Page 39 of Unwritten Rules
“No,” she huffs, throwing her hands in the air. “This piece of shit won’t start. I’ve tried everything I know to get it running again, but nothing. The drive here earlier was foreshadowing her impending death.”
My body tenses at her choice of words. “What happened on the way over here?”
Tatum flicks her eyes up to meet mine, having to tilt her head back to do so. “Well… let’s just say it wasn’t the safest vehicle to be in.”
“Jesus, Tate.” I run my hand through my hair and gesture to the Jeep with the other. “I’m not letting you get back in that thing if it’s not road safe.”
“Well, I couldn’t even if I wanted to.” She shrugs and folds her arms over her chest. “I guess I better call my dad so he can come back to pick me up. I’m sure the first words out of his mouth will be, ‘I told you not to drive that thing again.’”
I roll my tongue in my cheek, and before my mind has a chance to catch up with my brain, I spew the words, “I can drive you home.”
Play it fucking cool, Sin. Jesus.
Tatum holds my gaze, as if waiting for me to take back the offer or reveal an ulterior motive. When the silence between us stretches too far, realising my offer stands, she sighs and drops her eyes to the ground. “You want to drive me home?”
I nod, jaw tense. “I do.”
“Why?”
“Because I very well can’t leave you here to fend for yourself.”
Tatum glances around the lot, worrying her lip between her teeth. “What if someone sees us?”
Let them, I want to say, but swallow the retort. Instead, I clear my throat. “All I’m doing is driving you home, okay? There’s nothing for you to worry about.”
She opens her mouth as if to say something, but snaps it closed just as quickly, offering me a nod. “I appreciate it, Sinnett. Thank you.”
I take it upon myself to lower the rusted bonnet, clicking it back in place while Tatum grabs her handbag from the front seat of the car. My heart hammers in my chest for some ungodly reason when we walk in silence to my car on the other side of the lot. Electricity crackles between us, making it hard for me to focus on keeping one foot in front of the other and not the head of strawberry-blonde hair beside me, her vanilla and floral scent making my knees weak.
God, what the fuck is wrong with me? I need to get a grip.
With a click of a button, the Audi beeps open and I slide into the front seat, the cool leather doing little to ease the heat consuming my skin. Tatum settles into the seat beside me, her scent and presence getting in my head.
The last time she was in my car, I made her crawl over the console and ride my cock in a quiet park. And now she’s sitting there covered in oil and looking just as beautiful as she had the night we met. It should bother me that the oil could stain my seats, but the thought barely crosses my mind as I flick on the car, the engine roaring to life.
Tatum runs her hand down her thighs, her eyes sweeping across to meet mine. “I didn’t think I would be back in this car.”
I lean my arm on the door and turn to her, taking in the shadows across her face and the softness of her eyes. Sometimes, I find it hard to breathe in her presence, which confuses the fuckout of me. I don’t know why I’m so affected by her, but I very well can’t allow her to know about it.
Not wanting to breech the topic of the insane sex we had the last time we were in my car, I clear my throat. “What’s your address?”
Tatum’s eyes round. “Oh! Right.” She rattles off her address, and I put it in the Navman, waiting for the route to appear before pulling out of the car park.
I lean back in the seat, one hand on the steering and the other on the gear stick. The car is an auto, but I need to give my hand something to do. My fingers drum mindlessly on the wheel as I fight the urge to look over at my passenger staring ahead, listening to “Want You Bad” by The Offspring. My phone’s Bluetooth connected to the system when I got in the car, but I made no move to cue songs or worry about what Tatum might think of my song choices.
“You can change the song if you like.” My voice comes out gruffer than intended, and I fight the urge to clear my throat for the tenth time since leaving the stadium.
“I like this song,” Tatum says, surprising me. “My dad used to play it in the car when he would pick me up from school in the afternoons.”
I raise a brow. “I didn’t peg Coach Phil as a punk-rock kind of guy.”
Tatum chuckles. “Apparently, you guys don’t know much about my dad in his heyday.” She leans back, her mouth tilted up in a smile. “He would pull up to the school with the windows down, rock music blasting from the speakers, and a smile on his face. The teachers were appalled by his behaviour, but the kids in my class thought he was the coolest dad ever.”
The memory twists painfully in my stomach. I wish I could say I shared a similar notion with my father growing up, but he was never carefree or allowed anyone to see a side to himthat wasn’t professional. When Dad would pick Mia and I up from school, he drove a flashy car and wore the best suits. No music came from the speakers, and he certainly gave a fuck what everyone thought about him. If Dad is so much as perceived in a way he doesn’t align with, he’ll go out of his way to change that persons mind. All of the teachers and students in our year knew Dad as the ‘strict one’.
I hated it.
“I’ve seen him pull into work with the windows down, singing at the top of his lungs to whatever is on the radio,” I tell Tatum, which makes her smile in return.
