Page 46 of Smooth Sailing

“What?”

He came in so he wasn’t half out anymore, the door closed behind him, and he didn’t do this in order to explain his words.

He said, “One, I don’t think I’ll fit in your car.”

I hadn’t thought about this, but now that I was, I saw it was a concern.

“Two, your car is ridiculous and a deathtrap.”

I hadn’t thought about this either, but now that I was, it pissed me off.

“It is not!” I snapped.

His brows shot up. “You against an SUV or a dually, which is mostly what they got in this town, a town where I’ve noticed people pretty much go their own way no matter the widely accepted laws of the road, which are actual laws of the fuckin’ road, you’re toast.”

I’d never thought about this either, and I couldn’t say he was wrong.

Especially about Phoenix drivers.

I’d long since learned to park any inclinations of road rage, seeing as I’d be harboring murderous tendencies on every inch of asphalt I encountered. And that crap took way too much energy.

Now, I just let everyone go their own way. As long as I got home in one piece without feeling the need to sharpen any knives, I was good.

I felt my lips thin because I hated to be wrong.

Annnnnnnd another thing I shared with my dad.

Crap!

“Three, because of one and two, my ass will never be in that silly piece of metal you call a car,” he concluded.

“Maybe you can follow me to work,” I bargained.

“Maybe you can shut it and just get on the back of my bike.”

“Okay, Hugger, I may be in day three of my blowout, but that doesn’t mean I want it destroyed.”

“Your what?”

I jabbed a finger at my hair. “Blowout.”

“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered.

He then said no more.

I said no more.

We went into stare down.

I wasn’t sure how much time passed, but if I had to guess, it was a full five minutes before he spoke, which meant we were edging toward me being late for work.

Not that my boss would care, she wasn’t even going to be there.

It was the principle of the thing (as Dad had taught me).

“You ready to go to work?” he asked.

Gah!

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