Page 25 of Victorious: Part 2
Something shifts in the air between us. The same electricity I felt during our kiss earlier, but different now. Warmer. More real. Less desperate.
“I’m sorry I’ve been such a bitch,” I whisper.
“You haven’t—”
“I have,” I insist. “But I want to make it up to you, if you’ll let me.”
His eyes search mine. “What’d you have in mind?”
I glance around at the desert landscape, the setting sun painting everything in shades of gold and orange. “Well, for starters, you’redefinitelydriving the rest of the way to Vegas.”
Phoenix laughs, the sound rich and warm. “You think I’d let you behind the wheel again afterthatstunt you pulled?”
“I was hoping you wouldn’t,” I admit with a grin. “Turns out I’m aterribledriver when I’m having a panic attack.”
“You’re a terrible driver, period,” he teases, but there’s no malice in it.
“Hey,” I protest, swatting at his arm. “This is why I do social media, I repeat, I am not Letty!”
“You’re definitely not Letty,” he agrees with a smirk. “More like Grace driving that Fiat through Rome inMission Impossible.”
I laugh, remembering how all the female leads inMission Impossibleseemed to be amazing at everything, including driving,except poor Grace.
She really was exceptionally bad.
In the end, though, it was Grace who saved the entire world, so…
“Fine. You can be my chauffeur for the rest of the trip. But I’m buying you dinner when we get to Vegas,” I demand.
A slow smile crosses his lips, and he nods once. “Deal.”
We start walking back toward the truck, Dracula trotting along beside us like he’s been part of our group all along.
“Phoenix?” My tone raising on the end as we reach the passenger door.
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For not giving up on me. For jumping in the back of a moving truck to stop me from making the biggest mistakeof my life. For…” I gesture helplessly, trying to find words for everything he’s done. “Foreverything.”
He steps closer, his hand coming up to cup my cheek. “You don’t have to thank me for caring about you, Clo.”
The simple words hit me harder than they should. “I know. But I want to.”
He studies my face for a moment, then leans down and presses a soft kiss to my forehead. It’s gentle, sweet, and completely different from the desperate, angry kiss we shared earlier.
“Come on,” he says quietly. “Let’s get you to Vegas. I have a feeling this trip is about to get a lot more interesting, and don’t worry, I won’t handcuff you as we drive, Reel Girl.” He winks at me, then takes off for the driver’s side.
My heart pounds dramatically as he jumps in and calls out, “C’mon, Grace, let’s go!”
It’s only when he calls me Grace that I understand his handcuff comment was from the same car scene inMission Impossible.
Not a sexual joke.
Or was it?
Dracula circles around my feet, and I look down at him, widening my eyes. Bending down, I pick him up, cradling him to my chest. “I think I need a cold shower, Dracula,” I whisper as I climb back into the truck.
“You say something?” Phoenix asks behind the wheel this time.
