Page 12 of Forbidden Lyrics

Squeezing my eyes shut, I pray for him to go away, too, and mutter, “Yup.”

Annoyed, he strides closer. “You were supposed to go home fifteen minutes ago. I’m closing up. The doors are already locked––”

“I know.” I dig through my purse once more, his annoyance fanning my anxiety like a freaking wildfire. “My keys. I can’t find them.”

He stops short and rocks back on his heels. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Thankfully, I have my phone, so I’ll, uh…I’ll check the bus schedule or something. It still runs this late at night, right?”

With a sigh, he squats next to me and glances inside my locker. “Your keys have to be around here somewhere. I’ll help you look.”

“Seriously. Don’t worry about it. The fob on my key doesn’t work, so I usually push the lock button on the door before closing it. Unfortunately, it was kind of chaotic when I got here, so I think I locked them inside. I’ll take the bus and pick up my car tomorrow. It’s fine.”

He studies me carefully, his nostrils flaring before he stands back up to his full height. With his keys and phone in hand, he tilts his head toward the exit. “Come on. I’ll give you a ride.”

“Oh. No, you don’t have to do that––”

“You’re not taking the bus at two in the morning.”

“It’s fine––”

“Bullshit. Now, stop arguing. Come on.”

Bunching the hem of my shirt into my hands in hopes of it drying my sweaty palms, I tug down the cotton material, hook my purse over my shoulder, and follow him outside. The air is cool but still holds a bit of warmth from earlier today. However, it doesn’t stop my skin from pebbling with awareness.

Because he’s close. Too close for comfort, really. A thirty-second conversation here and there is one thing. But a twenty-minute car ride? I’m not sure I can handle it.

The lights on his old car flicker as he unlocks the doors before he rounds the corner to the passenger side and opens it for me.

I peek over at him and smile tightly. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

The cab of his car is quiet but stifling as he turns on the ignition and pulls out his phone. “What’s your address?”

“It’s an old apartment complex on Heath Drive,” I tell him.

“With the red brick?”

“Yes?” I return, though it comes out like a question. How does he know what it looks like?

He sets his phone in the cupholder between us, then pulls out of his parking spot. “I know the place.”

“Okay.” I settle into the worn leather seat and fold my arms as we fly down the street. This is awkward. What am I supposed to say to him? He probably thinks I’m an idiot for locking my keys in my car. I mean, who does that?

Tucking my hands beneath my bare thighs, I bite my lip and stare out the windshield.

This is so awkward.

After a couple minutes, his voice breaks the silence. “Do you have a spare?”

Confused, I tear my gaze away from the windshield and look over at him. “What?”

“A spare set of keys,” he clarifies.

“Oh. Um…yes. It’s at my sister’s apartment. My apartment.”

“You live with your sister?”

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