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I push my laptop aside, and the notes I desperately attempt to process from the classes I’ve missed this week. Killers and dead people, and dying mothers aside, I still have a degree to finish and medical school waiting for me in the fall.
It all seems so unreal. Sosurreal, that I could still have such normal things to do between all the craziness.
“W-where are we going?” I stammer, no doubt not aiding my ‘I’m not a helpless child’ argument from last night. “I have things to do, so—”
“And if I have to sit in that hall for a minute longer and listen to you talk to yourself about the bio data and kidney disease ofsomething something, I’m gonna put a fucking bullet in my brain.” Flipping the shoebox open, he grabs a pair of black and white Air Maxes and tugs on the laces to undo the loops they created in the warehouse. “I have somewhere I want to go. I’m not leaving you here on your own. So get the fuck up and move.”
A deep scowl forms on my face and leaves me a billion times more inclined to stay exactly where I am. “Excuse you? I don’t sit, stay, or shake hands when you ask me to, Detective Banks. So what makes you think I’m a little doggy who’ll move on your command?”
He grabs my leg and straightens it out, albeit gently, before shoving the shoe on and making me glad I was already wearing socks. “We’re heading out for a couple of hours.” He works the laces and does me up with fast, jerking movements. “We have somewhere to be. And at some point later today, Malone is gonna call and give me news that, either way, fucking sucks.”
He grabs my other leg and repeats the process of straightening it out and shoving my shoe on.
“Why does the news suck?”
“Because if Vallejo is in the ground, then who the fuck is hunting you? And if he’s not, then where is he and why does he have such a hard on for you?”
“Might be because I’m cute?” I flash a smile when his determined eyes shoot up to focus on mine. “Maybe this is the new chivalry, ya know? They used to sing about taking girls out and walking street side. Now rappers mention something about Becky’s cum bucket and spanking her ass.” I tug my leg from his stunned grasp and turn on the bed to set my feet on the floor. “This is kind of the same, right? Women want the obsessed hero now. The dark and dangerous gritty stalker vibes. It’s in all the romance books.”
“You… They…” He brings a hand up, as though to point, but I’m not sure he has anything worthwhile to say. “What?”
“Maybe this man, who may or may not be Gregory Vallejo, just wants a good old fashion game of stalk-her-fuck-her.” I push up to stand and fix my jeans so they settle on my hips comfortably. “It’s the two-thousand-and-twenties, Drake. Women don’t want flowers anymore. We want the skulls of our enemies.”
Grinning, I turn to face him and glance down at my outfit. Jeans, hoodie, shirt, and a brand-new pair of Air Maxes. “Can we eat when we get wherever we’re going?”
* * *
“You were talking shit, right?” In the car and heading down the hill that overlooks Copeland City, Drake glances across as we move from residential areas and into more dense commuter traffic. “The stalker and skulls thing?”
“Are you asking if I’d rather a man completely and stupidly obsessed with me, over a history nerd who returns my texts three-to-five business days after I send them?” I settle back against the headrest and scoff. “Of course. Chivalry isn’t dead, Detective Banks. It’s just evolved since your youth.”
Unimpressed, he casts a side-eye that would burn a lesser woman. “We’re taking potshots at my age now? Really?”
“You’re the one who brought it up.” I give him a dainty shrug and look out the window as we pass near, though not directly past, my mother’s house. I’m certain, if we were to look, garish yellow police tape would still surround the place. “In all the time we’ve spent together, not once did I bring your age up.”
“Right,” he sends his focus back to the traffic pottering around us. “But since you’re in a pissy mood, you figure you might take some shots now?”
“I’m not in a pissy mood.” I turn my head and give him afuck yousmile. Not the friendly kind. “What behaviors or actions have I exhibited that might make you think that?”
His eyes narrow. “Aurora…?”
“What? I woke up today, I smiled at you and said good morning. I made breakfast, you followed me. I offered you a bowl. I made a cheese sandwich for lunch. I smiled. You followed me into the kitchen again, so I offered to make you some too.”
His hands flex around the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white.
“I went to my room and tried to study. You followed me again. You haven’t heard a single complaint from me all day. And I have smiled a lot. So…” I raise my brows and smirk. “I’m confused by your insinuation.”
“You smile,” he growls, rankled and hating it, “but it isn’t nice. It’s mean and bitter and if you had a gas can and lighter, I feel you’d toss both at me.”
I choke down a laugh before it becomes a genuine smile and blows my efforts today. “I don’t know what you mean, Detective. But if you—”
“And that!” he bursts. “Detective. You say it like it tastes bad on your tongue.”
“Detective?” I soften my tone. And since he deserves my ire, I dumb my response down, too. “What do you mean? That’s literally your rank. You call Malone ‘Detective,’ and Malone calls you the same in return.”
“Yeah, but we’re allowed to call each other that. It’s our jobs.”
“But…” I bring my hand up and check my nails. “I can’t call you by your professional title you worked hard to achieve?”
