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“Maybe it’s time to put Bert away for good.” He grabs a cap from just inside the door and puts it on, covering his purple hair and most of his face. “You ready to go?”
“I’m ready. The car’s fueled up and I’ve got a playlist for the drive.”
He pulls the door shut and steps onto the stoop. “I’m driving.”
He continues past me like it’s a done deal.
“Wait. Why should you drive?”
He doesn’t even look back. “I’ve got the better car and I love driving. I never get to do it.”
That gives me pause. There’s the weird thing about him going on tours and now he rarely drives. Is he in the mafia? Mafia men have drivers, right?
Jared seemed to know, but he wasn’t answering his phone last night. The way Jared was glaring at Mac, it was clear he doesn’t like him. But then why was he asking about a tour?
Maybe Mac’s a white-collar criminal. The kind who sells ponzi schemes or something and goes on speaking tours to tout his product. I need to warn Jared, but I need to know the truth about what Mac’s into first.
If Jared and Clover know Mac’s a criminal, they’d definitely warn me. Mac’s been lying to all of us, and I’m the only one who can see through his lies.
It’s time to push for more clues. “You don’t do your own driving on tour?”
That stops him. Finally. He turns, eyes wide. “No. I… Wait, I told you we don’t call it a tour when I teach at other colleges.”
I cock my head like I’m confused and not like I just caught him in some sort of lie. “Whatever you call it, why don’t you drive?”
“We take a bus.” He opens the driver's door of his small, gray four-door. I have no idea if it’s a nice car, because I know nothing about cars. All I can say for sure is that it looks like it would slide around on snow.
I stop and cross my arms over my chest. Does he really expect me to believe colleges load professors up in buses like a sports team and take them around to other colleges for lectures?
This guy is a terrible liar. Which makes it less likely he’s selling some illegal or shady business scheme. “Huh.” I humor him, because I want to see how deeply he’s committed to the lie. “I didn’t realize you took buses for tours. Do you stay in the dorms or get a hotel?”
He turns to me, brow crinkled. “We should probably get on the road.”
I consider arguing for him to let me drive, but I don’t care enough to push the issue. “Let me just grab my bag.”
By the time I’m sliding into the passenger seat, Mac has the car started, and the radio tuned to a saccharine pop station. “Ugh.” I groan. “I’ll accept you driving, but if I have to listen to this crap for the next hour, I’ll rip my ears off.”
He glances over at me before starting down his driveway. “Car rules state the passenger gets to choose the music, but what have you got against pop? Everyone loves a good dance beat.”
“Obviously not everyone.” I drop my bag at my feet and pull out my cell phone. His car has some high tech, fancy radio set up that only takes me like three seconds to connect to my phone. “Sweet tech. Is this one of those fancy cars rich people drive?”
“It’s a rental.” He says it like that answers the question. Maybe he doesn’t know cars either.
I start up the play list I created for the trip and breathe a sigh of contentment as the screaming vocals and hard pounding bass line fills the small space.
Mac hits the power button on the radio and the car goes silent. “Nope. I’m not listening to that for the next hour. I’ll have a raging headache by the time we get to the restaurant.”
I get not everyone likes the same music I do. When I’m creating in my art shed, I prefer full-on, classic, heavy metal and, if I’m really stuck on a project, only death metal will get me through it. But Aggravated assault is more hard rock than heavy metal. I figured it would be tolerable for anyone.
“Okay.” I’m willing to compromise. I scroll through my play lists until I find the one I listen to when I’m cleaning or hanging out alone. The music I listen to when I need inspiration for creating a song. I turn the radio back on.
Mac glances over at me, brows high. “Bluegrass?”
“It seems like the best compromise we’re going to find.”
He stares out at the road as we glide into town, pulling his hat lower over his brow and putting on a pair of sunglasses he grabs from the center bucket thing between our seats. “I’ve never really listened to much bluegrass.”
“You only listen to pop music? I’ve heard of people like you, but I never thought I’d meet one.”
