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As the song comes to an end, Walker reaches for his water bottle sitting between us, taking a long sip, and I watch the way his throat bobs as he swallows.
“Why the hell don’t you sing more in your music?”
He shrugs, as if he doesn’t have an incredible voice. “I like the drums,” he answers simply.
“Well, I could listen to you sing all day,” I tell him.
“It’s a good thing you’re stuck with me then.”
“If only because I want to hear you sing all the time and not for anything else,” I tease.
Walker reaches over and lays a hand on my leg, slowly dragging it up, fingers grazing the inside of my thigh. I slouch in my seat without a second thought, letting my legs fall open and allowing him easier access. As his hand drags higher and higher, fingers so close to my center, my core starts to pulse.
“Is that the only thing I’m good for?” he asks, voice scratchy.
“No.” My own voice is unsteady, desire lacing its way in.
His pinky finger is almost right there, and I curse the fabric covering my skin from his. Just a little bit higher…
Walker pulls his hand away, and I groan in protest.
“Hook your phone up to the system, you got the next song,” he says, like he didn’t just get me wound up and leave me hanging.
“Fine,” I mumble, and he laughs, enjoying my pouting. Although as I dart my eyes over to his lap, I see I’m not the only one affected here.
I pull up my music on my phone and get it connected to the car, scrolling through, not sure what to turn on.
“What do you want to hear?”
“Dealer’s choice.”
I continue scrolling, not having an extensive rock catalog in my library.
“Don’t think about it too hard. Just play something you love. I want to know what music you loved and was influential on you before you started making your own.”
I nod, going to my ‘favorites’ playlist, and hitting shuffle, smiling when the first notes of “Killin’ It” by Krewella flood the speakers.
“You want to know some of the songs that got me into the type of music I create today? Well, here’s one for you.”
It’s my turn to sing along, head rocking back and forth with the song, my hair swaying with the motion. Walker watches me and I’m not sure if he’s enjoying the song or just the way my body moves to it, falling back into the melodies I know like the back of my hand.
As the song comes to an end, I say to him, “Okay, you give me the next one.”
“I feel like I just learned so much about you in those three minutes,” he says, before rattling off the next song and I queue it up.
We go back and forth like that for the rest of the drive, taking turns playing our favorite songs and biggest influences for each other, a blend of rock and house music. My face hurts from smiling, and Walker’s cheeks are flushed under his stubble that I begged him not to shave this morning.
We both fall back against our seats, catching our breath for a moment until I see our exit sign flash by, alerting us that we’re close.
The joy from the past hour singing and joking around with Walker fades quicker than a puff of smoke in the air as Walker turns on his blinker, the car slowing to take the exit, the scenery around me annoyingly familiar. After a few turns, I can see the nice steakhouse up ahead, our destination edging closer and closer.
“Is this a bad time to say I wish I had something stronger than this?” I shake the slim can of my energy drink, the last dredges splashing around at the bottom, taste buds not satisfied.
Walker turns to me, face falling. “Scar, you don’t have to do this. You don’t owe anybody—”
“Anything,” I finish for him. “I know, I know. Sorry, I wasn’t trying to worry you.”
But I would be lying if I didn’t admit to myself that right now, the draw to a drink, even just a sip, a taste, a moment to forget myself and forget my surroundings, sounded like the sweetest fucking thing in the world.
