Page 8 of One Bad Idea
"Making the sandwich."
I felt my jaw clench. "I'm not making you a sandwich."
A quiet scoff escaped his lips. "You're tellingme."
"What?"
"I’m just saying, Iknowyou're not making it. But you could."
Slowly, as my teeth ground against each other, I looked down to the kitchen counter. The sandwich was mostly made. In fact, all it needed now was maybe a squirt of mayo, a dash of mustard, and the top bun. Surely, he could handlethat.
I gave a snort of derision. "It's almost done."
"I know," he said. "So you're getting off light."
"What?"
"I mean," he said, "I've done most of the work already, so really, you should feel lucky."
I wanted to throttle him.Lucky?
What a total jackass.
Within the last twenty hours, I'd lost my job, crashed my car,anddriven halfway across the country in a vehicle that wasn't even my own. On top ofthat, I'd just spent my last forty dollars on gas, and I had no idea how I'd be filling the tank to get home.
But all of this would be nothing if only I could find my friend.
And what was this guy doing?Taunting me.
I frowned. Or maybe he was stalling.
Either way, I'd had just about enough.
Speaking very slowly and deliberately, I said, "Where. Is. Cassidy?"
He grinned. "Why? You worried?"
Just like earlier, that grin did funny things to my insides. This would've been bad enough under normal circumstances, but now, it was doubly annoying, because that warm funny feeling was followed by a bolt of guilt so strong it should've toppled me over.
I was a monster.
My friend was in trouble, and here I was, going all weak-kneed, just because some lunkhead smiled at me.
For some reason, it was the final straw. "Of course I’m worried!" I yelled. "She's in trouble. I just know it."
If he was startled by my sudden outburst, he gave no sign. "You're telling me," he muttered.
I froze. "What?"
"I'm just saying, my brother's got that look."
"What look?"
Now, he was frowning, too. "Trouble."
"Trouble for who?" Again, I felt myself swallow. "Her?"
He shrugged. "So, you'renotgonna finish it?"
