Page 62 of A Favor Owed
Brady shakes his head, muttering under his breath and looking seriously pissed, and speeds off through my neighborhood.
“Look,” says Brady, pointing out his window. I gasp when I see the hills behind my street lit up with flames.
“Holy shit,” I whisper, stunned.
We navigate past the barricade and join the traffic heading away from the fire.
“So, um, listen,” he says, running a hand over his face. “Air quality’s bad all over town. I thought we could head back to Cataluña Hills, stay there a couple of nights until this is under control. I’ve got a bag packed and a room booked.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” I say, my voice low and controlled but for a touch of bitterness I’m unable to conceal.
“Where are you gonna stay, then?”
That’s a good question. I literally have nowhere to go. Everyone I know is evacuating. And unless I want to burn through the food and rent money I’ve just stuffed into my bag, I can’t even afford a hotel room. I want to scream with frustration. “I’ll figure something out,” I say.
“Fine. Where should I drop you?” It sounds more like a challenge than an offer.
“Finnegan’s.”
“Closed.”
Shit. I’m silent, frantically running through my mind for options. This is an eventuality I had never planned for.
“Come on, Angela. Just come with me. It’s just for a couple of days.”
“Fine,” I whisper, dangerously close to crying. I take deep breaths to control myself, but it’s no use. The stress of the day’s events, plus the loneliness that’s built up over the last few weeks, eventually spills over. I turn my face toward the window so he can’t see the tears streaming down my face. Unfortunately, a telltale sniffle makes him look my way.
“Shit,” he says under his breath.
“Fuck off, Brady,” I say, hating how tearful and shaky my voice sounds.
“Angie.”
“Just. Shut. Up.”
He sighs. “Okay.”
He manages to keep his mouth shut for the entire trip to Cataluña Hills, which must be a record for him. He pulls up to the hotel where we went on our date and checks us into a room with two queen beds.
“Are you hungry?” he asks me after we’ve found our room. He’s sitting on the edge of one of the beds, arms resting on his thighs, looking at me with puppy dog eyes. I’m curled up in a chair by the window, my arms wrapped around my knees, determined to shut him out as much as humanly possible.
“No.” I’m starving, but I don’t want to sit across a table from him, and I sure as hell don’t want to go to the restaurant where he took me to dinner.
“Hey, Ange,” he says. “Can we talk?”
“No.”
“Okay, then, how about I talk and you listen?”
I roll my eyes toward him. “How aboutyoushut up, andyouleave me alone?”
“Come on, Angela. You owe me, wouldn’t you say?”
Well, that pulls me up quick. He was all over town looking for me. He lied and risked his safety for me. He got us a hotel room far from the choking ash and smoke. As much as I hate to admit it, I do indeed owe him.
“Fine. Talk.”
He breathes out a sigh. “Okay,” he says, sounding relieved. “Look, like I tried to tell you at Finnegan’s, I’ve been dealing with some stuff with my dad. He got into some trouble, and I got involved, and it’s been a mess.”
