Page 7 of Fall Wherever They May

“Well, Hotshot, if you wanted my number, you could have asked for it; you didn’t have to hit my car.” Okay, so I know that was lame and completely cliché, but at this point it’s either I make a joke or I cry, and I refuse to shed another damn tear today.

“Of course, I would have to go and hit a puck bunny’s car,” he mumbles under his breath.

“Excuse me? A what bunny?”

He doesn’t respond, and I’m left questioning what the hell this guy is talking about. Maybe he’s the one who’s drunk. He is the one who hit my car, not the other way around. Also, he’s rambling nonsense like a crazy person. Shaking my head, I hand him my license and insurance verification, then take his. I look at his picture, then back at him, making sure it’s the same person, then glance at his name and take a picture of both items. Callan Miles, such a nice name for a pretentious asshole. I realize he’s still holding the puppy and fumbling to get pictures of my information, so I take the little guy out of his arms.

He inspects my license. “Aspen R. Taylor, from . . . Stroud, Oklahoma. You’re a long way from home, aren’t you?” He reaches out a hand to give my items back.

I pluck them from his hand, a little more forceful than necessary, then toss the items into my purse. When I turn around, I find him staring at my legs. I smirk. His jaw ticks. I raise a brow. He frowns. Finally, I answer his question. “This is my home now . . . new home, new job, new life.”

“It was a rhetorical question.”

“This is exhausting,” I snap, massaging my forehead before peering back up at him. “I want to be an asshole right now because clearly you’re being one to me. I wasn’t raised to be rude and hateful, but you’re quickly pushing me to the point of showing a side of myself that not even I have seen. You’re theone who hit me! Remember?” I point my finger at him. “If you weren’t being a bumper humper, then maybe you would’ve had plenty of time to stop.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “Just give me your number so we can get out of the street.”

I roll my eyes. “Nope. I’m good, Hotshot!”

“Why not?” He asks.

I place a hand on my hip. “Because you don’t need it. You have my insurance agent’s number. File a claim or don’t. I really don’t give a shit. Do whatever you feel you need to do for yourself—that’s on you. I’ve decided I’m not filing a claim. I’m getting rid of this beat-up thing anyway.”

“Why is it beat up? Oh, that’s right, because you drive like shit?” He smirks.

“No, that’s not why it’s beat up, you fucking moron. And just so you know, not that you’re entitled to shit, but I changed my mind on filing a claim because the less I have to deal with you, the better. You know, people live frugal lives and drive old cars. I don’t think I’ve ever met a single fucking person whoneededa Lamborghini to overcompensate for anything they may be lacking . . . well . . . until I met you.” I glance down at his crotch, then back at him and smirk. He lets out a grunt, then smirks right back.Ugh!He’s excruciating. “I don’t have to stand here and explain my decisions to anyone, least of all to you.”

I turn around and throw one arm up in the air in exasperation. Spinning back around to face him, I point my finger at his face. “You really bring out the worst in people. You know that?”

Turning back to my Honda, I lean in and place the puppy on the passenger seat. I close my eyes and let air fill my lungs in a futile attempt to calm down.

Before I leave him stranded in the middle of the road, I should at least try to be the bigger person and do the right thing.“If you have everything, I’m going to head home. Do you need me to call you a tow truck?”

I tilt my head at his silence as he raises one eyebrow at me like I’m stupid. “Oh right, you have your phone that you use with ‘hands-free calling.’ I use air quotes and mimic him like an immature teenage girl.

I can’t help it! He has seriously turned me into a fucking psycho.

“Alright, are we good here then?”

He nods with a smirk, obviously enjoying my tantrum.Prick!

“Okay, well, thanks . . . I mean . . . you know what I fucking mean.” I wave my hand around in the air. He chuckles, and the sound of it would be like music to my ears if he didn’t just turn me into Satan. Also, did I just thank him for hitting my car? Yes. Yes, I fucking did. I just made myself look like a complete idiot!

My head bangs twice against the steering wheel. I start my engine and take off, leaving the asshole behind. A few minutes later, I glance in the rearview mirror, finding Callan’s car following mine. I turn into my neighborhood and stop at the security booth. The jerk-face pulls in behind me. Of course he would live in my neighborhood. That just seems to be the luck I have today. The security guard on duty, who appears to be in his mid-thirties, approaches my car; his brown eyes assessing.

“Hi. You have your driver’s license on you?”

Smiling politely, I take a quick peek at his name. “I sure do, Leo.”

I grab my purse out of the passenger seat, place the bag on my lap, and rummage through it. Where the fuck did my license go? If I had just put the damn thing back in my wallet instead of carelessly throwing it into my purse, I wouldn’t be sitting here . . . holding up the asshole behind me. Glancingup into my rearview mirror, I find Callan impatiently tapping his thumb against the steering wheel. I spot my license at the bottom of my purse, but I’m not handing it over quite yet. I chuckle to myself and glance up at Leo. “Sorry. Just one more second. I know it’s in here somewhere.”

Callan bangs the back of his head against his headrest a few times. I snort.Hope you have somewhere you need to be, fucker.

I internally—and very slowly—count to thirty.

“Aha!” I mock surprise. “Here you go, sir.” I hand over my license.

Leo looks at his clipboard. “Oh, you’re the new girl over on Bennett.” His left forearm rests on top of my car as he leans in to talk to me.

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