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“Nope.”
Her face rearranges into a complexity of lines and angles that reassures me I am consistent if nothing else. Right on schedule, I’ve stoked another round of Hollie’s wrath. Even for me, I’m on a roll tonight. “This midnight snack was my idea. The bill is mine.”
“But you’re doingmea favor.”
Ben’s number? “Not a big one.” For crying out loud.
“I’m not going to owe you, John.”
“Too late, Hollie.” I volley back her name with emphasis.
Her eyes get huge, like I’ve struck literal terror in her soul.
Honestly, I kind of get it. In my line of work, favors are currency, and owing can be an uncomfortable spot. “You won’t owe me, Hollie. It was some stupid pancakes with freakin’ sticky syrup.” I mean, come on.
She seethes as we walk to the front, all camaraderie lost.Allmeaning the handful of minutes we communicated something like friends.
She keeps a wide chasm between us as we approach the SUV, and suddenly, I feel like I’m in a race for who can get to her door first. Hollie wins on that count and jiggles the handle. Thing is, I’m not a great loser, and I can be a real…well, a real not-so-nice-word sometimes.
I refuse to unlock the door, producing more seething. Iwouldn’t want to meetthisversion of Hollie in a dark alley. She slams her arms across the front of her t-shirt.
I cock my knee. “Do you have to make a big deal about everything?”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.” I get almost nose-to-nose.
Do I seem angry? Because I’m not. I think, for me, the door thing is less about control and more an excuse to be close. To smell her soap, the fruity tang of her hair…
I bite off a word that captures my irritation. “Fine. Have it your way.” I click the lock and abandon her, gaping and still rooted to the concrete.
I’m waiting behind the wheel when she finally claims her prize, opens the door with her own two hands, and hauls her pretty self into the seat.Whew.I pause before setting the car in gear. “I was only trying to be nice, you know.”
No,I was being what I always am: a jerk—plus a whole string of harsher pejoratives. She doesn’t want to owe, and I’m used to getting my way.
“Just take me home, please.”
We’re turning onto her block when I realize I’ve failed again. Ben’s number is still in my pocket. We spent so much time in the boxing ring, we didn’t discuss how he could help, either.
I slow to a crawl and roll right past her driveway.
She whips toward me, her ponytail slicing the air. “What are you doing?”
“We need to talk.”
“I’m done talking.”
“Hollie, we haven’t discussed—”
“Take me home, John!”
The note of panic in her tone has me taking her as seriously as astop or I’ll shootcommand in the field. I throw the car into reverse before she does something stupid, like jump from a moving vehicle.
I’ve not had time even to settle the car intoparkin the driveway before she’s tugging the doorhandle. She recoils when I touch her wrist. “Hollie…please.”
She finally stops, inside the vehicle, thankfully. Her eyes are enormous. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist, a psychiatrist, or any other super-educated joe to understand that she’s terrified. I’ve been around victims all my life, and with people who’ve been hurt, eventually,itshows. How have I missed this before now?
Hollie Carpenter shows all the signs.
