“You were going to wait for the bus without a coat?” His tone is mildly accusatory and very concerned. It makes my insides flip.
“I didn’t think to grab it when I left my dorm earlier,” I explain. “I was running late, so I couldn’t go back.”
“Minimum wage worth freezing to death?”
His tact, or lack thereof, makes me pause despite the freezing weather. “Do you always say exactly what you’re thinking?”
He tugs me to make me keep walking before we stop at a blacked-out car. The car probably costs more than my parents’house, and my mouth falls open that he just parked it on the side of the street. He opens the door, shoving me in a little more roughly than necessary, then closes the door.
He slides into his side then starts the ignition. But we don’t start moving right away. He sits for a minute. Even in the dark car, I can see the shadows clouding his face.
“Look, I don’t mean to be an asshole, but yeah, I generally say whatever I’m thinking.” I watch closely as his hands grip the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white. The tension practically drips from his pores, and I wonder how his teeth don’t break from how hard he is clenching them. “The world I grew up in, I was taught that appearances were everything. In other words, I was expected to live a lie. To smile and pretend life was grand. To never cause a stir. I had very little control over anything, but I’ve got control over me. No matter what was expected of me, I was always in control of what I said or did.”
“Maddox said you were both complicated,” I whisper softly, wondering what happened in his life to make him seem so angry.
“Complicated,” he scoffs. “Love, we are not complicated. We are fucked up. Everything about us is fucked up. And neither of us have any right to bring you into our fucked up little world, but there was something about you, I can’t stay away from.”
“I thought you said you controlled your actions,” I tease bashfully.
I catch the corner of his mouth twitching before a smirk slides across. “I am in control of my actions. I wouldn’t be here otherwise. Come on. Let’s get you home.”
I nod as he pulls the car onto the street. We drive in silence for a few minutes, and it is anything but comfortable. He makes me feel like I’m going to crawl out of my skin. Not in a creepy way. It’s like he’s too much. Too much all the time.
That first night at the diner, he was too bold and flirtatious. The other night at the club it was the same at first, until I pissed him off. Tonight, it’s intensity and something else I can’t put my finger on.
I scrub my hands over my shoulders to ease the goosebumps that haven’t left since that first shiver. Ryder gives me a glance before he reaches behind him to the backseat. “Put this on,” he says, handing me a black hoodie.
“No, I’m fine. I’m not even cold.” I bite my tongue the second the words leave my mouth. I really hope he doesn’t analyze the meaning behind my words.
Of course, I’m not that lucky, and he’s very smart. I turn quickly towards the window to hide my flaming cheeks that are probably glowing. I hear him suck in a breath through his teeth and resist the urge to look back at him.
“Do I affect you that much?” he asks, his voice tight and raspy.
“What? No!” I exclaim then realize my reaction probably says more than my words. “I just – I – I don’t know.”
“Aren’t you the one who told Maddox you just wanted to be friends?”
I blow out a breath. The air in the car seems to be getting thinner by the second, and it’s getting harder to breathe with each one that passes. “What I said is that I didn’t want to be a notch. I never said I wasn’t attracted to you. Either of you. I just – I don’t have time for distractions or complications.”
“A notch, huh? I don’t keep notches. I don’t even keep count. What makes you think you would’ve been either of those?” He turns his head toward me for a second, waiting for my answer.
“I don’t see what else I could possibly be,” I mutter. “Can we talk about something else please?”
“Sure, love,” he tells me, and I am thrilled he’s so amenable to the change of subject. Maybe I can finally breathe. “Why don’t you tell me what you do at that school of yours?”
I let out a laugh. “I guess the same thing you’d do at any school. I go to classes and learn things.”
“No, smart ass,” he chuckles. “I know what kind of school that is. It’s not one that’s easy to get into. Money doesn’t buy you a spot, and it’s competitive. So, tell me what got you in.”
“Art,” I answer. “Mostly painting and photography, but I sculpt as well. Even a little graphic design, but computers and I don’t see eye to eye very often.”
“You must be good then. What’s the plan afterwards? When high school is over?”
“I want to go to École des Beaux-Arts in France. I’ll probably have to go to a school here for another year to build my portfolio some more, but that’s my dream.” I have no doubt he can hear the dreaminess in my voice. It’s clear to my own ears.
“Ah. Big plans then. You plan on being the next Monet or Van Gogh?” Part of me wonders if he’s just humoring me, but there is genuine interest in his voice that encourages me to continue.
“I love all the styles and movements, but Van Gogh is a favorite of mine. How’d you guess?”
