Page 5 of Personal Disaster

Not much of a reflection, anyway.

Fuck, I hate thisshit.

“Are you aware—”

“No.”

“You didn’t let me ask the question.”

“Doesn’t matter. The answer is always going to be no. On the record. No, I’m not aware. No, I can’t comment on my friends’ lives. No, I haven’t discussed whatever it is you’re asking about with them. No, no, no.”

“Are you aware that Toby Hunt’s company is working on a double-encrypted Bluetooth solid state memory device that can invisibly run in the background of a mobile phone? It will, apparently, mask the connection once it’s made. And apps can be installed on the device instead of the phone, making them invisible, too.”

“That sounds complicated.”

“Is that a no, you aren’t aware?”

I can’t answer that question. Might be time to break out another Reporter Girl comment.

But that makes me think about how her mouth pursed when I did it before, and that feels a little close to tugging on a girl’s pigtails because I likeit.

If I want to see her soft lips pull together like that again, I can find an up-front way to make that happen.

We still have hours together, afterall.

Plenty of time to explore why I’m drawn to her, even while she’s grilling me on shit I know nothing about—and some shit I know plenty about, but won’t tellher.

Ever.

That’s just how friendships go. I’m a vault.

“Are you aware that your newspaper is owned by a ruthless billionaire who doesn’t think twice about putting competitors out of business to chomp up market share?”

“I’m not actually employed by any single publication, so it’s not my newspaper. Are you aware that the blog I also write for regularly covers that sort of thing quite critically?”

No, I’ve never read the blog that was on her business card, but I sure as shit will look it up tonight. “What exactly is your goalhere?”

“You didn’t answer my question about the campground. How far isit?”

“I said I needed to check day site permits. Plural.” The truck bounces over a rut in the road, and she gasps. I keep going. “And then you pulled out your recorder, like I’m going to say something that might score you a Pulitzer Prize. So I didn’t answer your question, but I will now. We’re not going to ‘a campground’, exactly. I’m doing my daily loop of a number of day site permit locations.”

She stiffens on the passenger seat, and despite my best efforts to glare straight ahead, I see her out of the corner of my eye. I see her glance down at her recorder, and turn it off. I see her jaw tighten, then relax, and I see her sigh and turn to look out the window.

I see her cross her legs, flashing me another few inches of soft thigh.

Damn it. Now my jaw is tight, too.

That’s not to say I don’t like it. I do, but it’s a performance.

A trick.

If a woman is going to slide her skirt up her thighs for me, it’s gotta be because she wants me to chase the hem with my tongue. Because she wants to get lost for a few hours, and part company with a mutually fond memory.

Not because she thinks I can be distracted by mydick.

She taps her fingers on her knee, then sighs and lifts her hand to her mouth. Her lips part, pink and shiny, and she sinks her perfect white teeth into the fleshy pad of her thumb.

This was a mistake. I can’t drag her around the park with me. Another few hours of this antagonism and who the hell knows what will happen?

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