“No touching without permission, and I am not giving you permission.”
“I hear you. It’s been a big day with the raiders and everything. You seeing your first death and dead bodies. I shouldn’t have pushed you back at the park. I get that now, and I apologize.”
“Okay.”
He steps forward, and I step back, and this continues until my back hits some shelving. There’s nowhere else for me to go. Our boots are toe-to-toe and he is right there, taking up all of the space. Then he simply stares down at me. I don’t know if he’s trying to intimidate me or hypnotize me.
“What are you doing?” I ask, because paranoid and curious.
“Nothing. Just looking at you. I’m allowed to do that, right?”
“I suppose so.”
There’s no expression on his face, but there’s this kind of knowing in his gaze. This all-consuming awareness of me. Like I am the only thing in the world that matters to him. The only thing he is thinking about and all that he’s living for.
I don’t know how to describe it. But it’s as if someone finally sees me, all of me, and is willing to accept me for who I am. The good and the bad. Including the frequently weird and occasionally cranky. Not a thing I honestly thought would ever happen. And the way this knowledge settles inside of me is honestly staggering.
Of course, he couldn’t just leer at my breasts and eye-fuck me. No. He had to go straight for my soul.
“That’s cheating,” I say.
“I’m not doing anything,” he answers, nonchalant as can be.
“You know exactly what you’re doing!”
“Is there anything else you need or want here?”
“I don’t know. I’m going to have a look around. Without you.”
He hands me a flashlight. “Happy shopping. Just remember we’re traveling light.”
Out this far from town, the roads are mostly clear. It’s easy enough to travel, aside from the occasional crash or stopped car. Turns out his idea for accommodation is a dingy motel on the highway. But this particular place would keep a crime scene investigation team occupied for decades. So many body fluids. No hygiene.
“No,” I say from the back of the bike.
“It’s temporary, just for one night.”
“Still no.”
“There are only a couple of cars in the parking lot and the manager’s office door is open. Easy access and a roof over our heads during the storm.”
Heavy drops of rain start to fall and thunder crashes in the distance to demonstrate his point. Because of course the weather would take his side.
“Five minutes back there was a sign for Aunt Betty’s Cottages,” I say. “Let’s go there.”
He hesitates.
“You wanted to learn how to be happier. To live a better life, right?” I ask. “There is no joy to be found in this place, Dean.”
And he is absolutely about to keep arguing with me when we hear it—the roar of an engine. Dean turns the motorcycle back on and I wrap my arms around his waist. Before we cango anywhere, however, a luxury sports car races up the highway toward us. Sleek and red and going as fast as can be, with music blaring from its speakers. The person driving waves wildly to us out the window while trying to turn and brake all at the same time.
Which turns out to be a lethal combination at the speed they’re doing.
Because the wheels screech and the car rolls. It crashes into a light pole before bursting into flames. The beautiful car is nothing more than a mangled mess. No signs of life come from inside. Even the music has fallen silent.
We both flinch a second later when the whole thing goes boom. Fire warms our faces as the explosion reaches for the sky.
“Fuck me,” mutters Dean.
