Page 12 of Fastlander Phoenix

“You shouldn’t tell strangers where you live,” he admonished her as he pulled out onto the main road.

The rumble of the truck was comforting. She rolled down the window and flopped her arm outside. “What engine does this have?”

“I know what you’re doing,” he said. “You have done that several times now.”

“Change the subject?” she guessed. “Oh yeah, I’m good at that. I’m also good at late-night corn-dog eating contests, drinking beers at live football games, Scrabble, attracting stray animals in public places, and overthinking.”

“Why didn’t your parents come visit you?” he asked, an edge to his voice.

“Why do you want to know?”

“Because it has bothered me. I sat in your room with you for hours, and no one showed up. Where were your friends? Where was your family? I feel your goodness. You aren’t sick in the head or the body. You seem normal, so what is it? You were in the hospital and really hurt, and I know the doctors called your emergency contact, so what the hell?”

“Why does it matter to you?”

“Because you are a nice human.” Ooooh, the way he said human, like it was somethingother.

“Shifter,” she accused him.

“So fucking what?”

“Potty-mouthed shifter.”

“And I’ll keep cussing. I’m not going to change for some lady I just met, who is on the last half of my last damn nerve.”

“Not asking you to change. I love curse words too.”

He slammed on his brakes, pulled over onto the shoulder, and jerked them to a stop. He parted his lips to ask a question, but she interrupted him.

“Why were you sitting in my room for hours?”

“Because…” He looked uncertain. “Because I felt sorry for you.”

And that sounded right. That sounded just right. She pursed her lips and nodded. “Of course. My ex pitied me for going through a hard time too, and it made him stay with me longer than he should’ve. It caused him to lead me on while he entertained other romantic relationships, while I was mistaking pity for love, but you know what? I didn’t choose hard times, just like no one else chooses them. I’m not interested in anyone feeling sorry for me. Never have been. I didn’t ask for that. You didn’t have to sit with me. I’m tough. I am not a victim.” Shecrossed her arms over her chest and looked out the window, waiting for him to drive again. “I’m good all on my own.”

“You didn’t have to explain all that.”

“Great. I’ll walk from here,” she said, pushing her door open. She slammed it and heard him rolling down the window as she walked away.

“No, I mean I already knew you were tough,” he called.

She frowned and turned around to see if he was messing with her, suspicious that he was setting her up for some let-down like all men did. The bait was impossible not to take, though. “How did you know?”

“Because you were hurt in the car right after the crash, and you asked if I was okay.”

She looked down at her clasped hands in her lap as the memory washed over her. Yeah, she’d asked him if he was okay. In her imagination. Because she’d seen him drawing literal fire into himself from her car, but that power didn’t exist. No man could do that. Right?

“I thought I imagined that part,” she said softly.

Wreck’s grip tightened on the steering wheel, and he clenched his jaw so hard, the muscles there twitched. “You did.”

And something hit her. It hit her like a lightning bolt. She’d crashed, and she remembered instant pain, and the explosion of the airbag, and then fire and thick smoke, and Wreck, glowing like he was part of the fire. And then he’d pulled her from the car, but he’d…

She looked down at the bandage on her arm.

“Don’t,” he said softly.

She began to unwrap the bandage, around and around her arm.

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