Page 57 of It Happened on a Sunday
Apparently, our driver has an affinity for pop stars. “Where are we going?” I ask, trying to drown out my own voice—and more importantly, the lyrics I wrote for another man—before Sly notices.
He gives me a look that says he knows exactly what I’m up to but also that he’s willing to go along with it if that’s what I want.
Which I do, very much.
“Should we go back to my hotel?” I all but shout.
“What kind of man do you think I am?” Sly pretends to be scandalized. “It’s going to take a lot more than one little paparazzi run to get me into bed.”
“However will I handle the disappointment?” I take the lifeline he’s thrown me and continue. “I’m just saying, our choices are limited, considering I left my shoes somewhere around the halfway mark of that hill you just had us run down.”
“In the hands of a lesser date planner, that might be a problem,” he agrees.
“But not for you?”
He just smiles mysteriously. And though I try, I can’t help but smile back.
“I think that’s the first real smile you’ve ever given me.” His grin widens. “I like it.”
“Yeah, well, don’t get too used to it.” I try for a scowl, but my damn lips won’t cooperate. They just keep turning upward at the corners.
“I promise not to.” He nods like he’s actually giving my words serious consideration. “But you should probably stop smiling if you don’t want me getting the impression that you enjoy spending time together.”
I shrug. “I could say the same to you.”
“Yes, but Idoenjoy your company, and I don’tcare who knows it.”
“Why?” For some reason I’ll never understand, the word slips past my barriers, past all the years of refusing to give a fuck. Of course, the second it’s out, I want to pull it back. It makes me feel vulnerable when I’m never vulnerable, needy when I’m not supposed to need.
“Don’t answer that,” I order, shaking my head. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters,” he says softly. “And I’ll answer it when we’re alone.”
He casts a significant look at the back of the driver’s head, which makes me feel even more foolish than I did before. Just because the guy has the radio on doesn’t mean he isn’t listening to every word we’re saying.
I’ve spent the last five years making sure no one has any ammunition to use against me except what I give them, and in one day—one minute—I’ve blown all that work to smithereens.
My song finally ends, and I take a few deep breaths. At least until I recognize the opening of the next song.
I freeze for a moment as the lyrics hook sharp and deep, dragging blood from a wound I thought had long since scabbed over.
No. Just fucking no.
“Stop the car.” I want to shout the words, but my throat is sotight, they come out as little more than a croak.
“What’s wrong?” Sly asks, eyes wide.
But all I can hear is Jarrod’s voice and that goddamn song. “Stop the car!” I say again.
Sly turns toward the driver. “Can you please pull over?”
“There’s a lot of traffic. I need a minute,” the driver replies. “Is she going to puke?”
The chorus comes on, and that’s it.
I reach for the door and start yanking at it, desperate to escape.
Desperate to make it stop.
