Page 30 of Personal Foul
Rolling my eyes, I stare out the passenger window. “For your information, I have tried it,” I mutter. I don’t know why I’m telling him this. But I feel the inexplicable need to defend myself. That old, frustrating need for everyone to know the truth.
Which I realize is hypocritical given my current predicament. But the need for social acceptance often outweighs the need to tell the truth. Humans are social creatures, after all, and evolved to rely on each other for survival.
I know all too well the life of an outcast. I can’t bring myself to knowingly and willingly go through that again.
“Oh, yeah?” Dylan doesn’t sound as surprised as I expected. Which I guess is good? He doesn’t find the thought of someone wanting to have sex with me laughable.
But before I can explore that further—or even decide it’s not worth exploring further—he’s turning into the underground garage of a tall building. A building that I just now realize that I recognize. I was so distracted by our ridiculous conversation and just blindly—and stupidly—trusting him to take me home, that I didn’t pay any attention to where we were actually going.
“Wait. What are we doing? Where are you taking me?”
Another soft chuckle from Dylan. “You’re kinda oblivious sometimes, you know that, Chastity?”
I punch him again, this time in the thigh, which is rock hard because apparently he expected it.
“Careful. Driving. We’re in a parking garage, if you hadn’t noticed. I’d rather not crash into a parked car. And I don’t think you’d want to be responsible for the damages either, considering you’re just from a lowly middle class family. You can’t possibly afford body work on the kinds of vehicles that tend to be in here.”
“Oh my god,” I mutter in response to his heavy sarcasm. “Like you and your friends can differentiate between my family’s current money and a middle class family. You remember—” I clamp my lips shut, cutting myself off. I’m not sure he does remember the way his friends treated me in high school. And if he doesn’t, I sure as hell don’t want to jog his memory.
“What do I remember?” he asks, smoothly pulling into a numbered parking spot. After killing the engine, he turns to face me, an expectant look on his face.
But I just shake my head. “Never mind.”
“No. Tell me. What is it you expect me to remember?”
Looking up at the ceiling of the car, I expel a breath and shake my head. “Nothing, Dylan. I’ve always been so far beneath your notice that I don’t expect you to remember a thing.” Facing him, I keep my face carefully blank. “I’d really like to go home.”
He grunts. “I might remember more than you think. And your roommate isn’t expecting you home for a while, remember? She’ll think we had a fight if you beat her home.”
Blinking at his first statement, I decide to gloss over it for now and focus on the issue at hand. “Or I can just tell her I’m tired and needed to get home to finish some homework for tomorrow.”
Another series of chastising tuts as he shakes his head. “More lies, Charity? And you named after a virtue?”
He pulls open his car door and gets out, leaving me no choice but to follow. “I’m surprised you tried to dub me with a different virtue,” I quip. “Your friends in high school all seemed to think Charity was the most fitting name for me.” How much does he remember?
Looking at me out of the corner of his eye as I fall in step beside him, he hums in agreement. “Yeah. They could be dicks sometimes.”
I let out a laugh. “Just them, huh?”
He shrugs, that irrepressible smirk making another appearance. “No comment.”
“Smart.”
He turns the full force of his grin on me as we reach the elevator. “I think that’s the closest thing to a compliment you’ve ever given me.” Snapping his fingers, he shakes his head. “Well, other than that time you called me pretty.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
Wrestling the smile off his face doesn’t stop his eyes from dancing with mirth as he gives me a solemn nod. “Oh, I assure you, I won’t. I can’t afford for my head to get any bigger, right? How would you fit in the elevator with me?”
I can’t help laughing, and he seems to relax as he watches me, letting his smile back out. But this isn’t his put-on charming smile or sexy smirk. This one seems like genuine enjoyment.
Another thing to add to the list of ways Dylan’s being weird.
The elevator arrives with a ding. As we step inside, I glance at him, apprehension gathering in my belly. “What are we going to do in your apartment?”
There’s that sly smile again. “I’m sure we can think of something,” he murmurs.
“If you try to make me clean …” I cock my fist like I’m about to hit him again.
