Page 9 of Wild Card
“You make it very fucking hard.”
“Likewise, Spitfire.”
“Stop fucking calling me that!”
“You done throwing a tantrum or you want us to get completely soaked out here?”
“I’m not leaving with you. I’ll call another car. I should have done that in the first place.”
“You’re going to call another car and wait out here in the dark and pouring rain for it?”
“Yes. So go home or off with your little blonde, okay?”
Then he does the last thing I’m expecting—he laughs, full and loud and wild. Two seconds before he grabs me and throws me over his shoulder.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“Taking you home.”
“You are not. Put me the fuck down!”
“Nah. We’re done doing things your way now.”
“If you don’t fucking put me down, I’ll…” I trail off. I have no idea what I’ll do. Before I can think of a plausible threat, we’re already at his car, and he’s opening the door and pulling me down off his shoulder.
“You’ll what?” He pins me against the car.
“I hate you.”
“I know. Now get in the car.”
“No.”
His teeth grit and turn into a saccharine smile.
“Scarlett, you get in the car, and you put your seatbelt on, or I will grab the bands I have in my gym bag, tackle you in the mud when you try to run again, and hog-tie you before I throw you back there. Your choice.”
“You’re insane.” I glare at him, but the glimmer reflecting off the headlights in his eyes tells me I’m right. “You’d do it,” I mumble, realizing I’m going to lose this fight whether I like it or not.
“I would, and I would enjoy every single moment of it. So what’s it going to be?”
I plop down, the splash of water against his expensive leather seats audible and flip my wet hair over my shoulder. There’s a bitter grin on his face before he shuts the door and rounds the car to get into the driver’s seat.
“Should you even be driving?”
“I barely had anything, and it was all at the beginning of the night. I’m fine.”
“You can just take me to the gas station up here, and I can call a car.”
“Give me your address so I can put in the GPS.”
I let out a sigh, cold and muted, but then I give him the address. Resigned to the fact that any other plan than him taking me home at this point would probably be a battle I don’t have the energy for and a way for him to embarrass me more than I already am.
The ride home feels longer than it is, more sobering than it should be. Because the warmth of the car and the light hum of the engine are just enough to calm my anxiety and make me realize how ridiculous I’ve been tonight. How much I’ve acted unhinged when I could have just thanked him and let him help me. I just hate the way he gets under my skin.
When we pull into the parking lot the guilt is hitting hard. So hard I feel like I don’t want to wait for another time to do this. So I go for it. Ripping off the Band-Aid. Still shivering as I manage to say what needs to be said.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt out. “I’ll pay for the seats to be cleaned or fixed or whatever.”
