Page 24 of A Shot in the Dark
Something hard presses into my ribs and I look down as he hustles me straight out to the car. “Why do you have a gun?”
He opens the door and shoves me into my seat, reaching for my seatbelt. “Maybe,” he theorizes, “because every man with any bit of the wild in him is being drawn to you like bees to the first flower of spring. Or maybe because I should’ve shot you when I started to realize who you are.”
“You can laughandjoke,” I say. “Wait. Is that why you’re being the way you’re being with me? Because of the wild inyou?”
He freezes, speculating, the seatbelt’s buckle in his hand and that hand wonderfully close to my breasts. I squirm, the warmth beginning to spread in me again. I nip his wrist, catching the edge of his glove with my teeth and give a playful growl. His head snaps around, his nose pressed to mine. For a moment he simply stares at me, transfixed. I can nearly see his eyes through the dark glass shielding them. His nostrils flare. “No,” he snaps, fastening the buckle together and yanking his hand away. “No, no,no.” He closes the door and moves quickly to start the car.
The doors lock in unison.
“The way you act—it’s not because of the wild in you. And it’s not because you like me…?”
“No!” he snaps, throwing the car into reverse.
“‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much,’” I tease.
“Shut. up.”
“Youlikeme.”
“Quit it.”
“Why is it so wrong for you to like me?”
“I don’t,” he grinds out. “Idon’tlike you. I’ve just grownused toyou. This is only a temporary arrangement. I don’t care a bit for you—and if you keep suggesting otherwise you’ll be in for the hatefuck of your life the next time I have to fuck you.”
I’m already simmering and a serious hatefuck sounds intriguing… “Wait.” I sit straight up, searching for a glimpse of his glasses, his eyes, in the rearview mirror. “Youhaveto fuck me?” I stammer, stricken. “I thought you at least likedthat… Even if I am just some ‘rich bitch’ to you.”
We’re stopped at a red light when Boots crosses his arms over the top of the steering wheel and leans his forehead against them. He groans, the sound pained and brimming with exhaustion. He straightens just as the light goes green and we vault forward once more.
And then I think about it: Boots nips me and bites me and fucks me every few hours—as he says: “seven ways to Sunday”—but he never kisses me.
And he never comes.
Hours later our road cuts through a thick swatch of forest and I catch Boots rubbing at his eyes beneath his glasses and whispering, “The woods are lovely, dark and deep…”
I lean towards him as subtly as I can and am rewarded for my stealth by another snatch of Robert Frost.
“But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep…Jesus.” He stretches. “And miles to go before I sleep…”
He’s struggling; I need him sharp. “I need to rest,” I insist, “in a motel.”
He grumbles but doesn’t argue—and that’s how I know my decision to stop is the right one.
“I can’t keep doing this,” Boots confesses, more to himself than to me, as he wraps his hand tight around my upper arm, and guides me to the motel’s desk. “My deadline’s as fucked as you’re about to be. I havenevermissed a drop or a deadline. Andnow? My reputation is gonna be in fucking tatters. Thank god I have a window before the next job’s start…” He lifts his chin and says to the man, “One room.”
The man looks me up and down, hunger clear in his eyes. He has a greasy comb-over and doesn’t look like he walks any farther than he ever has to; he’s sexy in his way. I flash him a smile.
Boots catches me and gives my arm a squeeze, seething, “No.”
The man’s eyes dart to Boots. “For how long?” the man asks him. “We offer by-the-hour.”
“An hour will do it.” Boots rubs his face with his free hand, his sunglasses bumping up high enough as he pinches the bridge of his nose that I think I nearly see his eyes.
But I don’t. What I do see are lines I never noticed before. He’s tired.
Really tired.
“How fast can you get us the rest of the way to our destination?”
