Page 5 of Ruined Vows

"West Dallas," he comments. "Figures."

My cheeks heat. I know what he's thinking—another rich girl living in her bubble. He's not even wrong. But he doesn't know the whole story either. I know my parents' money smoothed the path, but I've also worked hard for everything I have.

I clutch my thighs tighter together to avoid the eight-inch gash in the bench seat that exposes the yellow stuffing underneath. I don't want to imagine all the things that have happened on this bench seat. It's fine. I'll just shower when I get home. With extra hot water.

The truck roars to life, and I grab the handle above my head as we accelerate. Every muscle in my body tenses.

"Relax," he says, throwing me a look that's half smirk, half genuine concern. "You'll enjoy the ride more that way."

There's a double entendre there that sends heat spiraling through me. I try to stamp it out, but I can't help noticing how his forearms flex as he grips the steering wheel. And how sharp and handsome his profile is in the dim light.

"Is it entirely necessary to drive so recklessly?" I ask, trying to distract myself from intrusive thoughts that flash unbidden through my mind:What if I just grabbed the wheel? Or opened the door and jumped out?

Jesus, what iswrongwith me?

Issak chuckles, a deep rumble that I feel more than hear. "Reckless? I used my blinker."

Despite my anxiety, I almost smile. Almost.

"Men," I still mutter under my breath, immediately regretting it when his expression hardens.

"Oh, I get it. You're one of those."

"One of what?" I challenge, even though I know exactly what he means.

"Lemme guess. You're the kind of feminist who thinks all men are trash. Especially us big Texas boys with our big trucks."

I turn toward him, forgetting my anxiety for a moment. "Do you ever actually haul anything with this big truck?"

"All the time," he says. "When I got back from the sandbox, I worked construction and was hauling all kinds of shit back and forth."

"Sandbox?"

"Afghanistan," he clarifies with a sigh.

Something softens in me. "How long were you there?"

"Two terms. Seven years."

"Thank you for your service," I say quietly, meaning it.

He glances at me, something unreadable passing across his face. "Ya know, I never know what to say when people tell me that. Especially someone like you."

"Someone like me?" I echo, feeling defensive again.

"When the war was happening, did you even give it more than a passing thought?"

The question stings because he's right. The war was distant news headlines, easily scrolled past. I was wrapped up in my accelerated degree program, in pleasing my parents, and in building the life I thought I was supposed to have. Who has time for things like world politics or the troops when you’re so busy arranging and rearranging the books on your shelves? Or having panic attacks about all the things you’re failing at? Because you’re striving to be perfect, for everyone, at everything, all the time.

"Do you always just say every single thing that enters your head?" I deflect.

"Why wouldn't I?"

"It's called a filter."

"Fuck polite society," he says, and the way that word falls from his lips makes something tighten low in my belly.

There's a raw honesty to him that's both infuriating and fascinating. In my world, everything is polished surfaces and careful words. No one ever says what they mean.

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