Page 51 of Dizzy

If she didn’t like it, she’d act different. Wouldn’t she? She’d be keepin’ her head down. Acting skittish. She wouldn’t bait me and sass me. Right? Still, it ain’t fun if she’s not into it.

“You need, like, a word?” I clear my throat. Keep my eyes on the road. My mouth is dry.

“A word?”

“You know. If you don’t like it. If shit goes too far.”

She shifts. Props her feet up on the dash.

“Feet down.” That’s an easy way to break your legs in a fender bender.

She huffs, but she drops them back to the floor. “Banana.”

“Banana?”

“You got a problem with my safe word?”

“Nope.”

“I changed my mind. I want rutabaga.”

“You can’t change your mind.”

“Rutabaga!”

“Nope.”

“What about falafel?”

“You hungry?”

“A little bit.”

“There’s a protein bar in the glove box.”

“Gross. I’m not that hungry.”

“Suit yourself.”

“I will.” She stares straight ahead, a smile playing at the corner of her lips.

We’re quiet for a while. She turns on the radio, flips from station to station.

As we pass through the gate at Gracy’s Corner, the bougiest address in town—which ain’t sayin’ much for this part of the world—she holds up my credit card.

“You want this?”

“You keep it. Don’t charge more than three thousand at one time. It’ll trigger the fraud detection.”

“Are you shitting me?”

“If I don’t know exactly where you are, I cancel it. After whatever you bought will tell me exactly where you are.”

“And then you come for me.”

“And then I come for you. You better hope I find you first and not the club.”

She swallows, and then she licks those pouty lips with that little scar.

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