Page 8 of Wild Child
The thought makes my blood boil. I make a mental note to stop by a clothing shop and get her a sensible blouse and long skirt to wear. Something baggy. Then I dismiss the idea. The day Charlie lets me dress her in sensible clothes with be the day hell freezes over.
I climb into the driver’s seat and watch her stride across the parking lot toward me.
This is going to be a hell of a few days.
4
CHARLIE
Quentin glares at me from the inside of the truck, and just to make him wait, I take my sweet-ass time walking across the parking lot.
On the way past my bike, I check the saddle bags and redo one of the straps to make it tighter. When I reach the van, Quentin is drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and looks about ready to blow a gasket.
I’m not sure why I love getting under his skin so much, but I do. There’s something about his rigid ways that make me want to push all his buttons. The guy needs to relax and stop taking life so seriously.
The engine’s already running when I slide into the passenger seat. He’s in his usual tight khaki t-shirt, and his leather MC jacket is draped in the space between us.
Before I can get my belt on the van jerks forward, and I almost go flying out of my seat.
“Hey, watch it.”
I glare at Quentin, but he’s looking straight ahead. There’s a hint of a smile on his lips, and if I didn’t know him as my father’s serious friend who never jokes around, I’d say he did that on purpose.
I click my belt in as we pull out of the lot and onto the mountain road. I’m about to say something snarky when my gaze fixes on two takeout coffee mugs in the cupholders hanging off the dash. There’s steam coming out of the top of them.
“You made us coffee?”
“It’s probably cold by now,” he mutters.
I take the cup closest to me and take a sip. It’s super sweet with no milk, exactly how I like it. How the hell does Quentin know how I take my coffee?
He must have been here super early to get into the clubhouse, start the machine, and make us coffees to take with us.
Maybe the man’s not such a hard-ass after all.
“Thank you.”
He pulls a piece of folded paper out of his pocket and shoves it at me.
“What’s this?” I take the paper and unfold it with one hand.
“Our itinerary. I’ve got it memorized, but I printed you a copy.”
An itinerary. Of course it is. Quentin’s probably even got bathroom stops planned out on here.
“We’ve got sixteen hundred and forty-four miles to cover, and we’re already…” He checks his watch. “Thirty-two minutes late.”
I stare at him. “Thirty-two minutes, really? You couldn’t just say thirty?”
He gives me a look as if I’m the crazy one.
I fold the itinerary up without looking at it and stuff it in my purse. I pull out my makeup bag and flip down the visor to get to the mirror underneath.
Wide eyes stare back at me and skin too smooth to be an adult’s. I hate how I look without makeup. Vulnerable and young and like a little girl pretending to be a grown-up.
I grab my tube of concealer and get to work. First I smooth over the freckles on my nose, and then I apply a layer of foundation.
I take out my eyeliner and lean forward. The van bumps over the mountain road, and if I’m not careful I’ll take my eye out.
