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“We can have a parade announcing that.”
I flicker a one-eyed look at him. “I . . . I meant cash is sort of finite.”
“Use a card, Princess. Saw a bunch of those in your wallet. And I don’t see you as the spend-beyond-your-means type. Even if you do own that fancy ass car.”
A splurge, and one half-funded for my birthday by Gran.
But where am I going to go right now, if I can’t go to my home base? And I can’t live in hotels and motels as some of those demand cards.
“Tell you what, my poor little cash-only princess, I’ll buy you dinner.”
I laugh again. “You asked me.”
“Women’s lib?”
“Asshole.” I like paying my way, but right now . . . “I mean, thanks, but—”
“Hell no. What are you going to do, Sidney? Sit here and wallow over whatever the fuck’s making you use cash? We can have food. Maybe dance. Have some drinks, and you can tell me all about your woes.”
I’m stuck and lost. All the work I’ve done of getting to this place in my life, of shaking off the shackles of my mother and that world she wants for me. Vic’s my real strength, a cheering squad, and I don’t even know if this is real trouble or just potential with what I saw.
But I know Mom will seize it. I know next time the shackles snap, I might not be able to get out. It’s so pathetic that a woman just shy of thirty feels like this . . . I want to cry.
“I can’t afford this place,” I say, not looking at him. I take another sip of the water and then rest the glass on my knee. “I . . .” Stopping, I square my shoulders and look at him.
Time, I guess, to push through the newest flames and try and thrive, and like it or not, there’s something about him that thrills and makes me want to flower open.
Probably his ridiculous hotness.
“Why not? Yes, you can buy me dinner.”
He looks at me, presses a hand to his chest, and says, “Oh, be still, my beating fuckin’ heart.”
* * *
It’s not the same truck. This one is cleaner, smaller, less . . . burned at the edges. The moon is a sliver in a silvery-spattered night, and it’s the right level of cool.
There’s still smoke lingering if you forget to pretend not to notice, but it’s a nice night.
My troubles all nibble away as he drives through the town. The radio’s on and there’s some terrible rock ballad playing low. He sings along out of tune and missing half the words, which, being Mack, as I’m fast learning, doesn’t let it bother him and just makes them up.
Actually, I think he’s singing about the space cats with a taste for human flesh. I try not to smile.
He’s a hard man to resist. He’s a little too charming, way too handsome and annoying, and stubborn as hell. I have a feeling he’s not really into the word no as an answer to things.
I could slap him with the player label because he’s got all those things a player has, but I don’t think he is.
And why the hell am I even going there?
“So,” he says, like we’ve been in deep discussion as we cross the town to a wide road that leads out the other side to the highway, which he takes. “What’s up with the cash situation? You don’t look like you need money, and you’re not anxious about getting a job or being somewhere for a job. We have banks here.”
“I’m sticking to cash right now, and I don’t want to talk about it.”
“But if you need the money, why stick to cash? If you’re hiding from the cops, I won’t give you up, so—”
“Your brother’s the sheriff?”
“He’s not very good at it. Unless you’re on the run from bad guys, then he’ll help.” In the dark of the truck’s cab, he casts me a glance. I feel that look everywhere. It tingles toes up and spreads out in waves. “I think you’re independently wealthy, and this is some kind of dare. Or you killed someone . . . and you’re independently wealthy.”
