The Boy I Hate(35)
She looked down at the receipt, finding the faded black writing revealing his truth.
12.3 gallons, supreme unleaded, $32.87
She shoved the receipt back in the bag and set it down between them. “This does nothing to comfort me.”
He only shrugged, but didn’t explain further.
“You’re telling me we’re driving three thousand miles in a car that has a broken gas gauge?”
His shoulders lifted once, but he continued to focus straight ahead. “I’ve gotten us this far, haven’t I?”
She turned in her seat, shoving the clay back in her bag, and taking out her iPod to load her next audio book. “That is such an asshole thing to say.”
He almost choked on his coffee, which for some reason caused her lips to involuntary curve in a smile.
“You’re right, I am an asshole.”
His response was so unexpected, her grin instantly widened, but she tried to force it away. She wasn’t sure what she found so amusing. Maybe it was the fact she’d called him an asshole and all he did was agree, or maybe it was because it felt good to do something crazy—like drive cross country in a car with no gas meter. She glanced over at him one last time, eyes narrowed, but really looking at him, and seeing to her dismay the boy she’d met all those years ago by the lake. “Well I’m glad we can finally agree on something.”
He choked back a laugh, covered his mouth as if trying to hold it in, but he couldn’t. A deep boisterous sound exploded out of him surprising them both. But he didn’t seem to be laughing at her, or even so much the gas meter. She wasn’t sure exactly what he was laughing at, but the sound was so genuine she found herself biting her lip to hold in a giggle of her own. He looked like a little kid. A giddy little boy who had had way too much sugar, and the sound was so contagious, soon she couldn’t help but laugh too. Their laughter grew, one feeding off the other until they were both struggling to breathe. It was the gut gripping kind of laugher that made her stomach hurt, one she hadn’t experienced in as long as she could remember. Laughing with Tristan made her feel free, like a twenty-three year old woman should feel… and that wasn’t a bad feeling at all.
It was hours later, after the “Welcome to Colorado” sign had come and gone, that Tristan glanced over at her. Her feet were curled under her bottom, her head resting on the pillow she’d wedged between her door and body, trying to find comfort. She froze. It wasn’t the first time he’d done it either. Actually, he’d been doing it ever since they left the motel. Just looking, without saying a word, and it was driving her crazy. She’d already started her book three times because she couldn’t concentrate. What was he looking at? Why was he paying her any attention at all? The questions kept coming, and finally she gave up.
Only yesterday, this arrangement had worked perfectly. She was able to listen to her audiobooks, and he the radio, as though they were in completely different worlds. But something had changed. Somewhere between her going to bed last night, and getting up this morning. She couldn’t stop her mind from flicking back the motel, to her cheek pressed against his skin, and his completely nude body millimeters from her own.
“Soo…” he said, making her spine tingle all the way to her toes. “What have you been up to these past few years?”
She lowered her blanket, trying to pretend the fact that he was trying to engage her in conversation didn’t surprise the hell out of her. She removed the ear buds from her ears and paused her book. “School. Work. That kind of thing.” She pushed her hair back behind her ears and sat up.
“Where to?”
She took a deep breath and shoved her iPod back in her bag, reluctantly thankful for something else to do. “I graduated from Laverne University last summer.”
His brows rose. “And work?”
“I work at a bar.” She cleared her throat, almost embarrassed by the answer. “And you?”
He took a good minute, and Samantha turned back around to see if he’d heard the question. “How about you?” she repeated, but her eyes drifted down to his shoulder, where she knew the scar lay just under his clothes.
“I run my own business,” he finally stated.
“Doing?”
“Cleaning pools.”
She pressed her lips together and looked up to see if he was joking. “You’re a pool boy?”
He glanced over again, clearly not finding the humor in the question. “Yes.”
“Oh,” she whispered, but she was mentally kicking herself for being an ass. She couldn’t help it! Not really. All she kept thinking about was that movie with David Duchovny as a pizza boy. Where the word “anchovies” indicated an order for sex.