Page 34 of Draven

We still might.

“Pull off here,” I say after we’ve been driving for an hour. “Turn right at the end.”

Louise obeys without argument—a refreshing change—and stops at a red light. She rubs her eyes, then yawns.

“You should have let me drive.”

“If it shuts you up, I’ll let you drive on the way back.”

I tsk, shaking my head. She’s so fucking transparent, she gives a pane of glass a run for its money. “So you can have a beer? Nice try, sweetcheeks, but you can’t have it all ways. You wanted to drive. I get the beer.”

“Asshole,” she mutters.

“Y’know, you call me that so often, I should have used it as my cover name.”

“That probably is your true name, which is why you only go by your surname.”

Inclining my head sideways, I raise an eyebrow. “How do you know Draven isn’t my first name?”

She looks at me out of the corner of her eye, then accelerates once the light changes to green. “Well, is it?”

Nice try, sweetcheeks. I recall when we worked together, Louise had tried every angle she could think of to get me to fess up to my full name. It hadn’t worked then, and it won’t work now.

“That the best you’ve got? Your interrogation skills haven’t improved in the last eight years, then.”

A rumble echoes through her chest, arrowing straight for my groin. Fuck’s sake. Is everything she does or says or doesn’t do or doesn’t say going to give me a fucking hard on tonight?

“You are such a jackass, Draven. Fine. If you won’t tell me, I’ll make up a Christian name for you, and it’ll be way better than Harrison.” She cradles her chin, considering her options. “Got it.” She beams. “From now on, I’ll call you Dotty.”

I burst out laughing. “Dotty Draven?”

“It’s as good a name as any,” she says, her grin almost splitting her face in two. “Anyway, I heard ‘Dotty’ means slightly mad or eccentric to the British. Suits you perfectly.”

“How the fuck do you know that piece of trivia?”

She shrugs. “I read a lot. I like words.”

“You’re telling me,” I say, my tone loaded with enough sarcasm that I could pass for British. “You use enough of ‘em.”

Her hand shoots out, whacking me on the upper arm.

“Ow.” I rub where she hit me, though it didn’t hurt one bit, but I’m enjoying this exchange far too much to let it fizzle out. I think we both need a few minutes of lightheartedness, especially in light of the investigation. That she’s holding it together when her sister has been missing for almost a week now, and after I shared what I’d discovered about Shala just endears her to me more. She’s one badass woman. A queen fit for a king.

I intend to wear that fucking crown.

“Serves you right,” she says.

“You hit hard… for a girl.”

Amusement pinwheels across her face. “I held back. Didn’t want to make you cry.”

I snort a laugh. “Dream on.”

“Oh, I will, Dotty. I will.”

I laugh harder. It’s not something I do all that often, and it feels weird yet oddly addictive. Without even knowing it, she’s chipping away at how angry and hurt I was about yesterday. It’s no longer compartmentalized. It’s unpacked, smoothed over, and put away. That doesn’t mean I won’t punish-fuck her. I intend to. She deserves it for not trusting who I am—for thinking the worst of me. Then again, if the way she kisses is any indication of how she fucks, she’ll enjoy that punishment fuck as much as I’ll enjoy giving it to her.

It’s odd how life works out. Back when we worked together, I’d thought about making a move, but at twenty-one, she’d been too young, too wide-eyed, and far too innocent.

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