Page 31
I ignore him. Water drips off my nose onto my lips as he continues to creep next to me.
“Vogel will drag you if you show up looking like that.”
I hate his confidence, and the fact that he’s probably right.
“Get in.” The engine revs, the driver not bothering to hide his impatience.
“I will if you let me drive.”
Jameson snorts. “Never going to happen.”
But when he leans over to open the door, I’m desperate enough to comply.
My shoes splash in a puddle before I shift inside and drop into the passenger seat. Water squelches against the leather. I reach for my seat belt as we accelerate smoothly along the road.
“You didn’t report me,” I say.
“Been busy.”
He’s calm. Controlled. Not like Legacy Day.
I lean forward to wipe a drop of rain off the dash. “This time next week, I’ll probably be gone anyway.”
His gaze flicks over me. The drop forms on my phone feel like a weight.
I’ve never prayed, but right now, I pray for silence. Just a silent car ride with the person I hate most in the world.
“What happened to your arm?” he asks, looking over as if he can see the neat, faded scars through my jacket and shirt.
My eyes close. I don’t want to talk about this. Not with him. “A car crash when I was four. Left me with a plate and screws.”
The memories are gone. The reduced range of motion, chronic stiffness, and compensation with my other arm when I’m working are mine to keep.
Seems like a fair trade.
The car hugs the pavement through the pounding rain. Jameson handles the Porsche easily, as if it’s an extension of his body and not a machine. “The driver?”
I could refuse to answer, but it seems pointless because he could find out in a snap.
“My dad. He and my mom were both killed.”
Trees and buildings pass outside the passenger window, forms and colors blurring with streaked raindrops.
“You should hate cars.”
When Jameson speaks, it’s not an apology. He almost sounds…curious.
“Cars aren’t the problem. People are. Cars are predictable. You never have to guess with them. When I’m working on a car, everything else is quiet. It’s freeing. Not that you’d know anything about that.”
Jameson scoffs. “Feeling trapped?”
“I didn’t say trapped.”
“You said working on a car makes you feel free. Free is the opposite of trapped.” His logic irritates me. “Or perhaps you meant I know nothing about the entire world thinking it understands exactly who you are and what you’re capable of.”
I force my attention back to the road, but I’m thinking how it would feel to learn your own father set a gauntlet for you to prove yourself against your brother and the entire school to claim your supposed birthright.
Probably fucking terrible.
