Page 12 of Burn It Down

I believe that smirk will be the death of me.

Chapter 5

Jake

My father is going to hang my ass from the fancy light fixture in the office lobby when I get back to work. Not only was I supposed to submit a portfolio analysis to a big client an hour ago, my dad and I are supposed to have our one-on-one quarterly strategy meeting in fifteen minutes.

But currently seated next to Dylan, I have no plans to rush back to work.

Dylan looks good in my passenger seat even though I can tell he’d rather drive. The way his leg is bouncing and his fingers twitch every time I take my hand off the wheel are dead giveaways that he’s used to being in control.

The sun’s out and it’s as hot as usual in late summer in the south. I briefly thought about dropping the top, but I’d rather be able to hear him.

Not to mention, I like how intimate it feels being enclosed like this.

Adrenaline is still coursing through my body and I’m glad that brick missed his head. Otherwise, I’d probably be getting booked for first degree murder right now. To be fair, I’d feel that way no matter who they hit. Hate crimes are abhorrent.

“Turn left up here,” Dylan instructs. “We’ll drive about six miles and then take a series of right-hand turns and you can tell me what you feel.”

What I feel.

After only three encounters, I feel too much. Excitement. Joy. Lust. That burning desire to be around someone and learn everything about them. It’s been a while since I’ve felt like this and I’m eager to hold on to it as long as I can.

The air in the car right now is almost crackling as if I’m creating my own static electricity. I hope like hell Dylan doesn’t notice because there’s no explanation for the energy emanating from me other than the truth.

I want him.Badly.

I risk a glance at Dylan whose tatted left elbow is resting on my center console. His hands are glorious. Nice fingers and nails. Sure, there’s grease on his hands, but he doesn’t bite his nails or pick at them, that much is obvious. A full sleeve of tattoos winds up his right arm and I’m dying to see the rest of it.Was that ink on his side I saw the day we met? Do the two connect? Is it all black or is there color somewhere?I have to force myself to bring my eyes back to the road as the back of my neck breaks out in a sweat.

Ink has always been my weakness. Although I don’t have a tattoo myself, I’m a fucking sucker for those that do.

“Six miles you said?” I ask, trying to pull it together. I need to dump this energy somehow and the gas pedal beneath my right foot seems like a good way to do it.

He nods.

“How straight is it?”

He looks at me and smiles wickedly. “Straight enough.”

Based on what’s happening below my belt, that statement is painfully ironic.

Without another word, I press the pedal to the floor. We were already going fifty miles an hour. Three seconds later, we’re moving at one hundred and ten.

I hit one hundred and twenty and stay there for a couple miles before I take my foot off the gas and coast back down to a reasonable speed, knowing I’m going to miss our turn. Slamming on the brakes from that high of a speed isn’t any easier on the passengers than it is on the car and I don’t want to risk rolling it or tearing up my tires.

As we pass by the road I’m supposed to take, we’re still going ninety-five and Dylan points. “When you swing back around, that’s your turn.”

“Got it.”

Am I dragging this joy ride out on purpose? Absolutely.

The craziest part? Dylan doesn’t seem to mind.

A minute later, he leans over the console into my space and I damn near crash when I get a whiff of his shampoo so close to my face.

“Okay, you’re good,” he says, planting his ass back in the seat, confusing the hell out of me.

I have to cough to make my voice reappear. “Good for what?” I swear to God, if he brushes against me in any way, I’m going to come in my fucking pants.

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