Well, that wasn't bossy or anything.
Still, I gritted my teeth and forced something like a smile. "But we're running late. Remember?"
"Thirty seconds then." He turned back to Chester and his tone grew decidedly less friendly. "Where's your shirt?"
Chester looked down to study his bare chest. "Uh…"
I spoke up. "He was just getting changed."
"Uh-huh," the painter said, keeping his gaze on Chester. "Next time, do it somewhere else, alright?"
I bit my lip. I didn't want any trouble. I just wanted to leave. I reached for the painter's hand and gave it a tug. "Come on. We're gonna be late."
"Yeah?" He turned and flashed me a cocky grin. "So why don't you get your sweet ass in the car, and let me finish up?"
I swallowed. If he thoughtmyass was sweet, he should see his own.
Damn it. Not helpful.
Shaking off the distraction, I tugged harder at his hand. "There's nothing to finish up. Let's just go. Okay?"
When he still made no move, I gave a sigh of irritation and dropped his hand. I took a deliberate look around. If nothing else, there was always the ditch.
Under his breath, the painter said, "Don't even think about it."
So, undermybreath, I replied, "I wouldn’thaveto, if you'd just cooperate."
But already, he was looking back to the pickup. He frowned, like he didn't like what he saw.
Oh yeah? Welcome to the club, pal.
Still, I followed his gaze, only to feel myself pause. A second face had appeared in the passenger's side window. This new face belonged to Mike Lakowski, another wrestler from high school.
His eyes were wide, and his mouth was open. He was staring, star-struck, at the painter. "Hey, I know you."
After a long, awkward pause, the painter said, "No. You don't."
"Sure I do." Mike grinned. "I saw you fight at State."
The painter's mouth tightened. "I never went to State."
"Well, not state-state," Mike said. "It was in that warehouse on the East Side." He gave a low chuckle. "Man, you totally slaughtered that guy."
I tensed.What?
Slowly, I shifted my gaze back to the painter. He wasn't denying it. In fact, he wasn't saying anything at all. But from the look on his face, he wasn't thrilled with Mike's comment.
Well, this was just great. So the steamroller was also a butcher? Yes, I realized that Mike wasn't speaking literally. Still, an image of blood and guts flashed in my brain.
Unlike the painter, it wasn't pretty.
I wassoready to leave. But I was hemmed in on all sides. I turned and gave the ditch a longer look. Was the water dirty? Or just dark?
Suddenly, a strong hand closed around mine. When I looked up, the painter tightened his grip and gave me a warning look.
Oh, for God's sake.I wasn'treallyplanning to hit the ditch.
Well, not without a canoe, anyway.
