Page 106 of Brian and Mina's Holiday Hits
“Poor baby, such a rough day you’ve had.”
“Where are our bags?” He is all business and very ready to kill people.
“By the front door, did you not trip over them when you came in?”
“I’ll take them out. Just grab your jacket and meet me at the big garage at the side of the house.”
I go downstairs and bundle up. Ten minutes later, I’m in the big garage.
“Is that a parka?” Brian asks when he sees me.
“I’m cold! I’m sorry I can’t wear the sexy leather jackets when it’s 5 degrees outside.”
“You look like a giant marshmallow.”
“I’m a cute and deadly marshmallow.”
“You are,” he says, chuckling. “Get in.”
He pushes the button on the key fob and the lights on a red Bronco light up as the SUV gives two short sharp beeps.
“Oh this is discreet,” I say.
“Do you want me to paint it before we leave?”
I just laugh and get in the car.
We’ve been driving for fifteen minutes when I finally feel warm enough to take off my coat. I stuff it in the backseat. Brian has been totally focused on the road this whole time, and the only sound has been the windshield wipers trying to stay ahead of the snowflakes pelting down. It’s warm enough now for them to melt when they hit the glass.
“Can I listen to my playlist?”
We’ve never gone on a long road trip together before, so it’s theoretically possible he might murder me before we’re donebecause I am an antsy traveler. And I’m going to have to pee every two hours like a chihuahua. I’ve decided not to inform Brian of any of these things yet. We can just let it be a fun discovery on the trip.
“Sure.”
I hook up my MP3 player and press the play button.
“What is this?” he asks as a song called Killer begins to play.
“My villain playlist. Just go with it.”
“Oh, this is going to be a fun trip.”
“Yep.”
“Did you bringmymusic?”
I pull the Chopin CD out of my bag. “Right here.”
We don’t ever talk about this, the fact that he pretty much has to have this music. Just in case. It’s one of only a few vulnerabilities I’m aware of. No one else knows what this music means to him, or how it helps him when things get bad. Anyone who has heard him listening to classical music at night when he runs on the treadmill probably just thinks it’s a creepy Brian thing—like he’s some kind of civilized killer. They don’t understand that he actually needs it.
“So what’s up with the tarot card?” Brian says out of nowhere.
“I’m sorry, what?” Of course he’d bring this up when we’re miles away from the house, in the middle of frozen nowhere with only the heat from his SUV protecting us, so I can’t just dramatically fling myself out of the Bronco and walk home to avoid this conversation.
“The card. You took it as a trophy, right?”
“Uh...” I say. I look out the window because Brian is really good at telling if somebody is lying. I found the death card peaking out from under the blankets and hoped Brian didn’t see it, but even then I knew somehow he had.
