I need to remember to be careful with this girl. She’s so… unsure of herself. She seems self-reliant, yet there’s this undercurrent of doubt that I don’t yet understand.
She walks across the studio and pulls a denim jacket from a small closet and shrugs into it, then picks up her bag and slings it over her shoulder. “Are you ready?”
I nod and follow her out, watching as she locks the door then tugs on it to make sure it’s locked. We take the elevator down in silence then hit the sidewalk outside before she asks if we’re walking or driving.
“Driving,” I tell her, nodding to the parking spot I got in front of her building. I unlock the car and open the passenger door for her before walking around and getting behind the wheel.
“This is nice,” she says, glancing around the interior of my Range Rover. “This is more James Bond than FBI though,” she says, with a little wrinkle of her nose, her forehead creasing in concern.
“Are you disappointed?”
She shrugs. “It is a nice car,” she says as she buckles herself in and crosses her legs, resting her hands on her knees. “But I don’t think it’s government-issued.”
I laugh. “It’s not. Does that disappoint you?” I ask, starting the car and merging into traffic.
“I guess it’s okay.” Another shrug.
I take a right onto the Schuylkill and ask if she’s learned any new knock-knock jokes since I last saw her.
She turns her head and gives me a look. “Funny.”
“I’m genuinely curious,” I say. “You were killing it the other night.”
“No. But speaking of killing, did you know that at any given time, there are between twenty and fifty serial killers in the United States? Did you know that?” She turns in her seat to look at me, her eyes wide with interest.
“That’s quite the transition, from knock-knock jokes to serial killers,” I comment while turning on the ramp to the I-676.
“Oh, yeah. Sorry.” She shakes her head. “I just thought it would be fewer.”
“Like ten. I thought it would be ten. Maybe fifteen.”
“One would think.” I nod. Not really. Who thinks about this shit?
Jesus, what the fuck is wrong with me? Why do I care if she likes me? Liking me enough to fuck me is all that I should care about. Yet I find myself strangely interested in this girl. She’s beautiful. Awkward, sarcastic and captivating. Yet possibly the most skeptical girl I’ve ever met. There’s something about her that makes me want to dig a little deeper with her. She’s a challenge. Possibly a long-term challenge and I’ll play this favor game with her—for her—if that’s what it takes to keep her from running.
About The Author
Jana Aston is the New York Times bestselling author of WRONG. She quit her super boring day job to whip up another book & is hoping that was not a stupid idea. In her defense, it was really boring.