Page 40 of Reading Between the Lines
“I say we go back to our rented room and have a nice, long, hot, aromatic bath together. Then, we can order food and eat in bed under the warm, pink, frilly comforter—together—as we chat about how we intend to infiltrate a high school writing club without getting ourselves in trouble…Together.Notice my emphasis on the word together?”
Diem put the Jeep in gear instead of participating in the conversation or offering an opinion, but he didn’t take us toward the highway and home, aiming instead for the B&B in the center of town.
I did not gloat out loud lest I find myself single on the side of the road with no way back to Toronto.
“Delaney might know when the writing club meets. We could call her in the morning. Talk with dear old Irvin again,” I said.
Diem ignored the suggestion.
“Or we could chat about how I’m going to cuddle the stuffing out of you later when we share a bed… after a bath of course.”
“I wish those goddamn fucking kids had still been in the cafeteria when we left.” Diem punched the steering wheel. “We could have asked them about the club. If they knew Weston, they might have been able to tell us who his fucking friends were or where we might find the girlfriend. I knew that fucknuts teacher was going to give us nothing. Asshole.”
“Bump in the road, D. Tomorrow is another day. We aren’t done yet.”
“He’s a fucking liar. I could see it on his face. He knew the writing was different but didn’t want to contradict what he told the police. Wanna bet whoever investigated this before was simply entertaining Delaney? Crossing their t’s and dotting theiri’s. They didn’t fucking care. They didn’t believe it from the start. Probably thought it was a goddamn joke. They devised a viable reason for the story and encouraged Mr. Too-Hot-for-His-Own-Good English Teacher to go along with it to save themselves a pile of paperwork. I fucking hate cops. Lazy pieces of shit are what they are. Then I get stuck cleaning up their mess for half the pay. Every fucking time. It’s bullshit.”
Diem seethed at a red light, and I patted his thigh. “That’s good, babe. Let it all out. It’s not healthy when the ugly gets stuck inside. And, Guns, when you’re calmer, you better tell me I’m hotter than that old stiff at the high school because your comment hurt my feelings. I know he had amazing hair, but that one attribute does not a hottie make.”
The light turned green.
Diem drove.
After half a block, his shoulders came down, and he moved a hand from the steering wheel and took mine, weaving our fingers together. “He’s got nothing on you. Trust me.”
I smiled. Then, to be an ass, I belted out the opening lyrics to “November Rain” like I’d done earlier. “Do you hear it? This could be our song.” I gasped. “Guns and Roses. It’s fate. You’re Guns and I’m Roses. It’s perfect. Sing it with me.”
I gave Diem props for trying to scowl, but it didn’t land, and before we got to the B&B, around the time I was massacring the chorus, Diem chuckled and shook his head. “You’re such a fucking shit.”
Yes, yes, I was, and I kept right on singing, off-key and with stage-worthy dramatics. Nothing beat Diem’s smile but getting him to laugh was better than winning the lottery.
When we entered our room, I stripped off my wet clothes and left them on the floor. Diem’s nose was stuck in a perpetual snarl—the overpowering scent of potpourri if I had to guess—but I caught him staring as I unveiled miles of pale skin.
I had no shame and took my time, strutting naked to the bathroom and giving Diem a long lingering chance to ogle the goods. At the door, I turned back and winked, crooking a finger.
He shook his head.
“Come on, Guns. I know you wanna.”
The tub was full of clocks and I puzzled them a moment before collecting them in the comforter we’d draped on top and hauled them into the bedroom.
I was met by a six-and-a-half-foot brick wall preventing me from going more than a foot beyond the threshold.
“Nuh-uh. You aren’t bringing those in here.”
“But we’re having a bath.”
“You’rehaving a bath. I’m ordering pizza.”
“Excellent. Tell them we don’t want it for another hour yet.” I bumped him out of the way and scanned the room, dropping the Santa-wrapped bundle of clocks into the corner and ensuring they were tightly tucked inside the blanket.
The contents cried noisily from within, barely restrained.
Diem swore and grabbed his keys.
“Where are you going?”
“The hardware store.”
