My brain holds onto these little nuggets of information, like pieces of a puzzle. It may be the concussions, or the fact I’m an idiot, but a bigger picture is slowly starting to take form. “So what you’re saying is that I’m not the only guy you don’t want touching you.”
She cuts me a look and my balls shrink up a little. “No, you’re not.”
My instinct is to reach across the seats and tuck the strand of hair hanging by her cheek over her ear. It’s strong—a compulsion—pick pick pick. Part of it is my usual impulse to touch, plus my tendency toward oppositional defiance, but there’s something else, too. There’s pain written all over her face, and it’s weird, but I don’t like it. There’s some moronic urge brewing to take it all away, to make her feel better—good. Huh. Maybe this is what it’s like when you suddenly realize you’re into someone. That feeling is what keeps me from crossing the line.
Well, that and the fact I don’t want to be stabbed to death.
Would really stain Jasmine’s leather seats.
I rest my hand on the gear shift instead, letting the Shelby eat up the road, “So, where’d you get that Mustang? That thing must have been a sweet piece back when.”
After a tense beat, she offers, “It was my dad’s.”
It’s killing me not to tell her about the rebuild. I’m almost done with the alternator, and the hoses just came in yesterday, and I can get started on the transmission soon. I’ve been driving Merle crazy by chattering over it all week.
“Oh, that’s cool.” I’m wondering what kind of dad gives a girl a broken-down, unreliable car that’s barely holding together. “My dad would never give me something like that.”
She tugs at that thread and stares out the side window. “’Give’ is probably the wrong word. ‘Left’ is more accurate.”
Fuck. Her dad is gone. Bailed? Dead? I’m dying to know, but I sure as hell don’t want to ask. “Well, it’s cool that he had and kept something like it. It’s awesome. My dad hates this car. Can’t figure out why I don’t want something flashy and new, that’s all smooth and quiet.” I run my hand over the dash, feeling the vibration as it barrels down the road. “Smooth and quiet is the most boring shit. I like feeling every bump and turn in this. It’s different—more authentic. The engine? The way it hums? Fuck, it’s like a heartbeat. You don’t just drive a car like this, you live it.”
I glance over and see Sugar watching me, her dark eyebrows furrowed and her lips puckered in a not-so-unappealing pout. I clamp my mouth shut because, Jesus, she did not ask for that info dump, but she surprises me by asking, “Your dad bought you this car even though he hates it?”
“Oh, hell no,” I laugh, “I bought my sweet Jasmine here with my own money.”
She snorts and shakes her head. “Sure.”
“What?”
“A car like this is super expensive. He may not have specifically paid for it, but I’m sure your parents helped in some way. Trust fund? Savings account?”
A flicker of irritability rolls up my spine. “I’m not going to say my parents don’t take care of me, Sugar, but they didn’t pay a dime toward this car. I earned it myself. I built her from the frame up with nothing but my own sweat and blood. Learned how to maintain it, upgrade it, all on my own. She’s completely mine, in every sense of the word.”
She gives me a look that tells me just how much she doubts this. “So you have a job?”
“’Job’ is a bit of a stretch,” I admit, swallowing back the tinge of shame. Why should I be ashamed, anyway? I was good at what I did. “I won it. Fighting.” I chance a look to gauge her reaction to that, and find her big hazel eyes glaring right back at me. I’m quick to explain, “But I’m not doing that anymore. I stopped fighting.”
The road is dark, and I can’t read her expression, but she says, “Caroline mentioned you had a concussion.” It’s not phrased as a question, but I can hear it anyway. Is this curiosity? It’s not much, but it’s something.
I see our exit coming up and turn on the blinker. “I’ve had a few, but yeah, the last one really fucked me up.” My hands grip the steering wheel, thinking about that fight. How I’d lost control and let him get the best of me. It’s not like I couldn’t have beaten him. “My family and the doctor all think it’s from lacrosse, so I’ve been benched until I get cleared. I really want to play my final season. The team counts on me, so I’ve stayed out of the ring.”
“And now you race cars?” She grips the knife and slices easily through the frayed thread on her jeans. “Not sure that’s less dangerous.”
I shrug. “What can I say. I’m a Devil through and through. Vices are kind of our thing.” The Preston gates are up ahead. I turn in the driveway and find a parking spot in the back, away from the other cars. I cut the engine.
Reaching for the door, I watch her chew out a slow, stilted, “So… the ride. Thanks. I guess.”
“No problem.” I stare out the window, hands gripping the steering wheel, and I can’t. I can’t just leave it alone. Pick pick pick. “Wait. I need to fucking—I mean, I want to…”
She pauses, looking at me with those big round eyes, doubt and wariness lurking in every corner. “Yeah?”
Taking a breath, I start, “Look, Sugar. I’m sorry about that night in the Briar Cliffs. The truth is, just being at that place sets me on edge, and I saw that asshole messing with you and it lit the fuse. That punch was meant for him, not you. Swear.”
“Yeah, I know,” she says tonelessly, unlatching the door. It opens with a heavy creak.
I tap the steering wheel, feeling jittery. “So, uh, apology accepted?” God knows why, but this is suddenly very important to me.
“Sure,” she says, but it doesn’t sound like she means it. She gets out of the car and slams the door.
Sure.
Sure?
Fucking ‘sure’?
I scramble out of the driver’s seat and run to catch up with her short, choppy strides across the lot.
“That’s it?” I call after her. “I mean, not trying to be a d-bag here, but I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve apologized to someone. I think that deserves a little more than some vague-ass ‘sure’. It was an accident, you know it was an accident, and here you’ve turned it into this crazy fucking thing, so I think I’m entitled to a little more than ‘sure’.”
She comes to a stop, whipping around. Oh, fuck. There’s the wrath. I see it vibrating across her compact little body, fists all clenching. And because I actually am a d-bag, when she crosses her arms over her chest, I check out her tits. For science. Gotta know if this attraction thing is legit, don’t I?
“Are you fucking serious right now? You get into my business, start a fight, hit me, fracturing my jaw, and are banking on that half-assed apology to make you entitled to something?” She laughs, but it’s not the fun kind. It’s pure ice. “Here’s the thing, Wilcox. You think you’re special, but you aren’t. I know guys like you. All you do is roll over everything and everyone in your path. Grabbing, jabbing, punching, kicking, driving. You hurt, and then you blame it on something else. A bad day. A misunderstanding. Being set on edge.” She presses a fingertip to her temple like it’s a gun, eyes alight. “You think being reckless like that is actually charming. I see it in that smug-ass smile of yours, which you get away with because you’re so fucking pretty, people let it slide.” She scoffs, eyes dragging up and down my body like she’s looking at pond scum. “Well, I call bullshit on that. I’m not letting it slide, and I’m not swayed by your sharp jawline and soft-looking hair. I’m not swayed by you at all, because there’s one rule in my life—keep your goddamn hands to yourself—which is something that’s clearly beyond your capabilities.”