Page 8 of Obey

Feels like Wendy’s blasphemy if you ask me. Why do they even let her eat there?

“How old are you?” She asks.

“Twenty five.”

“Any siblings?”

“Nope, only child.” Usually I wouldn’t entertain rapid-fire question-time like this, but if she wants to poke into my life to make sure I’m not a murderer, then I’ll do whatever makes her more comfortable in this situation.

“Favorite fruit?”

“Pineapple.” It’s not, but there’s an almost in-joke in the kink community about pineapple being a safe-word. My joke falls flat.

She rolls her lips, a ‘v’ appearing between her brows. “Good choice. Not my favorite, but good choice.”

Huh. I guess she’s big into her fruit.

“If you could go anywhere in the world and cost or time wasn’t an issue, where would you go?”

Away from this fucking situation I’ve somehow found myself stuck in. “Japan.”

“Where do you live?” She’s craning to look out the window, her brows scrunched in confusion as the white wonderland out the window passes by at a snail’s pace.

“My car’s at work.” I fold the last few fries into my mouth, hoping my answer didn’t crack the door to further questioning.

“Where do you work?”

“A garage.” I’m not telling her I work at a sex club. Mary Poppins here would probably cry and attempt to launch herself out of the moving vehicle. Granted, we aren’t going all that fast at the moment, and there’s a thick blanket of snow on theground, but I bet she’d do some damage if she ejected herself out the door.

“And a bar.”

She hums. There’s a quick beat of judgmental silence then the car pings. It could be the temperature alert to tell us it’s getting colder outside, but the check engine light comes on.

Goddamn mother fuck. Of course I get sat beside someone who doesn’t maintain their held-together-by-tape-and-rope vehicle.

“Don’t panic. Bessie does this sometimes. You don’t need to check the engine.”

“The hell I don’t.” I said the quiet part out loud again.

She flinches, not sure whether it’s at the language choice, the tone, or the fact I told her she’s wrong.

Fire flashes in her eyes before she leans forward to poke my arm. “Listen here, Grumpasaurus. I know how to take care of my car. I can change a fuse, change a headlight bulb, check the oil and the battery connections,andfill up the wiper fluid.” She huffs. “Technically I can change a tire too, but I’m usually not strong enough to loosen the nuts.”

Her indignation is adorable, like a storm in a teacup. There’s something hot as hell about that spark of life. Also about the fact she claims she can maintain her car to that extent. She’s probably right about loosening the nuts to change a tire, she looks like I could pick her up and put her in my pocket.

“I’m still going to check.” It’s the responsible thing to do, especially in inclement weather. I wouldn’t bet on her having an emergency kit in the trunk. And even if she did, I’m not sure she could untangle the knot holding the damn thing shut.

I pull over and pop the hood. To her credit, it’s pretty clean and well maintained. She could do with a washer fluid top up, especially in a fucking snow storm, but nothing seems out of place.

“Told you so.” She doesn’t sound smug or patronizing when she speaks, more defeated. Whatever her damage, it isn’t my problem.

By the time we pull into the Protocol parking lot, it’s really coming down, and an emergency weather alert comes through on our phones saying that the city is shutting down. I’m not sure we’re going to get very far beyond the club.

With a heavy sigh, I cut the engine and turn to my Half-Pint co-pilot. “You should come inside.”

Her brows bounce up her forehead. “Wh-what?” She’s got a “He’s most definitely a serial killer” look on her face.

I gesture out the window.

---