Page 22 of Beat around the Bush
She sighed and reached for the seat belt, clicking it into place. Satisfied, I closed the door, coming around to the driver's side. I got in and started the truck, cranking the heater. It wasn’t raining now, but it was freezing out as the night air settled in. Oakley’s head lolled back against the seat as I drove out of the parking lot.
“Where do you live?” I asked her, hesitating before turning onto the main road so I knew which direction to go.
“Melody Drive,” she mumbled.
I knew exactly where that was. Having lived in Bell Buckle my entire life, I knew every street and back road like the back of my hand. Melody Drive wasn’t the nicest neighborhood. Lots of people who couldn’t afford properties lived down there. Most of the houses were barely big enough for a family of three.
It was a short drive past a few hay fields before I turned onto her street.
“It’s the one with the white mailbox,” she said.
Keeping my eyes peeled, I drove until I found the one. I pulled into the driveway and killed the engine, getting out and coming around to open her door. By the time I had it open, she had her seat belt off, but didn’t move to get out of the truck.
Her temple was leaning against the headrest as she looked at me. “You don’t have to walk me to my door,” she slurred.
“I at least want to make sure you get inside okay.” I wasn’t going to just drop her at the curb and leave.
She went to get out, then paused, eyeing me. “You’re not going to try to sleep with me, are you?”
I chuckled, shaking my head. “No, Oakley. You’re drunk.”
She raised an eyebrow. “If I wasn’t?”
“Well, you are, aren’t you?”
She pulled her bottom lip in between her teeth like she was trying to decide if she truly was drunk or not. “Yeah, I guess I am.”
She slid out of the seat, our bodies mere inches from each other as she got her bearings on her two feet. “Do you want your jacket back now?” she whispered.
A smile pulled at the corners of my mouth. “Why are you whispering?”
“I wasn’t sure if you wanted people to hear.”
“Oak, look around. There’s no one here.”
She did, pouting out her lower lip as her eyes met mine again. “Well, do you want your jacket back?” she whispered again.
I tried my best to hold back my laugh and shook my head. She was so fucking cute. “No. Come on, it’s cold.”
This time as we walked, my hand hovered near her shoulder blade. My palm itched to feel her tiny frame under my jacket, but I willed it to stay an inch away.
We approached her front door and she dug through her pockets under my jacket, searching for her keys. Once she found them, she tried to shove one in the keyhole, but failed miserably.After many unsuccessful attempts, I finally grabbed them from her, inserting the key myself and twisting the lock.
“I’m sorry. It’s cold and I probably drank too much and-”
“Oak, it’s fine.” I cut her off. I could listen to her ramble all day, but not if she was apologizing. She apologized too damn much, and I hated whoever instilled in her that she had to be sorry for such little things.
I pushed the door open and she walked inside, then turned, looking at the door frame like it was some barrier that would keep her safe from me. Maybe we needed to keep that barrier up, if only to prevent ourselves from the complications of this going further. She was buzzed, so I wouldn’t do anything with her, but that wouldn’t stop her from trying. Alcohol made people do things they may not want to do sober, and I didn’t want things to be awkward at work.
“You can come in, if you’d like,” she said.
And there goes that barrier.
My hand idly rubbed at the back of my neck as I stepped in, closing the door behind me. She flicked on a light, showcasing the small living room with a tiny kitchen attached. There was all the necessary furniture, but nothing really of hers, it seemed like. No pictures, no girly rugs. It looked like a seventy-year-old woman had thrifted all the furniture from a retirement home.
She plopped on the couch, looking over at me taking in the room. “Sorry it’s so-”
I pinned her with a look. “Oak.”
