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With Puddle of Mudd’sControlblasted from the car stereo, I watched as a souped-up, black Honda civic came tearing up the road towards us, spitting gravel from the speed in which the person was driving.
Beeping on the horn, he flashed his lights at us, and my heart sank into my ass when I noticed who was driving.
Shane Holland.
“Shit,” Joey groaned, momentarily dropping his head on my shoulder. “I better go,” he finally said, voice strained. “He’s here for me.”
“Wait – no, Joey, don’t go with him!” I strangled out in horror, catching ahold of his hand when he straightened up and took a step back. “Please don’t go anywhere with him,” I urged, scrambling to my feet, as I entwined our fingers and squeezed. “Stay here with me instead.”
“Listen, Molloy; about us,” he began to say, and then paused, like he was thinking carefully about what words needed to come next. His entire focus was on our joined hands, as his thumb gently brushed over my knuckles.
“About us?” I croaked out, shivering from the feel of his thumb tracing my skin.
“You’re my friend,” he finally settled on.
“You’re finally admitting it without needing to be coerced?”
Nodding, he forced a small, humorless laugh. “Only took a few years, right?”
“Only a couple.”
“Yeah.” Clearing his throat, he looked behind him to where the car was waiting and then back to me. “I like you.”
“Wow,” I breathed. “Another admission.”
“The hardest one yet.”
“I bet.”
“I know what you want us to be,” he added, tone gruff. “But that can’t happen.”
“Joe—”
“No, listen to me,” he urged, giving my hand a small squeeze. “I can be your friend, okay? I can do that. But you need to know that I’ve got some bad genes running through my system. Some seriously fucked up DNA.”
“Nobody’s perfect, Joe.”
“It’s not about being perfect, Molloy.” Releasing my hand, I watched as he crouched down and retrieved my heel from the mud. “It’s about being dangerous,” he added, wiping it clean with the side of his jeans before slipping it back on my foot. “And that’s what I am, okay? I’m a bad bet.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Then I don’t care,” I blurted out.
“You should.”
“Well, I don’t.”
“Nice shoes,” he said in a soft voice, tapping my foot. “You were right, they were worth hounding your father for.”
“See?” I forced a smile when I felt like crying. “Told you.”
“I’m not a good friend for you,” he added quietly, still crouching, with his hand on my foot. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
“You’re better at it than you think.”
“I need my job, Molloy.”
