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“Fine.Pleasetell me how you control your reactions.”
“Onlyif you tellmesomething first,” he said amicably.
Therewas always a catch with him. “Whatdo you want to know?”
Iassumed he’d inquire about my new life, so it floored me when he asked, “Everbeen to a rave or a music festival?”
Iblinked, flabbergasted. “ThosewildEDMparties where everyone is half naked and tripping onMDMA?”
Hismouth quirked. “Yes.”
“Whatdoes that have to do withPoppy?”
“Answerthe question.”
“Myonly experience with music festivals is the oneIsaw from my balcony last year.”Itwas held around the waterfront across from our place in the city.Iheard nothing but various beat drops sounding likeunch unch unchfor eight hours. “AllIrecall is hordes of nearly naked people, high on drugs, running towardLakeMichiganin zero-degree weather.”
Hislips curled. “Didyou partake?”
Iscoffed. “Areyou asking ifIpartook in the drug-induced rave or the skinny dipping after?”
Angryeyes flipped toward me at the wordskinny dipping.“Both,” he said in a clipped tone.Axelwas impossible.Hecouldn’t possibly be angry afterheasked the question.
Igave him an improbable look. “Whatdo you think?”
Aneerie glow highlightedAxel’sface.Ididn’t like whatever thought was on his mind to cause the expression he wore. “Openthe glove compartment,” he suddenly ordered.Iswear, he was the oddest man alive.
Myhand shot up to find the glove compartment handle and pry it open.Thecar registration and documents sat in a neat pile.Underneathit was one of those flip notepads with a pen stuck inside the spiral spine.
“Grabthat.”Henodded toward the notepad.
Iwas too mentally exhausted to dissect his intentions and conceded.
“Writethe items down,” he instructed.
“Whatitems?”
“Raveand skinny dipping.Ifyou haven’t done them before, they deserve to be on your bucket list.”
Istilled, realizingAxel’sintentions. “No,”Isaid flippantly. “Wearen’t doing this.”
“Weare.”
Axeldrudged up a painful pastIhad buried six feet deep.Icouldn’t let him drag me back to the same state of mind. “No.”
“Makethe list,Piya.”
Iignored him, glancing outside the windshield.
“Doyou not want me to tell you the secret to controlling my impulses?”
Chinin the air,Ikept my eyes forward instead of taking the bait.
“Didyou know fifty percent of inmates have some sort of anti-social personality?” he asked placidly. “Butsome psychiatrists believe it to be more.Closerto eighty-five percent.”
Ididn’t reply, refraining from the urge to scream at him.Mynerves stretched as his gaze burned holes in the side of my face.
“Somany people with anti-social personalities end up in prison, though a select few end up in positions like mine.It’ssink or float based on how they are guided in life.Thequestion is, which way do you want to guidePoppy?”
