The hopeful air of the car has been stifled and I can't help but wonder if it would've been better to leave when Rave gave me the option. Then I picture Dario's face and I know I never could have left without telling him goodbye, especially after the night we spent together. The scenery outside my window is a blur of farmland, construction, cows, faded billboards, and houses with weather stripped siding. We could be anywhere in rural Texas and I wouldn't be able to tell the difference.
The easy-going vibe we had earlier is gone and I miss it. The music is still there, but muted, maybe not in volume but in tone. It seems even the shuffle gods feel the mood. Rave's fingers move across the steering wheel on autopilot and his mouth moves with the words so subtly, I feel like a stalker for watching. It's cute.
One of us will have to break first. Two candles flickering at the end of their wicks.
"Ahem," I clear my throat and then cringe at the harsh way it sounds. The alternative was my voice coming out like fresh gravel and I'm debating whether that would have been the better option. "Thank you," I offer as my frustration with the silence burns out. "For saving me. I realize I never said it."
Being with Rave is a careful dance. On a surfboard. In a hurricane.
"You don't have to thank me for that," he sighs. "A dead hostage is worse than a live one."
And now we are back to square one.
"Why do I bother trying," I mutter. Body snatching is sounding less like a conspiracy theory and more like the answer to the man beside me.
Mr. Whiskers would never have my brain in shambles like this. Truly he's the only man I need in my life when this is over. And my stubborn self just threw a perfectly good opportunity to make that dream a reality away for what? Dario, a man who's perfect for me minus the whole wanted fugitive problem. Jaxson has so many red flags I could fly him like a kite, but I seem to have come down with a case of colorblindness that I have no intention of trying to cure. God needs a therapist and a hug and all I want to do is kneel at his feet while he gives me an ounce of his thick, gravel voiced praise. Sign me up for therapy too I guess to sort out all the daddy issues that is trying to tackle. Rave, full of anger and love, and he wields them like weapons against everyone. I'm so desperate for those weapons to protect me instead of wounding me. It feels like it's close, but then the moment is gone and he's back to seeing me on the outside.
"Do you want more?" The annoyance in his voice tells me this isn't the first time he's asked. Lost in my head again. I really should know better by now than to let myself get distracted.
"Mixed signals? Headaches? Sure, why not," I huff out.
"I meant coffee," he hesitates. "Maybe I should add to the list. I can pick up some Tylenol and whatever else you might need," he trails off.
I see red. He can't be insinuating what I think he is. He can't be that dumb. I take a deep inhale and steel my spine. "Whatever else I might need? For what?"
He looks at my face and back at the road probably three times before he goes on digging. "For entertainment purposes. We got cards and books older than any of us and boring as hell. I grew up with sisters. I'm not falling for this trap."
"You have sisters?"
"Two. One older, one younger."
"So, you're the middle child?" I giggle at the mental image of Rave being the middle child surrounded by two demanding sisters. But I can see it, it fits. He's so protective of what he considers his family because they're the only thing that is solely his.
"Let me guess, an only child? You seem like it."
"Yep. Would've been nice to have a sibling growing up. Never would've been alone," I say wistfully. Having someone else around might've saved me from making some of the worst mistakes of my life.
No use lamenting lives I never lived though. Only can change the one I'm living.
"Not as fun as it seems. No privacy, having to share everything, someone always telling you what to do. Honestly, it's a lot like the army," he laughs.
"You served?" I'm eating up these tiny scraps of him like M&M's. I think this is the longest conversation we've had without insulting each other.
"Most people I went to school with did. It's not really a big deal," he says dismissively.
The puzzle pieces are starting to connect though. Even when he gives me nothing, he gives me more than he knows. I decide to give him a break from spilling details about his life and answer his earlier question. "I'd kill for more coffee. Thanks," I tell him sincerely.
He nods, more to himself than to me and keeps driving. "There's a gas station coming up. They've got a pretty decent cappuccino for a gas station. Figure you might like it since it's mostly sugar and milk."
"I like coffee," I defend. "I just don't like the bitterness."
"That's the main flavor in coffee," he argues.
"In bad coffee. Cheap coffee. Good coffee has actual flavor to it."
"Oh, now I get it. It's not that you don't like coffee. It's just that you're a coffee snob and can't drink coffee that doesn't cost ten dollars a cup."
"Does not cost ten dollars," I grumble.
"What was that Princess? The peasant coffee offends your taste buds?"
"It offends anyone with working taste buds," I mutter.
Rave ignore my petty rumblings about coffee and focuses his attention on the road, driving through back roads until he pulls out on the main highway to a gas station a bit past its prime and probably on its last legs since the travel stop opened up a few miles up the road according to the giant billboard next door.
"Why here?" The scrunch of my nose is an unconscious decision. I need to use the restroom and we both know the bigger station is also a lot cleaner. Corporations are good for something I guess. Clean bathrooms and giant beaver mascots with cult-like followings. Just thinking of it has me craving a bag of beaver nuggets.
