Page 25 of Thunderstruck
I’d be stupid to argue, so I scurry inside the air conditioned car before my stubbornness gets in my way.
“Uh.” The driver, a young man in his early twenties, looks back at me. “I don’t think I should—”
“I’ll pay you extra,” Cole says at the same time I say, “It’s okay. I know him.”
We look at each other, and though I can’t say I know what Cole’s thinking, I’ve got my guesses. He’s probably wondering, like I am, which of our assumptions is right. Is the driver wary because technically I should be paying for my ride? Or does he think Cole is picking up some girl on the side of the road? Maybe it’s both, but when Cole hands a hundred dollar bill up to him, the driver flips the car into gear and drives off.
I nearly choke as I watch that bill disappear into the guy’s pocket. “Um, I thought rugby players had terrible paychecks.”
Cole grunts, his eyes out the window now. “They do.”
“That was like a month of groceries.”
That gets a chuckle out of him, though there’s no trace of a smile. I’ve only seen him smile once, but it’s something I would love to see again. What does it take to get a grump like Cole Evanson to smile? “You must not eat much,” he says.
I mean, I don’t, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s seriously overpaying for this ride. Leaning closer, I drop my voice in the hopes that the driver doesn’t hear me. It’s unlikely, given how small this car is. “You paid him way too much.”
Sure enough, the driver’s eyes meet mine in the rear view mirror for half a second, narrowing slightly as if warning me to keep my mouth shut. It’s not like Cole could ask for the money back. I mean, he could try, but we’re at the mercy of the driver here.
It’s a strange concept, trusting strangers to get us to our destinations safely. What if they’re high? What if they’re escaped criminals who stole the car? What if—a gasp escapes me—what if this driver is actually an international spy and we’ve just been inadvertently pulled into his mission?
“You okay?” Cole asks, and I realize I’m still leaning toward him.
I shift back to my side of the seat and nod. “Yes. Fine.”
“I paid him so he won’t ask questions,” he says, louder this time.
The driver gulps. Maybe he’s thinkingColeis the international spy.
I could see it. Cole has the build and the glower and the cash, apparently. What kind of person carries hundred-dollar bills around like that? I think I’ve only seen one or two in my lifetime, and they always go straight to the bank because I cannot be trusted with that kind of cash.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Cole asks, still watching me.
I’m going to assume all of my thoughts are painted right across my face because, unlike my sister, I’m crap at hiding things. “Do you know how many candy bars that money could buy?” I resist the urge to clap a hand to my face.That’swhat I decide to go with? Candy bars? Maybe I got heat stroke standing in the sun.
Cole laughs again, this time with the smallest upturn of his lips. “Candy bars,” he repeats, and his eyes do a slow head-to-toe of my body.
“I can’t help it if I have a fast metabolism,” I say, folding my arms as if that might hide my painfully thin frame.
“And a serious sweet tooth,” he counters.
“That’s more by choice.”
“Did you get home safely last night?”
The question catches me so off guard that my response is snarkier than I usually allow myself. “No, I spent the night on the street.”
The driver coughs, though I can’t decide if he’s laughing or genuinely concerned for my safety. I hope it’s the second one. Cole, on the other hand, curls his hands into fists on his lap and clenches his jaw until it looks like a muscle might snap. It’s another argument for him clearly despising me, and I still don’t know why.
But then he takes a deep breath and softens. “I get that it’s none of my business,” he says, his voice low and rough. “But if any of the guys were to put you in any kind of danger like that, I’d…” He shakes his head. “Maybe don’t joke about it? I’m stressed enough as it is.”
Wait.Wait. Was he actually worried about me? Ignoring the bubble of warmth in my belly, I twist in my seat so I’m facing him, one leg curled up beneath me. “First of all, I’m pretty sure Bean is more afraid of me than anything after the way I manhandled him on that table.”
The driver coughs again, but I ignore him. He can make whatever conjectures he wants about what I just said.
“Second of all,” I continue, “he walked me all the way to my door and wouldn’t leave until I’d locked it behind me.”
Cole’s eyebrows rise. “Oh. Good.”
