Blues

21. Blue Nineteen Pt. 2

Part two:

I scream, my head whipping to look at the suicidal moron who dared do that to mountain of vital muscles standing next to me, only to be struck by an explosive fit of laughter. Standing with both hands planted on her hips, is Ruth, the woman who witnessed me breaking down in the bathroom before. Her eyes are blasting daggers at Dylan.

"Are you fucking out of your mind?" Dylan bellows at Ruth, and I ascertain that his reaction to me slapping him was very benignant and merciful compared to this moment. He looks at me and finds me cackling, before he rewards me with a lethal look.

Ruth ignores him, looking at me with victory in her eyes. "Do you feel better now that I took vengeance?" She asks in a singsong voice, and from the tone of her voice, I learn that she's doubtless inebriated.

"What are you talking about, you old hag?" He advances toward her, but she doesn't recede, giving him an insolent look.

"Hey-" I start, wheezing, after I recover from the ludicrous state I was in, but Ruth interrupts me.

"Aren't you the prick who made her cry the other day?" She intorregates him, shoving her index finger in his chest in a threatening gesture.

Shit.

Dylan's face suddenly whips to look at me with a murky, impenetrable look. I see the question in them, though. He's asking whether she is veracious. Whether he made me cry or not.

"No, Ruth. That's not him." I force my mouth to give her a simulated smile, cringing on the inside, and my mood no longer containing any laughter or humor.

She frowns and scratches the back of her neck in an awkward manner, before she ambles closer to Dylan. "Sorry, handsome." She pats his cheek once, and he shoves her arm away. She rolls her eyes and spins to leave, muttering something unintelligible, and I find myself alone with Dylan's smoldering, inquisitive gaze.

"Sorry about that." I mutter, looking at him with a sheepish expression, and hoping that he doesn't catechize me about her compulsive slip.

He arches his eyebrows, his lips pressing together into a thin line in indignation, before he pulls a few bills from his wallet, slapping them on the counter in front of the barman, and with that, he strides toward the exit, grumping, "Let's go."

I conform without faltering, both perturbed and galvanized. We walk out in silence, and when I hazard a glance at him, I find a frown on his face, but I still don't bother to ask him why it's there from the first place. He'd probably tell me to mind my own business. I'd probably tell him the same if I were him. We get into the car, and he waits for a second, watching me. He looks conflicted, as if primed to ask me a question, but then curbs his thoughts, pulling into the driveway.

The atmosphere in the car remains sullen for a while, and I behold his hand as it tightens and relaxes around the steering wheel, before my eyes catch the stereo. I switch it on, and I'm not surprised when I'm greeted with the delicate, transcendent sounds of the piano. After changing the tracks several times, I decide to plug my phone in, selecting "fast car" by "Jonas Blue".

My feet inadvertently start tapping​ to the beat, and I hear Dylan chuckling, before he presses a button. A moment later, the ceiling of the car transposes, before it fully evanesces, and durable wind dominates instead, giving my hair the chance to flutter. God, how I appreciate convertible cars.

I hurry to unbuckle the seatbelt, holding onto the windshield, and stand. My eyes fight against the dashing wind, and I can't help grinning like a grand airhead. "I've seen this part in a lot of movies and was literally dying to act it out." I admit, glancing at him, only to find him beaming too, his white teeth coruscating in the darkness.