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When I reach her, she's glaring at the empty parking spaces in front of the police station. It seems to have become a favorite pastime of hers.
"My car's over there," I say, pointing to where I'd parked it.
"Good. Now go over there, get in it, and drive off," she replies.
"Sure thing!" I say cheerily, "After you, milady." I bend at the waist and gesture to the car.
Her eyes harden into dark marble and her lips silently move, as if she's trying to conjure up a taxi out of thin air. That or cast a curse over my nether regions.
"Kiara. Come on. It's almost 3:30 in the morning. You'll be out here a while. You must be tired, just let me take you home. I won't make you answer any questions about what happened tonight or tell any of my famous dad jokes," I promise.
The sharp exhalation of air out of her nostrils tells me she's not convinced.
"How far do you live from here?" I ask.
Reluctantly, she names the neighborhood; it is, at most, eight miles from where we’re standing. I’m surprised to hear it’s not closer to my home and the Suksai residence in The Peak, the most exclusive residential area in Hong Kong. Had she really not accepted any money from her family at all, at least for a safe place to live? It’s hard not to have a little admiration for her commitment to doing everything on her own. Except that it’s the reason we are both standing on the side of the road in the middle of the night.
My hands splay out in front of me, palms up, a sign of transparency and surrender. "Come on, it's a ten minute ride. I’m exhausted and you know there’s not a chance in hell that I’m going to leave you here. So, get in the car, I'll drive you home, keep my mouth shut and even let you slam the car door when we get there. Deal?"
I walk over to my car and slide into the driver’s seat as she stays rooted to the spot staring at the potholes in the otherwise empty road. The car roars to life with a push of the button and I drive over to her.
"I'll even let you choose the music. No DJ Tiësto, I promise. And I also won’t sing along to whatever you choose,” I call out to her.
Something I say penetrates the armor and there's a little puff of her chest as if she almost lets out a laugh. Then, without a word, she finally agrees, opens the car door and slides into my convertible.
"So, what'll it be?" I ask, flipping through the pre-programmed channels on the radio. "Beatles? Top 100 hits? 90s RnB? Some Usher?"
Her head whips around, her hand instantly on the door handle.
"Um, okay, no Usher... Got it."
"No music," she grumbles.
"Yes, ma’am."
I turn into the road, enjoying the breeze of the open top through my hair, cooling the sweat on the back of my neck.
We drive in silence for a few minutes before she shifts, getting comfortable.
"You can adjust the seat," I offer.
Her arms fold over her chest. "I'm fine."
The streets pass by us for another silent minute; I manage to keep my mouth shut as I imagine she prefers. The wind picks up as I speed along on the empty streets, and I almost regret it. The air smells like jasmine and chamomile and roses, just like the shampoo she used to, and apparently still, uses. It should be overpowering, suffocating me, but I’m taking great, big gulps of the air like I haven’t breathed in a year. Images lift from the annals of my memory of us in the dark, her body moving along with mine, my face in her neck smelling of soft blossoms. Fresh and soft and her. Something from the memory pulls to the forefront of my brain the song we were dancing to: Usher.
"Fuck," I say before I can stop myself. How could I have forgotten? Now when I remember the way she’d looked at me when I’d suggested the music presses against my throat like a metal wire, sharp, painful. Suddenly, I can’t breathe.
She turns and looks at me, an eyebrow curled at my sudden outburst.
Despite the ache spreading like a ripple on an undisturbed pond all over my body, I try to flash her a weak smile. "Do you want some water?" I ask, trying to distract us both from the thoughts in my head.
Her mouth clamps shut.
Oookay, I guess not.
Another minute of silence and I steal a look when we’re parked at a red light. She's hugging her purse close to her chest, and there's a line of goosebumps up her forearms.
Shit.