"Their cameras probably haven't worked since Clinton was president. Look at their ads," he points out.
The yellowing ads for cartons of Newports for ten dollars are a bit dated. The concrete, at least I'd assume that's what it is we're parked on, is stained brownish-black from years of oil spills and not a power wash even whispered about.
I may not be the germaphobe I sense Jaxson is, but even I want gloves before I touch anything. Might need a tetanus shot too. It's fine. Don't judge a book by its cover and all that, but maybe a little judgement is fine. The snacks have got to be past their expiration dates and that is something I can't stand for. Despite Rave's teasing, I am hankering for some chocolate and dying by food poisoning after all I've been through would set me up for an epic tongue-lashing match with some gatekeeping angel.
"I've got to pay inside. Feel free to grab whatever you want and leave it on the counter. Don't make me regret this," he warns before leaving the car.
Pouting and scowling at his back feels childish, but I can't help it. he brings it out of me because he's just so freaking infuriating. Ugh. I know how to be a good hostage.
It's fine. Stockholm Syndrome has been disproven as a theory anyway. I'd have fallen for Dario outside of all of this. Jaxson is a bit iffier. Honestly, I'd probably have run the other way from his intensity. Though that didn't work out the first time so we'd likely end up together through shear force of his will. God and I need more time. If only Rave didn't point out that it's running out. He's right but I'd rather eat Mexican food from North Dakota than admit it.
Opening the door to the gas station, I'm pleasantly surprised to find the lights work and aren't flickering like some slasher horror movie. The attendant looks bored as they stare at their phone, looking up only when the bell attached to the door rings. I think it's safe to say Rave had nothing to fear from me being recognized.
Perusing the aisles and coolers, I pick out more snacks than I'll need. No clue when I'll ever get this chance again. Two trips to dump my haul on the counter just about do it. Despite Rave's insistence that it's good, I hesitate to pour myself a cup of their coffee. The whole setup looks ancient, but it also looks like the most used part of the store. No dust, parts of the machine are still shiny. At least I know it's been cleaned.
I take the plunge. It doesn't come out like sludge and the smell is heavenly. If it tastes as good as it looks... Fudge, I'm going to have to admit he's right.
The bell chimes again as I'm lost in my thoughts and I duck my head before seeing it's Rave again. "Almost done?" He asks.
"Yeah, just gotta add this and we're good" I move quickly to add my drink to the counter where I notice Rave's added a few other junk snacks, even the fruit snacks I know Dario is fond of. My mouth turns up at the sight.
Rave pays in cash and takes the bags even though I offer to carry one. he just grumbles and ushers me out the door back to the car. He tosses the bags on the backseat and waits for me to take a sip with the smuggest grin I have ever seen on him.
I hope this tastes like motor oil just to spite him. Okay, maybe not. I still have to drink it after all.
"Scared Princess? That whole cup cost a dollar fifty. The change is for the Styrofoam cup."
I scoff at his insinuation that I'm a coffee snob. He knows nothing about me. Yeah, I might like good coffee, but it's my one luxury that I indulge in. I share my two tv subscriptions with Nicole because otherwise I'd watch nothing. I have a library card that I use like a lifeline to access the fictional lives I have to escape to make my own miserable existence seem bearable. They show me it could always be worse. There could be dragons and not the shifter kind.
I take a slow sip, preparing for it to burn my tongue. The liquid may as well be ambrosia with the way I want to suck it down, but I refrain. Rave's eyes are alight with victory and I groan.
"You moaned a little. If just a cup can do that, I know my brothers aren't taking care of you."
"If you can't tell the difference between a moan and a groan, perhaps that'd explain your overinflated ego. I bet you think you make all your bedmates come too. Did they sound just like those videos you watch with only your hand as company?"
He bares his teeth while he huffs out a laugh that feels like it's seconds away from turning into a growl. My heart is pounding in my chest as he looks down his nose at me like he wants to devour me like the candy bars in the backseat.
I swallow the drink down with an audible gulp and try to look anywhere else but his moss green eyes. They feel like home in a way that sets off every alarm I've armed myself with over the years. Clearly some wires have been crossed between my brain and my vagina because she is ready to roll out the welcome mat. Traitor.
"Jealous Sweetheart?"
"Of your hand? I think I'll pass," I snark back. Stupid brain. Now all I can picture is hands on me. Those huge mitts of his that I bandaged up roaming over me and making me moan more than any cup of coffee ever has.
His thick thumb pulls my bottom lip from between my teeth while the rest of his hand rests against my jaw and tickles the hair on the back of my neck. I lick at the salty taste he left behind and his eyes heat at the motion.
What I wouldn't give for a taste? Famous last words. Might as well call me Eve cause I'm taking a bite.