Kill of the Night [BXB]

Chapter 11

"If I have to go, I'll go. If I have to do homework, I'll do homework. I'm not losing football."

"I get that. You couldn't pry my binder from my cold dead hands."

"You're not wearing a seatbelt. Those hands of yours might become cold sooner than you thought."

"I'm already half dead, I doubt they can get much colder."

"Really? Is that why you kill the energy in every room you walk into?"

"I regret trying to be polite."

"You're a motherfucker."

"Your mother christened me with that title last night."

His flicker to mine, and I see the disbelief in his eyes. His lips curve up in the hint of a smile, but he masks it with a mocking smirk. "I'm sure she loves going for history nerds like you."

"Yes, she loves them so much she raised one. You don't have to pretend to be a brainless jock in front of me. I'm sure your friends would hate to see how high your IQ actually is."

"I don't have a high IQ, I have a photographic memory."

"Oh, so you came preinstalled with an excuse when your teachers in middle school pulled you aside and asked if you cheated?"
His hands clench around the wheel. "That's fucking creepy."

"It explains the drive for low grades. It became bothersome when teachers got suspicious, so you decided to lay low in high school. Pair that with the popularity you obtained from your charming personality, perfect looks, and athletic abilities, you're destined for the suburbs in the state you're in. If you'd used your memory to your advantage, you would be an early accepted student at Harvard or Stanford or some other top college. Still, your future jobs will love you."

"Stop," he mutters.

"It's sad, really. It's not a failure of yourself, but rather a failure of the environment you were raised in. You could have had it all, but instead, your teachers probably pushed you down. Did you feel guilty at all for your memory? Is that also why you tried to get lower grades? Because you think of it as cheating just like everyone around you, and you've been raised to look down on people who don't need to put in any effort for their success?"

"Stop."

"I'm just saying, and I'm shutting up now, that with gifts comes the wrapping that you have to throw away. Maybe it's time to throw it away."

Rion breathes heavily. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel. "You don't know me. You aren't going to know me. As soon as this is over, you're out of my life. Permanently. I don't need you, I never wanted—" He sucks in a breath. His eyes cut into the windshield. He stops for the red light in front of us.

I feel my face twinge. He's right, I shouldn't have said so much, and I'm lucky he hasn't tossed me out of his truck. "Sorry," I say, trying to keep my voice even and genuine. "I didn't mean to overstep. It's not my business how you deal with anything in your life."

Silence falls over us, thick and heavy with tension.

It takes another ten minutes for him to pull to the side of the road. Beside me, I spot a building with a wall of glass. Just like the photos on their website, the Warrent War Museum is large and proud on its plot of land. It borders an ice cream shop and a dingey second hand bookstore. I step out, admiring the metallic stenciled sign that bears its name. Rion's truck clicks again behind me, and he steps up beside me.

"I hope those tickets are valid," he says. "I'm not paying for this shit."

"I wouldn't need your money even if they were invalid."