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He must understand my meaning—that his voodoo is too much. That it clouds my better judgement—because his voice softens. But I swear a hint of smugness (or maybe it’s humor?) lingers around the edges. “Look, I’m sorry about what happened on the rock.”
I scoff. “No, you’re not.” I then dare to meet his eyes. “You’re not sorry.”
He doesn’t know what to say to that. Probably because I’m right. He’s only sorry that things aren’t turning out like he hoped.
So, as he stands there like a bewildered idiot, I decide to enlighten him. “I heard you earlier. In the bedroom.” I don’t know why, but my eyes burn with tears again. More than anything else, they’re out of anger.
I take another step back toward his car.
“In the bedroom?”
“You were on the phone with someone and were talking about finishing up the season.”
His head hangs and he rubs the tension from his neck. But he doesn’t say anything.
Yeah. Busted. “So, I know what you’re up to. I’m not stupid.”
He looks back up to me, and when our eyes meet this time, there’s a level of humility there I’m not used to seeing. That I don’t think I’ve ever seen in him. It throws me a little. But I manage to recover and continue. “You thought you could win me over this weekend, didn’t you? You thought you’d be able to change my mind and I’d get my boss to pull the article.”
His eyebrows pinch, forming a crease. “Wait…you thought…?” He steps forward but stops when I step back again, the round of my butt grazing his front right fender. He then holds up a hand to signal his understanding. I don’t want him near me. He won’t come any closer. “You thought that?”
“Am I wrong?”
He huffs a laugh, but not a sardonic one. More like a she’s got it all wrong one. “Yeah,” he says simply. “You are. I already told you I know the article is happening.
Bullshit. I cross my arms and raise my eyebrows. “Enlighten me, then.”
“I can’t…do that.”
I slide around him and start for the house again on foot. “Bye, Jake,” I say, feigning cordiality, and give him a half-hearted wave over my shoulder. What I really want to do is give him the bird.
His footsteps catch up and he shoots past me. He walks backward and talks at the same time. Would it be too much to ask that he trip and fall on his ass? “Look. I can’t tell you what that conversation is about. I can’t really tell anyone.”
“I’m sure,” I say, disinterested.
He growls his frustration through his teeth, like he wants to tell me but can’t. His feet stop, but I keep going.
“Okay, fine,” he sighs. “I’ll tell you.”
“Too late.”
“Damnit, Scarlett! Just let me explain.”
I pause. Turn. “I already gave you that chance and you blew it.”
“Only because I can’t talk about it yet.” An emptying sigh as he contemplates his next words, a look of regret washing over his features. He doesn’t want to tell me, but he knows if he doesn’t, I’m gone. And the agony as his mind plays tug of war with the two scenarios is enough to help me get over myself and listen. He’s a good bullshitter, I’ve seen it. But I don’t know that anyone’s this good. None that I’ve met, anyway, and that’s saying a lot.
“The guy I was talking to…his name is Colton. And he’s an Indy car driver. My friend Rylee connected us.”
“And?”
He shifts on his feet and scans around us again to make sure no one’s listening. His voice goes lower. “And I’ve been…thinking about making the change for a while now. I already had this call set up for weeks.” He throws up his hand. It falls against his leg. “And then this happens. I didn’t want to blow him off, but I also couldn’t tell him what was going on. No one knows yet.”
Oh.
“So, I had to act like everything was normal.”
He allows the conversation to dwindle so I can soak in everything he’s saying. All of that makes sense…I guess. But it doesn’t mean he’s being honest about not trying to snow me over for his own benefit. Having future aspirations to drive in another league only gives him more reason to try and kill the article.
