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“You need that one-liner more than you need your next breath, huh?”
“I really do,” he says through a chuckle.
I contemplate his offer for less than a breath. “Look, it’s one thing to get in a virtual stranger’s car to go to a designated destination where a ton of people know where I’m going and who I’m with, but driving me home? That’s another level. You could kill me and dump my body on the side of the road.” Or a lively forest. It would go with his serial killer eyes.
For some reason, he finds this funny—made clear by his laughter. And his smile. And Idon’tlike his smile.
Maybe.
“So, let’s not be strangers then.”
My nose wrinkles at the thought, which only makes him laugh again.
“Ask me anything, Agnes. You want to see my driver’s license? Address? Date of Birth? No, I know,” he says, and he’s such a rambling idiot; I don’t even know if it’s worth stopping him at this point. “Want to post it on social media? Tag me. Everyone will know then.”
“I don’t have social media.”
His smile iswiped. “Can I ask you a dead serious question?”
Oh, God.
“How fucking old are you?”
I sigh the loudest, longest sigh in the history of sighs.
“Fine then,” he says. “Get your parents on the phone, and I’ll tell them what an upstanding, young man I am. Preferably your mom.” He smirks. “I’mrealgood with moms.”
“I’m sure you are,” I reply. I don’t bother telling him that unless he’s proficient with a Ouija board or possesses some out-of-this-world hallucinogens, we’re both shit out of luck with that idea.
At my silence, his brow dips in concentration, and he watches me,scrutinizesme, as if he’s trying to memorize my face. Serial killers probably do the same thing right before they finish the deed. “Okay, I’ll post on my social.”
He wouldn’t.
Before I know what’s happening, he takes out his phone and snaps a picture of me. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Posting your scowly little ass on Instagram.”
I’m so quick to grab his phone from his hand, he doesn’t even have time to stop me from deleting the image completely. “You cannot post my picture on the Internet.”
He barks out a laugh. “What are you in witness protection?”
My eyes snap shut. “No,” I breathe out, unable to look at him. “I just don’t want my picture out there, and you shouldn’t either.” It’s supposed to be a warning, though I’ll never tell him why.
At his silence, I finally peer up at him through my lashes, my palm sweating as I clasp his phone tight in my grip.
“Because of Dean?”
Not even close, but I’m relieved that’s where his mind went. I release the breath I’d been holding and hand him back his phone. “Yeah, because of Dean,” I lie.
“Fair,” he responds, then motions to his truck. “You coming?”
At this point, I don’t think I have much of a choice. “Okay.”
I get in his truck and hold back an eye roll when he gets behind the wheel, all giddy-like, and says, his smile wide, “Look at me, I’m driving Miss Daisy.”
“Feel better?”
“So much better.” He brings the engine to life and settles both hands on the wheel before facing me. “Where to, Thelma?”
