Page 27 of Sting
He nudged her lips with the rim of the bottle and when she still refused to drink, he said, “It’s a painful way to check out, but suit yourself.” He tilted the bottle to his mouth and drained it, then used the back of his hand to wipe a dribble off his chin. He caught her looking at his scar. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“I fell off my bike when I was a kid.”
The drop-dead look she gave him said she knew he was lying. The scar was too recent to have been caused by a childhood mishap.
“Does your head hurt?” he asked.
“No.”
He slid two fingers through her hair at the side of her head and explored her scalp. When he located a small bump, she winced. “Why lie about it? I have some Advil.”
“No thank you.”
“Look, I told you that torture wasn’t part of this gig. So take the damn—”
“No. Thank. You.”
“Fine.”
He moved to the trunk, tossed the empty water bottle into it, closed it, then returned to her. “Lie down.”
“I’ll sit.”
“You’ll be more comfortable lying down than sitting up with your hands behind you.”
She turned her head aside, clearly spurning his suggestion.
“I’m not giving you a choice this time, Jordie. Either lie down, or I’ll tie your feet to the door handle and make it impossible for you to sit up.”
“Go to hell.”
“Been already.”
He was about to force the issue of her lying down when he hesitated. Instead, he placed the tip of his index finger in the center of her forehead and traced her stubborn profile down the length of her nose, past her mouth, and over her chin before letting his hand fall away. “Have to say, I admire your sass. You could be bawling and begging.”
“I’ll never beg you for my life.”
“Bet you do.”
“You’ll be disappointed.”
He let a few seconds elapse, then said, “Maybe you won’t. Bawling and begging are more your brother’s style. He caves quick, doesn’t he?”
Her head snapped around and she shot him a glare.
He huffed a laugh. “Well, that sure as hell struck a nerve.” Grinning with satisfaction, he motioned for her to lie down. “Don’t make me tie you down.”
The look she gave him would have blistered paint, but she lay down on her side. He shut the door, got into the driver’s seat, put the car in reverse, and backed out of the pockmarked side road and onto the highway.
Nothing more was said, but he could feel her anger smoldering. Eventually it cooled, and when he glanced between the seats a half hour later, he saw that she’d gone to sleep. Either that, or she had gotten better at playing possum.
Letting her go behind the tree to relieve herself hadn’t been a chivalrous nod to her modesty. It had been a test, and she had passed.
He knew perfectly well that the redneck with the skull on his shirt had been nothing more to her than a nuisance. If he’d been a player of any significance, she would have memorized the phone number he slipped her and then disposed of the evidence, probably before she left the bar, but if not then, then surely while she was out of sight behind the tree. If she’d known about the scrap of paper in her seat pocket, it wouldn’t have still been there when she rejoined him.
But he’d reasoned that if he made an issue of it, hammered her with questions about that guy and his phone number, he would eventually break her and learn why she’d gone to that bar tonight. Because he knew damn well that it wasn’t happenstance.
