Page 8 of Razor
“I can’t drive from over here,” she told him.
“You can’t steer when you can’t see. I’ll take you home.”
“Oh, no. I’m fine. I can drive,” she rushed to assure him. She couldn’t lose her car. It was her lifeline to work and freedom.
“Lift your right foot.”
They both focused on her leg as she battled to move it. Finally, it jerked upward as if it had a life of its own.
“It’s not safe for you to be behind the wheel. I can put you in an Uber, but I’d worry about you. Or I can drive you and make sure you get home. I’m choosing that option. Okay? Can you trust me?”
Struggling with her obvious inability and a flare of anger at him for proving it, Honey stared at him for a couple of seconds before asking, “Should I trust you?”
“Yes.”
“Please take me home.”
“Thank you, Little girl, for allowing me to help.” Razor leaned inside to press a kiss on her forehead before fastening her seatbelt. He stepped back to close the door with a firm hand. She stared at him through the window as the small gesture of affection deflated her annoyance and frustration.
They were underway in seconds, following the path on Razor’s phone he’d laid on the dash. He handled the car with finesse through the Friday night traffic. The glare of the lights coming through the windshield blinded Honey. She swallowed hard.
I never would have made it home safely.
His hand wrapped around her thigh just above her knee. “You’re okay. Relax. Tell me about yourself. What do you do?”
“I’m an admin at a small supply company—utensils and service ware for restaurants.”
“Interesting. How many types of spatulas are there?” Razor asked, glancing at her.
“Two hundred and twelve,” Honey answered automatically.
“That’s a lot. What’s your favorite item on the supply list?”
“There are these industrial crocks that appear stone-like but are lightweight plastic. I love them.”
“I can tell. Have you worked for the firm for long?” Razor probed.
“I have. Since I got out of high school. Continuing as part-time when I was in college, when I dropped out of coursework after a couple of years, and they hired me full-time in the office.”
“Why did you stop your classes?”
“I took all the required courses everyone has to study. Everyone told me that would help me determine what I wanted to do, but it didn’t. Nothing truly grabbed my interest, so I decided to take a break to figure it out.” She was amazed at how easy it was to share information with him. Finished trying to pretend she wasn’t struggling, Honey leaned forward to grab her sunglasses from the console. Putting them on, she sighed in relief.
“Do you like your job?”
“No. I hate it. The boss yells constantly. But I’m good at what I do, and my job is secure.” Despite all the stress the never-ending ruckus caused, she had a fairly good salary along with insurance.
“How long have you had multiple sclerosis?”
His casual tone made her turn to stare at him. “How did you guess I have MS?”
“I had some other guesses, but I had the most confidence in that ailment. You fit a lot of the most common statistics for those with MS—female, early thirties, muscle weakness, blurry vision, light sensitivity.”
“I didn’t know I was that identifiable.” The nachos churned inside her stomach at the thought that everyone knew. She couldn’t believe her worst nightmare had come true. Honey never wanted those around her treating her like she was an illness rather than a person.
“You’re not. Remember, I’m a doctor. I’m supposed to put mysterious symptoms together and figure things out. You’re just as observant.”
That made her stop and think. “Because I guessed you were a Daddy? You’ve got a pretty big clue on your,” she hesitated a moment before using the term he’d taught her, “cut.”
