Page 11 of Deceit & Destruction

“None of your business,” he hisses, turning toward my car.

“Hey,” I protest. “Give those back.”

He doesn’t respond as he makes his way to the driver’s side door. Opening it, he tosses the duffel bag inside and braces a hand on the hood of my Toyota Corolla. He peers back at me.

“Let’s go.”

And to think I was willingly going to share an apartment with this guy. Now I’m hesitant to share my car—can I blame the insanity on the hormones too?

I may not know Mike Robinson, but I get the feeling he’s not really one to argue with and to be fair, I really don’t feel well. Getting behind the wheel would be reckless and it’s not just me I need to worry about these days.

Sighing, I walk to the passenger side and open the door. Mike mutters a curse as we both slide inside. He repositions my seat, making room for his long legs, then he reaches for the seatbelt and drags it across his body, securing it. His eyes shoot back to me.

“Seatbelt,” he grunts.

If I put the seatbelt on, it’ll cling to my stomach, and they’ll be no denying I’m pregnant. I worry my lower lip between my teeth.

“It’s broke,” I lie, tearing my eyes away from him. I stretch my legs and make myself comfortable, pushing his bag to the side. Before he can comment on the seatbelt or tell me to sit in the back, I change the subject. “I appreciate you driving me back to the dorms but how will you get back?”

“Don’t worry about that,” he says, starting up my car. “I’ll call Webber or something.”

His hand closes around the shifter, but before he slides it into drive, he pauses and stares at me.

“I’ll drive slow.”

There’s something about his tone that makes my stomach flip. I’m a hassle to him—a big fat thorn in his side that he can’t wait to be rid of, but then he flips the script and shows me a kinder, more gentle side of him.

Will the real Mike Robinson please stand up?

“Thank you,” I whisper.

He gives me a curt nod before turning his attention to the windshield. Shifting the car into drive, he peels out of the parking spot. It’s a short drive to the dorms and the ride is quiet for the first half of it. Then, Mike stops for a light and the nausea returns. I cover my mouth and close my eyes, hoping it will pass. I really don’t want to bother him and ask him to pull over, nor do I want to decorate my car with whatever is currently working its way up my throat.

“You’re going to throw up again, aren’t you?”

I whimper.

“I’m trying really hard not to,” I reply, keeping my eyes closed. “Can you see if there is a bottle of water on the side of the door?”

I always try to keep one handy.

I hear him rustle around, hissing a stream of expletives.

Not a good sign.

“No water, just a million straw wrappers.”

Ah, I’ve been meaning to throw those out.

“The crackers aren’t helping?”

“I think I’ve had enough crackers,” I say weakly. He grunts a response I can’t make out, then I feel his hand graze my thigh. My eyes shoot open and sure enough he’s leaning over the console, his right arm between my legs, roughly fighting with the zipper on his bag.

“What are you doing?” I squeak.

“There’s a bottle of water in the side compartment, but the fucking zipper is stuck.” Someone honks behind us, and he slams on the gas, still trying to work the zipper. He jerks the wheel, swerving slightly.

Soon we won’t have to worry about me vomiting all over the place because he’s going to crash and get us killed.

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