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“Well, good for you,” I bit out. “Because he basically showed me nothing until he handed me the keys for this thing and said drive.”
“Give it a couple of months. You’ll look back at this night and laugh.”
“Doubtful,” I mumbled, eyes locked on the dark night ahead of me. “Very doubtful.”
I DON’T WANT TO GO HOME
DECEMBER 24TH 2003
JOEY
Pressure wasthe thing that I was most used to in life. It never normally fazed me, not when I'd spent most of my life with the weight of my father's hands around my neck, threatening to cut off my air supply, but all of that paled in comparison to Aoife Molloy’s infinite ability to restrict my breathing.
It was two in the morning and the clock had rolled into Christmas eve. Instead of being home, like I knew I needed to be when there was a full bottle of whiskey at my father’s disposal, I found myself spinning around with her, instead.
I felt like a criminal being with her. I had no damn business stepping foot inside the girl’s car. A car I had spent a lot of my time working on at the garage. A car I certainly shouldn’t have gotten behind the wheel of and driven, but when she dangled those keys in front of me, the temptation had been too strong to resist.
I also didn’t understand her reasons for wanting to be here with me. Why she continuously sought me out. But I wasn’t about to argue with her tonight because it meant I didn’t have to go home and deal with any of my father’s bullshit. No, I wasn’t about to talk Molloy down from the ledge, because the longer we teetered on the edge of the law, the longer I got to be with her.
Because the truth of the matter was that Ienjoyedher company.
Ienjoyedbeing with her, be it arguing or messing around, flirting or fucking around town in the car her daddy bought for her.
I felt genuine affection towards the girl, which was abhorrently abnormal on my behalf.
But I did.
She could piss me off more than most, and she drove me demented at times, but there was no one else I would prefer to break the law with.
Even as we parked up back outside the garage, with a bag of chips balancing on the dashboard between us, I was having a hard time trying to find the motivation to leave her.
The truth was that staying right here in this car, with the only person whose touch didn’t make my skin crawl, seemed like a good idea.
“This one’s my favorite,” Molloy said, turning up the volume on her stereo when The Pogues’Fairytale of New Yorkdrifted from the speakers. “Hands down, the best Christmas song ever.” Popping a chip into her mouth, she grinned over at me. “What’s yours?”
“Don’t know.” Shrugging, I reached over and grabbed a chip. “Never really thought about it.”
“Ah, come on, Joe,” she pushed. “Everyone has a favorite Christmas song.”
Not me.
I preferred silence.
I shrugged. “This one, I suppose.”
“Good.” She nodded her approval. “It reminds me of you.”
“Wow,” I deadpanned. “Which part?”
“All of it,” she teased, tossing a chip at my face. “From now on, this will be our song.”
I narrowed my eyes at her. “Oh, yeah, because we really need a song.”
“Well, itisChristmas Eve,babe,” she joked, and then went right into a piss-poor rendition of the first verse of the song, before choking out a laugh. “See, it’s perfect for us.”
“There’s only one small problem with your song choice,” I offered dryly. “I’m not yourbabe, Molloy.”
“Whose fault is that?” she came right back with, not looking away, and not backing down. “Hmm. I wonder.”
