Page 39 of The Prodigal

“Your shit is taking up all the space.” He totally disregards the fact that he has more “shit” than I do.

“So, I’m guessing now isn’t the best time for me to ask if you have room for one more?” I hold up a black trash bag. “Extra sheets, just in case the real reason you bring your own sheets is for an embarrassing reason.”

Those chocolate eyes glance at me through hooded slits, then relax. “I’m scared to ask what you think is embarrassing.”

I shrug, hoping I explain it well enough to change his mood. “Like maybe you haven’t moved out of the wet-dream phase. There’s no reason to be ashamed. I hear it happens to men of all ages.”

Remington chuckles, but it’s deceiving since his voice drops low, and he reaches up and grazes my lips with his finger. “Sweet, sweet girl. You’re right on one account. I do go through sheets like underwear, but it’s not me who gets them wet.”

He steps back and shoots me a smug look that sends heat and tingles down my back. It’s been a while—and I mean, like, never—since I’ve had sex with a man, but what I think he means is the women—who I’ve never seen visit him—are the ones soaking his sheets. And that’s, well, incredibly sexy, even if he is lying. Maybe at one time, he entertained women, but no one has visited Room 101 but him. I know because I watch the ever-loving crap out of this man’s room, trying to find any clues about what he does all day, since going to class doesn’t seem to be how he spends his days.

Faking a grimace, I hand Remington the bag of sheets he’ll never sleep on since they aren’t Egyptian cotton or whatever rich people like. “Those poor girls. I can’t imagine having to pee the bed just so you think you found my G-spot.”

Remington chokes, but I keep going, clucking my tongue as if he were some prepubescent who needs sex pointers. “Lashing out when you can’t make them feel good is ridiculous. Try being nice in bed, maybe they’ll come once in a while. Who knows, you may not have to change the sheets afterward.”

Did I know I was pushing his buttons?

Absolutely.

Hell, I haven’t even foundmyG-spot.

But just seeing the twitch in Remington’s hand, before he yanks me by the arm and throws open the door to the back seat, is worth it.

“Try all you want, Eve. I’m not Adam. I won’t take a bite from the Tree of Knowledge.” Leaning forward, he cages me in with his arms. “I know who you are, and I know exactly where the sweet spot is—even in a forbidden cunt like yours.” His breath is on my face, and, God help me, I love the intoxicating smell of him—sweet poison disguised by cigarettes and mint.

But I don’t get to relish in his smell because Remington lets out an annoyed growl and shoves me into the back seat of his car, nearly clipping my foot when he slams the door.

“Hey!” I bang on the window as soon as I realize he intends for me to ride in the back the whole way to Nevada.

“You break my window or even try opening this door, and I’ll leave you here.”

Even through the glass, I can hear the threat in his voice. He’d love to leave me and go to Nevada alone. After all, being alone is his favorite pastime.

“Fine.” I settle into the seat, which is pretty comfortable, considering it’s some kind of classic car. “But I want you to promise you’ll stop when I need to pee.” No one needs a smartass tossing a cup and telling me to deal with it. Been there, done that.

Remington’s forehead wrinkles in confusion. “You think I’d rather you piss on the leather?”

“I’m just saying I’ve had a bad experience on a road trip before, and I’d appreciate it very much if you could honor bathroom requests.”

It’s as if I reached through the car and smacked him. His face tightens, and a hint of red stains his cheeks. “Is Gerald the reason you had a bad experience?”

A vein in his neck pulses, and I almost tell him the truth. But Remington has his own problems. He doesn’t need to worry about mine. He’s done enough for me already.

“No. No. Nothing like that. I just get anxious, is all.”

He knows I’m lying. I can see it in his face—the narrowing of his eyes as he tries scaring me into admitting what happened. “Are you going to stare at me all day or get in the car? I thought you were ready to leave.”

The question comes out snippier than I intended, but I don’t like how he’s looking at me—like he knows all too well what trauma looks like. Or maybe he just feels sorry for me—I can’t tell. Either way, it doesn’t matter. I’m ready to go and get as far away from here as I can.

With a quick eye roll and a dramatic sigh, Remington yanks open the door. “Get out.”

“What? Why?”

Reaching in, he pulls me out of the car and ushers me to the passenger side of the car. “You’re letting me ride in the front now?” Maybe I should allude to more childhood traumas. Seems like that might be a weakness of his.

“You have two seconds to get in the car before I leave you here to pee in as many bathrooms as you can find at this dump.”

Again, Midnight Gardens is not a dump.

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