Page 6 of Obey

Another phone chime, more laughing emojis.

“Please? You were so nice to me on an otherwise sucky day.” She flashes her cut up hands at me. “Let me do something nice for you.”

She’s a bullshitter. I don’t do nice. And for a half second when I first moved to this seat and ignored her bubbly disposition it took her a long minute to slide her smile onto her face. Then she got pissed I wasn’t chatty like she is. She was big mad I was rude to her off the bat.

She gasps again. Thankfully people are too busy trying to deplane to pay her much attention. “I’ve been drinking.” She gestures to the empty glass on her tray table. “I can’t drive after that.”

Fuck. She’s probably not wrong. But she’s also not my problem. She got herself into this, she can get herself out of it. She’s a grown-ass woman.

When the aisle clears, I stand up and grab my bag from overhead, then, before she can ask me to pull hers down too, I sit hers on the chair I vacated.

“Thanks.” She stands and shuffles into the aisle. “Hey, so, do you drive? If so, you could drive my car. It makes no sense youtrying to find a ride in this weather. Unless you have some really daredevil friends, I doubt you’ll find anyone to come out here and grab you.”

Another check of my messages, and it seems she’s right. I’m on my own. The weather is bad across the city and people are staying the fuck home where they can. I don’t blame them, even if it’s inconvenient for me.

Ugh. Fuck. Generally speaking, I don’t do strangers. I have my people, and they’re my people, and I don’t need new people. But I need a ride back to Raquel and this chick needs to put some time between the alcohol and driving anywhere.

Logically, it makes sense. Even if I don’t like it.

We deplane and head back into the airport. A frenzy of people and noise and movement surround us. There’s no way I’m getting out of here alive by myself, and if she stays here she’ll probably end up offering to drive a serial killer or two home.

She's not my responsibility, but I’d rather not be interviewed by the cops or a news crew when her dead body is found post-thaw. Why she’s even offering to drive me anywhere when I could be one of the aforementioned serial killers is anyone’s guess. ButIknow I’m not a serial killer, and I’d rather not feed her to one by leaving her here.

That said, if anyone could chase away a murderer it’d be this woman. She’d talk at them until they curled into a ball on the floor.

She’s still talking at me. Though at this point I have no idea about what.

She grabs me by the elbow and jerks me forward so hard I almost let go of my hand luggage. She’s surprisingly strong for a five-feet tall word tornado. “Come on, Mr. Grumpypants. Let’s go find Bessie and get out of here.”

Who the fuck is Bessie?

Chapter Three

JAGGER

Turns out, Bessie is a two hundred year old, piece of crap Camry. There’s rust on the doors, the trunk doesn’t close all the way—so much so, it’s tied closed with a piece of rope—and at least two of her tires are damn near bald.

I dread to think of what Bessie looks like under the hood.

Raking my hands through my hair, I’m struggling not to look a gift horse in the mouth. But this gift horse is asthmatic, on life support, and could crap out at any moment. “What the fuck is this?” Apparently, I’m not onlylookinga gift horse in the mouth, I’m giving it a verbal smack for good measure.

She leans toward the car, dusting snow off the hood. “Don’t listen to the grumpy man, Bessie. You’re a beautiful, strong, and capable machine, and we really need for you to dig deep and take us to safety. Okay?”

I’d laugh at her for talking to her car, but my own ride, Raquel, is probably my best friend. She doesn’t talk back, doesn’t let me down, and doesn’t judge me for not being a bright and sunshine-y dude like a lot of humans do.

Without another word, I hold my hand out for the keys. She looks at it, looks up at me, then slides her hand into my palm.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Pulling my hand from hers, I shake my head before reaching across to take the keys from her other hand.

Her hands flutter to her mouth, but she doesn’t speak. Her face turns crimson, jaw hanging open as she stares at the keys in my grasp, not making eye contact.

Leaving her to her feelings, I circle the car and get in. I’m not a religious man, but I consider sending up a prayer to whoever might be listening for this piece of shit car to start.

My travel buddy slips into the passenger seat, the worn and cracked leather squeaking under her ass as she settles in place. “Bessie knows you’re judging her.”

Good. She fucking should. This car should have been sent to car heaven years ago. It’s probably older than this chick’s mamaw who makes peach cobbler. Almost on cue, my stomach gives a roar. First stop, food. Otherwise neither of us will make it to where we’re supposed to be.

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