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He faces forward once more, scrolling through his phone. He puts on some music, quietly, in case any cops are trolling through the parking garage looking for us.
“Here,” he says.
He passes me a bottle of malt liquor, about a third drunk already.
I almost laugh. “This is what you drink?”
“I drink whatever’s handy,” he says, unsmiling.
I take a swig of it. It tastes spicy and foamy, without the bitterness of beer. It burns on the way down, spreading warmth through my chest, helping to calm me down a little more. I take another drink.
“That’s actually . . . not bad,” I say.
Nero takes the bottle and drinks several heavy swallows. I see his throat moving with each gulp. He passes it back to me, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.
I drink again, trying not to think that we’re sharing more than liquor, our lips touching the same glass rim.
We’re silent. The only noise is the slosh of liquor in the bottle, and the music Nero’s playing.
The steady rap beat is interspersed with a pretty chorus—melancholy and wistful. I remember how Nero switched my radio station. He must like this kind of stuff. It’s not what I usually listen to, but I’m liking it now, with the warmth of the malt liquor spreading through my body, and the darkness of the underground parking garage cocooning us.
Nero’s car smells good. I mean it really, really smells good. Like expensive leather, the spiced liquor, engine oil, and the masculine scent of Nero himself. I don’t usually sit close enough to him to notice it. There’s a warm, enticing scent rising from his skin: hawthorn and nutmeg, no hint of sweetness.
It’s intoxicating. Or something is. My head feels light, and I get a flush of honesty. Like I should just say what I’m thinking. I never do that, usually. I keep my thoughts locked down tight.
“Why did you do that?” I ask Nero.
“ ‘Cause fuck the cops,” he says.
“No. I mean, why did you take me with you?”
He takes another swig, giving himself time to think.
“I don’t know,” he says at last.
“Why’d you leave the money in my shop?”
“Because I used your tools.”
“You left too much.”
“Who cares?” he says angrily. “I don’t give a fuck about money.”
I don’t ask him what he does care about. The answer is obvious—nothing.
I’m trying to puzzle through this.
Nero isn’t kind. He doesn’t do things to be “nice.” Especially not to women. He’s got a trail of scorned hearts a mile wide behind him. There isn’t a pretty girl in this city who hasn’t been caught up in the flame of his charm, only to burn like a paper flower.
The only reason I can think of is that Nero doesn’t view me like one of those women. He’s not interested in me, or he’d take me and use me up just like the others.
No. I’m like a starving puppy in the street. He tossed me a scrap because it was easy, and it cost him nothing.
“I don’t need your pity,” I tell him. I’m glaring at him, anger burning out of me. I may not rage out loud like Nero, but I have bitterness inside of me, too. I could be dangerous. If I wanted to be.
Nero looks at me with those cool gray eyes. He’s picking me apart, taking in my every flaw and blemish. The frizzy curls escaping from my bun, the dark circles under my eyes from lack of sleep, the grease embedded under my fingernails and in the lines of my knuckles. My chapped lips and my shit clothes.
“Why are you mad?” he says. “What do you want me to say?”
