Page 11 of Slick Trip

Mom had been right about Jon. He was both more ripped and more tattooed than before. Everything about him was stupid, from his appearance to his personality to the way he smelled—annoyingly familiar, yet somehow different. Richer and darker. The worst thing about it? It was making it difficult to remember exactly why I was supposed to be so angry at him.

Crossing my own non-ripped, inkless arms, I glared at him.

“You missed a spot,” I said, the words dripping with sarcasm. I pointed at a stamp-sized bare sliver of skin near his wrist. “But if you give me a marker, I can fix that for you.”

Jon didn’t respond, but a muscle ticked in his cheek. Mission accomplished. It was just a flicker of annoyance, but I saw it and I relished it.

“Coop, can you not?” Jack cut in.

I shot him a look. It was nine o’clock in the morning, and he had the nerve to look like a CEO heir ready to take over the world. He was majoring in finance and was ridiculously excited about his internship at some fancy firm. I loved him anyway, even if he thought the sun shone out of Jon’s ass.

“I think we’re all set,” Jon said, closing the trunk. Those were his first words to me after a low grunt, which had apparently been his version of good morning. I hadn’t returned it. My morning was not good.

“You don’t get to decide that,” I snapped. “This is my trip.” I yanked the trunk open, then smacked it shut again. It took a lot of effort, which just pissed me off further. “Now we’re all set.”

Jon’s eyes focused on mine. Let it be recorded in the annals of history that the butterflies creating havoc in me were not because of the steel in his gaze. This cursed situation was making me nervous, that was all.

“Really, Cooper?”

“Yes, Jon. Really.” I bared my teeth at him. Try me.

It didn’t have the desired effect of spooking him, but he did let out a long-suffering sigh, which I took as a win.

“I’m driving.” He held out his hand for the keys, his tone not leaving room for argument. I didn’t argue—I slapped his hand away. The sting of skin against skin made my palm tingle and cheeks flush. I hated how aware of him I was. What if this feeling never faded? And why did he have to smell so damn good? Standing under a tree when it rained. Having that first cup of coffee in the morning. That level of good. Happy memories—that’s what he smelled like.

And my nose was called Brutus.

He gritted his teeth, and I had a sudden fear he’d pluck the keys from my hand and carry me to the passenger seat. He had done it before, taking advantage of our size difference and putting me on his shoulder.

I sprinted to the driver’s side before he could move.

“You’re not driving. I’m driving,” I declared, trying to overcome the annoying feeling he was letting me get away with something.

“Coop, knock it off. Don’t be a brat,” Jack said.

I stopped. Even Jon froze. The word hung in the air. I could almost see the letters: B-R-A-T.

“Jon’s doing you a favor,” my brother added, all ready to protect his bestie. He probably felt guilty after talking Jon into this. I could imagine their conversation too easily: Jack apologizing in advance for my existence, Jon pretending to be an altruistic road trip savior. Maybe Jack had even tried to bribe him. No, he was almost as broke as I was, which was ironic considering his major. We had more attitude than money in this household.

I let out a frustrated hiss.

“Yes, Jack, I’m aware. You keep saying that. May I remind everyone that I did not ask for this particular favor? That this favor was, in fact, forced upon me?”

That it was Jon who was doing the so-called favor stung the most. I knew this trip was the last thing he wanted—he probably felt obligated by some twisted sense of loyalty to Jack. Well, if he thought for one second I’d make this easy for him, he was delusional.

“Drive safely, you two,” Mom said, unbothered by the resentment in the air. She even gave us a thumbs-up. “Have fun!”

“Hah,” Jon said under his breath, but of course no one told him to stop being a brat. No, my family had put him in the box that was labeled Saints and Saviors. I was in the Spiteful Screwups box.

I started the engine, Grandpa’s Cadillac rumbling to life beneath us. As the car pulled out of the driveway and we waved goodbye to Mom and Jack, I gave Jon a sweet smile.

“Just so you know, you’re ruining this whole trip for me.”

“You think I volunteered to babysit you?” Jon shot back, not even looking at me. “My week is just as ruined as yours.”

Babysit. Wow. That was below the belt.

“My week is objectively more ruined,” I hissed, the fake smile vanishing. “You’ve ruined my whole life.”