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“Listen, I didn’t force you to do anything. You could’ve told me to fuck off, and I would have listened.” If he thinks he’s a victim here, he’s wrong.
“Can you please just shut the fuck up and drive?”
“I need you to say it.”
“Say what?” he asks, incensed.
“That I didn’t make you do what you did.”
“You didn’t make me do anything. There. Can you shut up about it now?”
I stew in silence. That didn’t sound sincere at all. It shouldn’t bother me, but it fucking does. I saw the way he looked at me. He wanted it too. He probably wanted more than that. Actually, that’s probably why he’s pissed. I got to come, but he didn’t get so much as a hand job.
“You got blue balls or something?” I ask.
His head whips around fast. “What?”
“Is that why you’re still angry? Because you didn’t get off?”
“Is that the male equivalent of asking if I’m on my period? Because I think I now understand why that makes women angry.”
“I’m just saying, I’m cool as a cucumber, and you’re still spittin’ mad. Maybe you need your balls drained.”
“No. That’s not why I’m angry,” he says but doesn’t expand.
“I think it is. Listen, I’m an equal opportunity partner. I’d be more than happy to give you a handy before you go in there.” I reach over, making a grab for his crotch, but he bats my hand away.
“No, I don’t want a hand job. Especially not from you.” The condescension in his tone gives me pause.
“Still think you’re too good for me, huh?”
“You’re a criminal mechanic, and I’m about to take over a multi-billion-dollar company. ‘I’m too good for you’ doesn’t even cover how I feel.”
My face heats, and my hands tighten on the steering wheel. Every bit of pent-up childhood anger comes rushing back to me. If I don’t get this asshole out of my truck right this minute, I’ll have a dead body on my hands. And while I have no problem taking a life, Cy will definitely have a problem with me killing a man because he bullied me in high school. Since I don’t like getting in trouble with him, I pull over to the side of the road.
“Get the fuck out,” I say as calmly as I can, but it still comes out like a sneer.
“We’re five blocks away still.”
“I’m going to repeat myself one more time. After that, I can’t be held responsible for what happens.”
He takes my meaning and opens the door, sliding out and onto the sidewalk.
“Have you ever wondered how you could attend all those expensive private schools?” he asks, nearly giving me whiplash at the randomness of that question.
“I know how. My mom worked her ass off to get me scholarships.”
“Scholarships?” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Can you name one other kid besides you who had a scholarship?”
Confused but knowing I couldn’t be the only one, I sift through the roster of kids I grew up with. Occasionally someone new came in, or a student would move, but for the most part, it was the same group throughout school. And every single one of them was rich and came from powerful families. I stood out like a sore thumb because I was the only one with ripped jeans and dirty shoes.
When I don’t come up with even one name, Jenson continues, “Exactly. Schools like that don’t offer scholarships. They want to keep trash like you far away from well-bred kids like me.” The door slams, and he takes off down the street, weaving through the slower crowd.
I pull back into traffic, my mind racing. If he’s right, and I’m nearly certain he is, how was I able to attend those schools? It makes no sense. Other than chasing Jenson down, I know of one other person who can give me the answers I need. It’s time for Sugar and me to have a talk.
4
JENSON
