Page 89 of The Play

“Yep, thank you.” I buckle my seatbelt, laughing when I notice thatmyBluetooth is the device that connects to his car.

“You didn’t un-sync!” he accuses. “You promised me you did.”

“I lied to you, Hunter.” Chortling, I load a playlist that includes a bunch of Whitney Houston ballads, which I know he doesn’t like.

“You’re evil,” he says as he drives us away from town.

“Sorry, I can’t hear you. Whitney is singing.”

Then, just because I can, I sing along to “Greatest Love of All” until Hunter threatens to leave me on the side of the dark, deserted road if I don’t shut up.

“Hey, could you turn off my butt heater?” he asks. “My ass is on fire.”

“Sure.” I’m holding my phone, so I go to plop it into the cup holder. But the Rover hits a pothole at that exact moment and the phone slips from my hand and tumbles to Hunter’s feet.

“Chrissake, Semi. Grab that before it gets stuck under the gas pedal.”

“Chill out. Hold on.” I lean toward him and stretch out my arm, but the moving car sends my phone skittering across the floor mat. “Dammit, I can’t reach it. Can you try to kick it toward my hand?”

“No. I’m fucking driving.”

“Just try.”

Groaning, he tries to poke the phone with his left foot, and the SUV swerves slightly.

“Okay, no, stop doing that,” I order. “Focus on driving. I’ll do it.”

I unbuckle my seatbelt and crawl over his lower body. My hand begins wiggling around in the vicinity of his calves. The car swerves again.

“Pay attention to the road!”

“Trying to,” he grinds out. “But you keep bumping my leg.” I bend over as far as I can, until my head is squished in Hunter’s lap. I stretch out my arm again, and—yes! My fingers collide with the phone and I swiftly close a fist around it.

“Got it!” I announce, and then I move to sit up and—

I can’t.

“Demi,” Hunter orders. “Move.” The car rocks slightly to the right.

I try to lift my head again, and a jolt of pain shoots through my ear. “Oh my God,” I wail. “I told you. I fuckingtoldyou.”

“Told me what? Jesus, get up—”

“I can’t!” My voice is muffled against the fly of his jeans. “My earring is stuck.”

“Stuck on what?”

“On you! On your jeans! I don’t know what.” The position I’ve found myself in has my head wrenched to the side, so all I can see is Hunter’s knees, and his foot on the gas pedal. Rather than attempt an escape, I keep my head planted flat on his thigh.

“Try to unsnag yourself,” he pleads.

I refuse to budge. “No. It’ll rip my earlobe off, Hunter.”

“It won’t.”

“It will.” Honest-to-God tears well up in my eyes.

He growls in frustration. “It’s not gonna rip your—fuck, you know what, hold on. Let me pull over,” he says.

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