a sense of wariness grow in my chest.
“My mom’s kind of a bitch,” he tells me and as much as that sucks, I’m happy to hear that’s what’s making his face look all uncomfortable.
“I think that’s normal maybe?” I say and take another look around the car. The bags are in the back seat, but he doesn’t want to stay long and assured me we’reabsolutely notstaying at his mother’s. Which is nice, because fuck staying over at someone’s mother’s house. That’s a given.
Next to my duffle bag, there’s a white plastic shopping bag.
“What’s in the bag?” I ask Dean.
He glances at me and then blows out a short huff of a laugh. “I picked up a shirt. For you.” He examines my expression, watching to see how I react.
“From where?” I ask him as I reach into the back seat, taking the bag and reading the drugstore label on the bag.
“From the mall, it’s just in that bag because it was laying around.”
The wide and joyful smile on my face won’t budge. I lift the fabric out of the bag. It’s simple white cotton, but high quality. It’s not quite like the one he ruined, but it’s pretty and soft. I’m sure I could make it look dirty, though.
Even as my playful banter and perverted thoughts try to shove it all down, this little feeling pricks up, making me hot and uncomfortable. A feeling I want to reject. Immediately. Or at least I would have before.
“I didn’t know your size but—” he says and I cut him off before he can continue.
“I love it.” I wait for his gaze to meet mine before I lean across the small car and plant a chaste kiss on his lips. “You didn’t have to, you know?” I say, slipping the shirt back into the bag and setting it down in the back seat again.
“Well, I’m happy it made you smile.”
The comfortable silence between us comes and then goes. Whatever’s eating him makes the air tense in this small car. “So, your mom?” I prod him for more information.
“She’s just,” he says then pauses and the sound of the turn signal, the steady clicking, fills the cabin. We slow to a stop at a crosswalk and he looks at me. “We haven’t gotten along in a long time, but my,” he says as his eyes flicker to mine and then back to the road before the car moves again and he continues, “my anger management therapist …” he trails off after saying the words slowly.
“Your shrink?” I say and when he quirks a brow and gauges my expression I give him a comforting smile. “What’s your shrink say about her?”
“Not much. He thinks I should go see her, though.”
